The Vampire Hunters: Book One of The Vampire Hunters Trilogy
Author: Scott M. Baker
Date: 2010-11-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Vampires; Horror; Fiction; Fantasy; Paranormal
Description: As former Boston cops, Drake Matthews and Alison Monroe thought they had experienced it all... until they found themselves tracking down a serial killer who turned out to be one of the undead. Stopping him cost them their careers and almost their lives. Thanks to an influential and anonymous benefactor, Drake and Alison find a new job ridding the streets of Washington D.C. of the vampiric threat terrorizing the nation's capital. Only this time, Drake and Alison are not facing a single vampire but an entire nest led by Ion Zielenska, one of history's most evil and twisted masters. As the vampir
Rights: Copyright © 2016 All Rights Reserved

THE VAMPIRE HUNTERS OMNIBUS

BOOK I: THE VAMPIRE HUNTERS

BOOK II: VAMPYRNOMICON

BOOK III: DOMINION

THE
VAMPIRE
HUNTERS

Scott M. Baker

THE VAMPIRE HUNTERS TRILOGY

BOOK I

THE
VAMPIRE
HUNTERS

A Schattenseite Book

The Vampire Hunters
by Scott M. Baker

Copyright © 2016. All Rights Reserved.

No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or transmitted in form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the authors.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Acknowledgements

1

EVEN AT 10:00 in the evening, Union Station thrived with activity. Despite the hour, scores of people bustled around the main concourse. Passengers disembarking from, or waiting to board, their late-night train. Family and friends gathering to greet them or see them off. Porters hauling luggage to the appropriate platform. Cleaning crews sweeping the concourse and emptying trash cans. Shop owners peddling books, magazines, and last-minute souvenirs to weary travelers. And a vampire on the prowl for food.

Drake originally picked up its trail on the Mall, a prime hunting ground for vampires. Spotting the thing had been easy enough. On a balmy spring night it was the only figure walking along the Mall wearing a soiled red windbreaker with the hood pulled tightly over its head. Before Drake could close in to verify and make the kill, however, the vampire strayed from its usual pattern. Leaving the Mall, the vampire set off into downtown Washington, following Constitution Avenue, a route that provided it with more opportunities to feed. Drake had followed at a discrete distance, waiting for a chance to corner the evil and eliminate it. With so many people around, though, that chance had not materialized. When the vampire turned onto Louisiana Avenue and headed for Union Station, Drake hurried to catch up. He was still far enough behind that when he entered the train station fifteen seconds after the vampire, the thing already had melded into the crowd.

Drake now wandered the concourse, hunting his undead prey. That turned out to be far from easy. Union Station had two levels, each with a labyrinthine maze of corridors housing gift shops and food stalls. Beyond the station lay a multi-level parking garage, loading platforms, and maintenance yard. Drake scanned the area, vainly looking for a figure in a red windbreaker. So as not to look suspicious, he stopped occasionally at a bank of computer monitors listing the arrival/departure notifications, using the chance to scan waiting passengers.

He had just stepped away from a bank of monitors at the west end of the concourse when the cellular phone in the carry case on his belt began to ring. Only one person had the number—Alison Monroe. She had followed him from the Mall in their midnight-black Dodge Ram and now sat parked in front of Union Station, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Drake reached down and pressed the CALL button, then spoke into the microphone of his headset.

“What’s up?”

“Any luck?”

“Nothing,” Drake sighed.

“Sounds like par for the course for you,” she teased.

Drake smiled. “If you think you can do better, you’re welcome to try. I’d love to sit in the truck once in a while and let you do the boots on the ground.”

A chuckle came through the headset. “Sorry, boss. You don’t pay me enough for that shit. So what do we do now?”

“I’m beginning to think our friend was on to being tailed, and led us here so he could lose us.”

“You want me to circle the station and see if I can spot him?”

“No, sit tight for now. I want to give the station one more sweep, then…”

Drake sniffed. Almonds. No, more like ammonia—the smell of the putrefying flesh of a vampire.

“Boss, are you okay?”

“Hang on. I may be on to something.” Drake searched the concourse and spotted a figure in a red windbreaker as it disappeared into the men’s bathroom. Breaking into a jog, Drake headed after it. “I think I’ve found our friend.”

“Be careful.”

As Drake approached the men’s bathroom, he slowed his pace and looked around. No one was paying any attention to him. Reaching under his leather jacket, he pulled out one of the three wooden stakes he kept secure in a special pouch stitched into the jacket lining. Holding the base so the shaft rested against his right wrist and inner arm, he stepped into the bathroom.

The place reeked of decomposed flesh and the acrid smell of urine. Drake swallowed hard to force down the nausea that welled up in his throat. No one stood at the urinals. Keeping his back to the wall, Drake quietly moved across the bathroom to the section containing the stalls. Still no one. He stopped to listen, but only heard the whirring of an exhaust fan and the flow of running water from a broken toilet.

And a whimper.

Dropping to one knee and kneeling over, Drake examined the stalls. The last one on the right contained two sets of legs. He stood and raced to the stall, kicking open the door. A young boy, no more than ten, was sprawled backwards on the toilet, paralyzed with fear. The thing in the red windbreaker towered over the child, its head inches from the boy’s neck. One hand with talon-like fingernails pushed down on the boy’s shoulder while the other pushed his head in the opposite direction, exposing the youngster’s throat.

At the intrusion, the thing turned to glare at Drake. It had a pallid face straight from the depths of hell. Black matted hair hung over a slightly-protruding and deeply-furrowed forehead. A pair of blood-red eyes, the yellow pupils of which seemed to glow, leered from sunken sockets. A set of upper and lower fangs had replaced the cuspids, each fang two inches long and razor sharp. The sunken cheeks and gray pallor indicated that the thing had not eaten in a while. And it was not happy about being disturbed in the middle of a meal. Its cracked lips drew back in a snarl as an animalistic hiss filled the stall.

Drake raised his arm to plunge the stake into the vampire. The thing lunged at him unexpectedly, its hands connecting with Drake’s chest and throwing him backwards with the force of three men. Drake sailed across the bathroom, crashing through the door of the opposite stall and slamming into the toilet tank. Luckily, he kept his grip on the stake. Despite the pain and disorientation, he raised the stake to defend himself. Instead of pursuing its attack, the vampire hissed at Drake and bolted for the exit.

Drake scrambled to his feet and raced into the concourse in time to see the vampire duck into a walkway between a pair of stores, heading for the main entrance. Drake took off after it.

“Alison!” Drake practically yelled into the headset. “I have a snuffy heading for the main entrance. Cut him off.”

No response.

“Alison!”

Still nothing. Reaching for the cellular phone, his hand touched the empty carrying case and the dangling cord of the headset. Great. Things were going from bad to worse.

OUT IN THE Ram, Alison listened to the battle unfold. She heard the metallic clang of the stall door being kicked open, followed by a hiss and body contact. Then the connection went dead.

“Boss, are you there? Boss?”

Reaching into the gym bag on the passenger seat, Alison pulled out a sawed-off shotgun and opened the breech to make sure it was loaded with the special ammo—two shells, the pellets of which had been soaked in holy water. She snapped the barrel closed and reached for the door handle.

Alison saw the vampire race out of Union Station onto the sidewalk. It frantically looked around for a means of escape, and found it. A tanker truck sat idle farther down Massachusetts Avenue, its flashers blinking. The driver stood near the cab asking directions from a young man in a business suit. Running over to the truck, the vampire began to crawl up into the cab. The driver, a burly man weighing at least two hundred and fifty pounds, grabbed the vampire by the shoulders and pulled it back onto the street. Spinning around, the vampire clutched the driver by his neck and hurled him across the street into the side of a parked SUV. Even from this distance, Alison heard the metallic thud and the shattering of glass. The vampire turned to confront the young man in the business suit, but he and several other bystanders already had started running. In what seemed like a single flowing motion, the vampire climbed up into the cab and slid in behind the steering wheel. With a hiss of airbrakes, the truck pulled out onto Massachusetts Avenue.

Drake emerged from Union Station, his attention immediately drawn to the commotion to his right. Seeing the assaulted driver and the truck as it pulled away, Drake quickly assessed what had happened. Without hesitating, he raced off after the truck, trying to reach the cab. He made it as far as the rear wheels of the tanker when the truck shifted gears and accelerated. Cutting in behind the trailer as it passed by, Drake grabbed the rear access ladder and jumped on. He paused just long enough to make sure of his footing, and then started to climb.

Shifting into drive, Alison pushed her foot down on the accelerator. The Ram’s engine thundered to life. She set off after the truck.

“He definitely doesn’t pay me enough for this shit.”

DRAKE PULLED HIS way to the top of the ladder just as they rolled past Georgetown Law School. From this vantage point, he spotted a slow-moving Cadillac in the left lane blocking their path. Drake felt the truck shift gears and increase speed. Moments later, a jolt rocked the entire trailer as the cab slammed into the car, propelling it forward. Rather than attempt to get out of the way, however, the Cadillac’s driver panicked and applied his brakes. This time the truck crashed into the Cadillac. The second, heavier jolt caused Drake to lose his footing and nearly fall off of the ladder.

A sickening screech of metal scraping against metal made Drake look up. Being pushed along by the truck, the Cadillac lost control. Its front end swayed back and forth, and then finally veered sharply to the right. The car almost made it out of the way when the truck rammed into its rear wheel well. The Cadillac spun around in a near one hundred and eighty degree turn until its front end slid underneath the truck’s tandem wheels. Drake held on tight. The trailer hooked the Cadillac’s front end and dragged it sideways down Massachusetts Avenue, the grinding and crunching of metal providing the perfect accompaniment to the firework of sparks. Suddenly, the tandem wheels obtained a grip on the Cadillac’s mangled hood, rode over its front end, and came down on the other side with a loud crash. Still hanging onto the ladder, Drake was thrown around like a piñata, his knees and ankles banging against the metal ladder. Bolts of pain shot through his legs.

The truck made a sharp turn to the left. For a moment, Drake thought the vampire had lost control and that they were about to overturn. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a red, white, and blue Interstate Highway shield with the number 395 emblazoned across it. They were leaving the city and heading for the open road.

Things had just gone from worse to horrible.

ALISON GASPED AS the truck entered into the sharp turn. Not only because it nearly tipped over, but because the maneuver cut directly across the path of oncoming traffic. Half a dozen cars hit their brakes to avoid an accident, with two of the cars being rear-ended by the vehicles behind them. A Toyota Corolla speeding out of the street on the right entered the intersection just as the truck did, and was barely able to stop in time to avoid a collision. Unfortunately, the driver of the Metrobus behind him, his attention momentarily distracted by a rowdy group of teenagers in the rear, did not. The Metrobus slammed into the Toyota, shoving it directly into the path of the truck. Because of the steep turn, the truck hit the Toyota at an angle, shearing off the front end and spreading pieces of engine and shards of chassis for nearly one hundred feet.

Alison lifted her foot off the accelerator, slowly wound her way through the debris, then again applied gas once into the turn. By the time the two vehicles reached Route 395, she was only one hundred feet behind the truck. She watched as Drake regained his footing and pulled himself on top of the tanker. With his knees bent and leaning forward to maintain balance, he began to inch his way along the thin metal catwalk running the length of the tanker.

Alison’s eyes grew wide. She slammed her hand against the horn.

DRAKE HEARD THE signal from Alison. Relieved to have her nearby, he turned and acknowledged her with a wave. From inside the Ram, Alison frantically pointed in front of him.

Drake turned to see the cement beam of the E Street overpass hurtling toward him. He fell forward onto the catwalk a split second before the revetment whizzed by overhead, missing him by inches. He paused for a few seconds, taking several deep breaths to regain his composure. Then, lifting himself onto his hands and knees, he resumed crawling along the catwalk.

Drake didn’t see the approaching merge with the Southeast Freeway, and wasn’t prepared when the truck swerved left onto the entry ramp. The force of the turn knocked Drake off balance and he tumbled off the catwalk. Instinctively, he reached out to grab something, and with his right hand clutched the small safety rail that ran parallel to the catwalk. Dangling off the side of the truck, he could see the cement jersey barriers racing by a few feet beneath him. Drake lunged his left hand upward, trying to grab the safety rail, but missed. He tried again without success. He could feel his fingers going numb. Mustering all his strength, he made one final lunge for the safety rail and grasped it.

That was as far as Drake got. The curved metal surface of the tanker provided no traction for him to crawl back up.

ALISON QUICKLY TRIED to calculate what the next move should be, but drew a blank. The Southeast Freeway had only two lanes, which were even further restricted by a wall of jersey barriers lining the shoulder of each lane. To move alongside the truck now would put her in too great a danger of being sideswiped, knocking her out of the game just when the boss needed her most. No. She would have to wait and make her move after they reached a more open road.

The truck suddenly veered right, entering the off ramp for the Kevin J. Welsh Memorial Bridge. Once across the bridge and outside of the city, the truck increased speed to seventy miles per hour.

Alison noticed the flashing blue lights reflecting off the interior of the Ram’s cab before she heard the sirens. Glancing into the rearview mirror, she saw two D.C. police cars in pursuit and rapidly closing the distance. As if she already did not have enough to worry about.

Pushing her foot all the way down on the accelerator, she moved into position to help Drake.

THE VAMPIRE NOTICED the flashing blues at the same time Alison did, and looked into the side mirror. Then he noticed Drake hanging off the tanker. Their gazes met in the mirror’s reflection. For a second, each opponent glared at one another. Then the vampire’s eyes narrowed into blood red slits, and his lifeless lips sneered.

For Drake, things went from horrible to FUBAR.

The truck suddenly swung left and back again. Drake’s body slammed against the tanker, the pain so intense he thought his abdomen might explode. He tried lifting his right leg to the upper curve of the tanker, desperately hoping to gain a foothold, but the truck again lurched to the left. And again Drake slammed off the side of the tanker. He felt his grip weakening.

Both Drake and the vampire saw what was ahead of them at the same time. Approximately five hundred feet ahead of them, a red Nissan pick-up cruised along at fifty miles per hour, its flashers blinking. Two large red flags had been placed on either side of the bed. A yellow banner draped over the tailgate bore the words WIDE LOAD. Ahead of the Nissan, a tractor trailer plodded down the center of the highway, a cut-away section of a single-story house extending three feet over either side of the flatbed.

A single thought went through Drake’s mind. Shit!

The vampire steered to the right. The tanker converged on the Nissan like a wolf on its prey. Fortunately, the Nissan’s driver saw the approaching danger and moved into the breakdown lane where he came to a stop. The tanker roared past the Nissan and began to overtake the flatbed on its right side. When the two trucks were side by side, the vampire steered back to the left. The driver of the flatbed attempted to move out of the way, but the vampire continued to follow.

Drake anticipated the move. When the gap between the two trucks closed, he turned to one side and pulled his legs up against his chest, straining every muscle to sustain this semi-fetal position. The trucks collided where Drake’s legs had been a moment earlier. The house section snapped and splintered as the tanker tore along its length, showering Drake in shards and chunks of broken wood. After a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, the tanker passed by the flatbed and continued down the freeway.

But the damage had been done. The collision had shifted the house section so that more than six feet extended over the flatbed’s left rim. When the driver tried to pull into the left breakdown lane, the rear quarter of the house section slid onto the road and dragged along the pavement, pulling it almost completely off the flatbed. The driver stopped with a deafening huff from the airbrakes, the truck blocking the right lanes and the house section blocking the left.

ALISON HAD A split second to make her decision. Shifting into low gear, she aimed for the spot just behind the flatbed where the damaged house section still clung to it. Closing her eyes and lowering her head behind the steering wheel, she braced for the collision. A heavy jolt rocked the Ram, accompanied by the sounds of splintering wood, scraping metal, and fracturing glass. When she looked up, a huge spider web-like crack covered the left portion of the windshield. But she had made it through. Even better, a large debris field covered most of the left two lanes of the highway. While one police car stopped to attend to the accident site, the other slowed to a near crawl as it negotiated the scene.

If she wanted to save the boss, it was now or never while she still had an open road and no police interference.

She saw the tanker a good half mile in the lead and pulling away rapidly. Alison accelerated again, trying to ignore the whistling wind and shards of loose glass coming from the damaged windshield. She reached over and grabbed the shotgun.

NO ONE WAS more surprised than Drake that he still clung to the side of the tanker. The vampire had stopped trying to knock him off. Not that it mattered. He could feel his arms and hands going numb, and knew he would not be able to hold on much longer.

Out of the corner of his eye, Drake saw Alison begin to pass the tanker on the left as they entered the off ramp for the Inner Loop of the Beltway. She raced along the off ramp’s shoulder, staying just far enough to the rear so that she would not be spotted by the vampire while they made the turn. At the last second, she gunned it so that the Ram pulled even with the cab as they merged onto the Beltway. Racing from the off ramp at over sixty miles per hour, both vehicles cut off several cars and trucks. Tires screeched and horns blared as traffic swerved to avoid an accident, forcing all four lanes of the Beltway to a stop. Good, thought Drake, now we don’t have to worry about innocent bystanders.

They were only half a mile from the Woodrow Wilson Bridge.

Alison let go of the steering wheel just long enough to blare the horn. The vampire turned to look and stared into the twin barrels of the shotgun.

Alison pulled the trigger.

The thunderous roar and flash from the gunpowder momentarily blinded her. When the smoke cleared, she saw the remains of the vampire’s head staring back at her. The face and top of its skull had been blown away, leaving large flaps of dead flesh that folded backwards like the petals of a gory flower. Its lower jaw remained intact as well as a fragment of the upper left jaw that hung loosely, still attached to a strand of flesh. Whiffs of white smoke drifted upwards from the mass of gore as the holy water reacted with pure evil. The vampire tried to hiss, both out of pain and hatred, but could only manage a bloody gurgle. Instead, it turned back to the road and futilely tried to steer.

Alison dropped her speed just enough to fall back parallel with the tanker, then slid as close as possible to the vehicle, placing the bed directly under the dangling Drake. The truck started swaying, grinding the tanker against the Ram and threatening to push it away. Alison steered into the tanker and blared the horn.

Drake let go. He dropped into the Ram’s bed with a heavy thud that knocked the wind out of him. Looking up, he saw the tandem wheels of the tanker only a few feet away, threatening to crush the Ram’s bed and him with it. Alison pulled into the center of the Beltway and slowed. When the Ram came to a stop, Drake stood up, ignoring the throbbing in his legs and knees and back, anxious to see what happened next. Alison stepped out of the cab and stood by the open door.

Entering the approaches to the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, the vampire attempted to keep the tanker straight, but had no way of knowing that the far right lane was closed for construction. The truck hit the jersey barriers blocking the lane and careened to the left at a forty-five degree angle. Not knowing what it had hit, the creature instinctively turned the steering wheel back to the right, sideswiping the barrier a second time. The cab spun one hundred and eighty degrees. The tanker, however, continued traveling straight. Ripping itself free from the trailer connection, the tanker bounced over the cab’s rear chassis and up onto the Jersey barrier. The grinding of metal against cement accompanied a panorama of sparks, but only for a few seconds. The hull of the tanker ruptured under the pressure, spewing forth a stream of gasoline that was immediately ignited by the sparks. Drake watched the tanker erupt into a mushroom cloud of orange-red flames and oily smoke.

A few seconds later, a headless figure staggered through the inferno rapidly spreading across the bridge. Engulfed by flames so intense that even cement decomposed and metal melted, the thing should already be destroyed. Yet it fought to survive. With each step, strips of dead flesh seared off and blew away, revealing muscles and organs that shriveled in the heat. Finally yielding to the inevitable, the vampire stopped. It let out a guttural howl from its shattered, burnt throat that sounded as if it had come straight from the depths of hell. The howling stopped only when the body crumbled into dust, which was instantly blown apart by the intense winds caused by the conflagration.

Only then did Drake become aware of the flashing red and blue lights reflecting off the metallic surface of the Ram. Alison stood facing to the rear, her hands clasped behind her head. A sharp, angry voice focused Drake’s concentration.

“You on the pick-up. I said place your hands behind your head and turn around. Now!”

In one slow motion, Drake turned around and raised his hands behind his head until his fingers interlocked. One of the police cars that had been chasing them sat twenty feet away. Two police officers stood by the front of the car, their pistols trained on Drake and Alison.

The older of the two cops, a muscular Hispanic with Rodriguez displayed on his nameplate, used the same angry voice on Drake again. “Get off the pick-up, slowly, and move beside your girlfriend.”

Drake complied. The two cops cautiously moved closer. Then the Hispanic sighed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, Christ. I should have known.”

“What do you mean?” asked his partner.

“You’re in the presence of a celebrity,” Rodriguez said sarcastically. “You’re about to arrest Drake Matthews.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. You’ll get sick of him soon enough.” Holstering his pistol, Rodriguez removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt and motioned for Drake to turn around. “I assume you won’t give me any trouble?”

Drake turned lowered his hands behind his back. “Do I ever?”

2

MARK ROACH SAT behind his desk, his eyes closed, massaging his forehead. It did little good. He had one of his special migraines, a whopper of a headache that would sit with him most of the day and defy every attempt, medicinal or homeopathic, to suppress it. This particular migraine was called Drake Matthews.

As chief of the Metropolitan Police Department in Washington, D.C. for the past decade, Roach had more than his share of problems. Violent crime. Street crime. Narcotics. Prostitution. Rush hour traffic. Thousands of misdemeanor and nuisance complaints a year. And, given the nature of this city, the occasional management of a massive political demonstration or the containment of the fallout from a scandal involving some politico. He anticipated these and planned for their every contingency. Yet nothing in his experience or training prepared him for Matthews.

Drake Matthews first came to Roach’s attention three months ago when his officers responded to a brawl in a biker bar near the Navy Yard. They had expected two motorcycle gangs rumbling to the death, with the usual share of knife and gunshot wounds. What they found looked like a war zone. Busted furniture. A pool table broken in half along its width. Broken pool cues impaled into the walls and floor, each surrounded by a pile of ash. A dozen bikers strewn around the debris with wounds ranging from bruises and lacerations to broken bones and concussions. And in the middle of it all Drake Matthews, holding a wooden stake, and Alison Monroe, clutching a broken pool cue, were the only ones still standing, The arresting officers did not believe these two could generate all that havoc alone, and the bikers refused to talk or press charges. Still, the two were charged with thirteen counts of assault and battery plus assault with a deadly weapon, with a few charges of malicious destruction of property thrown in for good measure.

But Roach’s headaches had only just begun. Two days after the arrest, the mayor received a visit from a Mr. Smith. He claimed to represent a powerful anonymous benefactor who wanted Drake and Alison released for reasons he was not at liberty to explain. To his credit, the mayor refused to release either of them, at least not without knowing the full details, with which Mr. Smith refused to come forth with. The mayor had dismissed the enigmatic figure, bringing the incident to a close. Or so they thought.

Over the next three days, the anonymous benefactor revealed how much power and influence he actually possessed. He targeted the mayor’s pet project to build a multi-million-dollar sports arena/convention center to bring revenue into the city. Despite the deal being within days of being signed, the contractor hired to construct the center was suddenly (and anonymously) made aware of numerous arcane building codes that could significantly delay the project. Then the bank that had agreed to underwrite the venture pulled out unexpectedly and with no explanation. When one of the major corporations that originally had agreed to sponsor the project backed out with no notice, the mayor finally took the hint. He ordered Drake and Alison released later that same day and all charges were dropped.

The police arrested Drake and Alison twice more during the next three months. In each instance, the mayor ordered their release within twenty-four hours. Roach protested the decision each time, and each time he had been dressed down and made to feel like the one in the wrong. This time, though, it would be different.

Roach opened the file folder from last night’s arrest and looked at the mug shot photos. Neither of them looked threatening at first glance. Drake, though forty-five, looked no older than his late thirties. Clean shaven with dark blonde hair cut an inch in length, he looked the all-American type. But then, so did Ted Bundy. That infuriating smirk spoke volumes about his attitude. On the other hand, Alison’s mug shot photo looked like a publicity still for a model. Her raven black hair, cut in a shoulder-length bob just slightly tussled from racing through the streets of Washington, complemented a pair of sensuous brown eyes. Intelligent and attractive, Alison should have been living in northern Virginia juggling a family and a career rather than helping to run the biggest crime spree in the city’s history.

None of that mattered anymore because Drake had outdone himself this time. They already had him for assault on a minor and, depending on what had happened in that stall at Union Station, possibly sexual assault. With luck they could put him away for years, or at the very least hound him as a sexual predator for the rest of his life. Although Roach could never get the assault charges to stick in Alison’s case, she had racked up so many other violations he could put away Alison’s pretty little ass for so long that by the time she got out of prison he would have long since retired. Her joy ride through Washington would be good for at least a dozen moving vehicle citations, such as driving to endanger and failing to stop for a police officer, not to mention illegal possession of a firearm and destruction of property. Once they found the remains of the truck driver killed in the explosion at the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, first degree murder would be added to the litany. None of this included what Virginia and Maryland would charge them with.

Nope. This time Drake and Alison had gotten themselves into deeper trouble than even their anonymous benefactor could get them out of. Too many jurisdictions wanted a piece of their ass. Too many….

The knock on the door brought Roach out of his reverie. “Who is it?”

“It’s me.” Pushing the door open, Robert Dekker, the chief medical examiner, stuck his head inside. He held up a file folder. “I have the test results you asked for.”

“Let me see them.”

Dekker stepped into the office, closed the door behind him, and brought the folder over to Roach. Roach opened it and, as he started reading, motioned for Dekker to take a seat. He flipped through each of the three pages, scanning the text until he reached the conclusion. As he read, his eyes narrowed in disbelief, and he shook his head.

“Bob, this is bullshit.”

“The data doesn’t lie.”

Roach closed the folder and tossed it on his desk. “The machine you ran the test with must be wrong.”

“That’s what I originally thought. So I recalibrated it and tested my own DNA. Everything seemed in order, so I ran a second test against the jawbone fragment found at the crash site.”

“And?”

“And I got the same results.”

Roach stood up and looked out the window. “The machine is wrong.”

Dekker shook his head with the self-assuredness of someone who places more faith in science than in people. “It’s working fine.”

“Then you must have made the mistake.”

Dekker did not take the insult personally. “Maybe once. But not three times. I know you don’t agree with the data, but it’s accurate.”

Though Roach hated to admit it, Dekker was right. He did not like or agree with Dekker’s results, but he could not dispute their accuracy. That bothered him. If accurate, the data had implications he did not want to consider. Roach could barely believe it himself. He would be damned if he would try and explain it to the mayor.

Turning from the window, Roach slid into his seat. He opened the lower drawer of his desk, placed the folder inside, and closed it. Then he sighed. “Keep this report quiet for now.”

“Are you going to suppress it?”

“What do you expect me to do?” Roach held up a hand, cutting off Dekker’s response. “Can you imagine what the media would do to us if I announced those results during a press conference? We’d be lucky if all the mayor asked for were our resignations. Sorry. This is not a reflection on you, but there’s no way in hell…”

Another knock on the door interrupted Roach.

“Come in,” said Roach.

Sergeant Juan Rodriguez entered the room and wished the men good morning, then stood silently, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Roach became impatient. “This ain’t the break room, Rodriguez. What do you want?”

“Sorry, sir. The mayor just called and… and…”

“And ordered us to release Drake Matthews and Alison Monroe?” Roach sighed heavily. His frustration and anger got the better of him, and he slammed a hand against the top of the desk. “Goddammit.”

“Did you expect anything different?” asked Dekker.

“I figured this time we had the bastard.” Roach massaged his forehead, trying to relieve the throbbing. “Can we transfer jurisdiction to Maryland or Virginia?”

Rodriguez shook his head and braced himself for the tirade he knew would follow. “I checked with the Maryland State Police as well as the police in Prince George’s County. They’ve already been ordered to drop all charges. Looks like Matthews’ benefactor has more influence than we originally thought.”

Roach leered at him. “Sounds like you admire the son of a bitch.”

Dekker chuckled. “Fascinated is more like it. Makes you wonder who’s behind this guy. Especially in light of that.” He motioned toward the desk drawer containing the egregious file.

Roach cast Dekker a withering look. He leaned back in his seat and turned to Rodriguez, giving in to the inevitable. “There’s nothing we can do. Release Miss Monroe. No sense keeping her any longer than we have to.”

“What about Matthews?” asked Rodriguez.

“We can hold him for up to forty-eight hours without charging him. When will that time be up?”

“Midnight tonight.”

“Release him then, but not a minute before we have to. Is that clear?”

Rodriguez nodded.

Roach turned to Dekker. “And are we clear on everything?”

Dekker smiled and offered a mock salute.

“Good. Dismissed.”

Roach waited until both men left, then opened the drawer and pulled out the file folder, thumbing through it one final time before replacing it. He would shred it later. Unfortunately, he could not dispose of Drake Matthews that easily. Bringing that charlatan to justice would be hard enough. Releasing him after last night’s fiasco, however, meant there would now be fewer restrictions on how the police could handle him. One thing was certain. Roach might have to release Matthews tonight, but he felt confident that the two men would cross paths again very soon.

JUGGLING A VENTI cappuccino in one hand while clutching the shoulder straps of an oversized handbag in the other always presented Jessica Reynolds with her biggest challenge while riding the Metro. Today proved exceptionally grueling. The accident that closed the Woodrow Wilson Bridge had turned the Beltway into a parking lot, forcing many a dedicated driver onto the commuter rail system. What would normally have been a relaxing fifteen-minute train ride into the District from Ballston had taken on the aspects of a crowded cattle car ride to the slaughterhouse. By the time her train crossed under the Potomac, enough commuters had jammed aboard each car that Jessica had practically no room to move. Half a dozen people jostled her from all sides. Shielding the cappuccino as if it were plutonium, she barely managed not to spill any.

At least until her last stop at Judicial Station. The twin doors slid open and Jessica followed a throng of commuters onto the safety of the platform. Just as she exited the car, a dour-looking businessman in a dark gray overcoat pushed his way past, his elbow slamming into Jessica’s hand. The cup imploded, propelling off the lid and erupting the contents all over Jessica’s pantsuit. She stood on the platform, arms outstretched, cappuccino dripping from her hands and soaked clothes.

Another day in paradise.

Jessica sighed. What happened to her life? Growing up as an only child in Wisconsin in the 1980s, Jessica could remember only one desire, or more appropriately, passion. To be a journalist. To one day hear her name mentioned in the same breath as Marguerite Higgins or Christiane Amanpour. She never harbored illusions about winning a Pulitzer or becoming the prime time anchor on CNN or FOX News, keeping her aspirations more realistic. When she turned twelve, her father gave Jessica her first writing job drafting the weekly newsletter for the family farm outside of Madison. Granted, circulation was limited to her mother and father, plus a few farm hands who admired her ambition. But she had to start somewhere. From these humble beginnings, the progression seemed only natural. Staff writer on her high school newspaper during her freshman year, eventually working her way up to editor-in-chief by graduation. Staff writer on the Wisconsin State Journal, the college newspaper for the University of Wisconsin, followed by three summer internships on The Badger Herald, Madison’s moderate newspaper. Each step moved Jessica further toward her goal.

She turned down several job offers from local television stations across the Midwest out of concern that the newsrooms were less interested in her journalistic abilities then in hiring a young, attractive, leggy blonde to entice their viewing audience. She did not want to squander her career, wasting several years peddling mindless weather forecasts or an endless stream of crime reports in the vain hope that maybe, in several years, she might get a weekend or early morning anchor slot. Instead, she opted to move to Washington D.C. and land a job as a reporter with one of the nation’s major newspapers where she could put her talents to good use.

So how the hell did she wind up working for The Washington Standard? It was common for a city as large as Washington to support three major newspapers. The city had The Washington Post, which catered to a liberal, more cerebral audience, and The Washington Times, which catered to a conservative, more action-oriented audience. Jessica applied to these newspapers first, only to be told that no positions were available but please leave us your resume and we will call you when we need someone to cover the blizzard in hell, thank you very much. No one actually said it in so many words, but the meaning was clear. She had not come this far and worked this hard to be deterred by a little adversity. She applied for, and got a job with, The Washington Standard. Jessica reasoned that if she worked a few years on any major newspaper, busted her ass, and built up a respectable reputation, then she could write her own meal ticket.

Was that ever a miscalculation.

It did not take long for Jessica to realize that The Standard viewed the phrase journalistic integrity as an oxymoron. Even worse, mainstream Washington gave The Standard only slightly more credibility than the supermarket tabloids. The realization hit her hard one night during a black tie soiree on Capitol Hill when a Republican staffer, upon learning where she worked, pointed out to his colleagues that the difference between the newspapers was that The Washington Times was unable to tell a lie, The Washington Post was unable to tell the truth, and The Washington Standard was unable to tell the difference. Though outwardly humiliated, deep down Jessica agreed. She always thought that The Standard needed a headline banner that read “All the news that’s shit we print.”

As much as Jessica hated to admit it, if things did not break soon, she would have to swallow her pride, move back to Madison, and salvage what little remained of her journalistic career.

Once at The Standard’s main office on New Jersey Avenue, where the street transitioned from the tourist neighborhood to the seedy underbelly, Jessica made a detour to the ladies’ room to wash off the cappuccino stain. Despite several minutes of scrubbing with soap and warm water, she could still discern a light stain on her blouse and trousers. Perfect. Strike two. She briefly entertained the notion of heading home and crawling back into bed, but feared that with her luck the commuter train would derail on its way back to Ballston.

Strike three waited for Jessica as she entered the newsroom. As she approached her cubicle, she saw a yellow legal-size piece of paper taped to her monitor with the words See me scrawled across it. The handwriting belonged to Dan Philips, her editor. Great. Philips could be curt and gruff when in the best of moods. This terse note did not bode well. Jessica summoned her courage and crossed the newsroom to Philips’ office.

“You wanted to see me?” asked Jessica, sticking her head through the open door.

Philips sat in his usual position for editing copy. He propped his legs up on the corner of the desk, leaned back into his leather chair, and clenched a red pen between his lips while chewing on the tip. He nodded and motioned to the chair in front of his desk. Jessica slid into the seat and waited quietly, knowing better than to disturb him. An old-fashioned journalist, Philips preferred to do his editing on paper, a habit left over from his days as a cub reporter covering Chicago’s inner city. He had spent five years in the Windy City vainly trying to generate a modicum of sympathy for the plight of crack whores, to get city hall to understand that welfare gave handouts to those who did not want to work while handicapping those who did, and to convince at least a handful of African-American teenagers that being a pimp or a dealer was not the best career choice. The experience had shaped his journalistic style, making him impatient with laziness or incompetence. More importantly, it made him a damn good reporter. So how the hell did he wind up here at The Standard? Rumor had it that his columns threatened to slaughter too many of the city’s scared cows and pork barrel projects, which pissed off too many people on both sides of the political aisle. When Philips finally got tired of banging his head against the wall and left Chicago, he had acquired enough of a reputation so that no respectable paper wanted to take on both him and the political headaches that would ensue. The key word here being respectable.

At least, according to rumor. As far as Jessica knew, no one had yet mustered enough courage to ask Philips directly.

Finishing his review of the piece, Philips took the pen from between his lips and began to scribble on the last page. Without looking up, he said, “You’re late.”

“I’m sorry. The Metro was unusually crowded…”

“Why were you late?”

Jessica felt her mouth go dry and her palms begin to sweat. “As I said, the Metro was unusual…”

“I’m not asking for excuses.” Philips placed the cap back on the pen, then tossed it and the papers onto his desk. He swung his legs off the desk and turned to face Jessica. “I’m looking for facts. You were late for work. Why?”

“Because the Metro was unusually crowded,” she said tentatively.

“Why?”

“Because some nut burned out the Woodrow Wilson Bridge two nights ago.”

“That nut has a name.” Philips opened an edition of The Post that had been folded on his desk and, turning it toward Jessica, slid it in front of her. The lead story covered the incidents surrounding the car chase, crash, and fire on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge. “Drake Matthews. Have you ever heard of him?”

“No.” Jessica took the newspaper and scanned the story.

“You will soon enough. You’re doing an investigative story on him.”

Jessica tried not to verbally express her indifference. “That won’t be easy. He’ll be in jail for a while.”

“Drake Matthews is going to be released later this evening.”

Indifference suddenly became intrigue. “Are you serious?”

Philips nodded. “I talked with a contact I have on the Police Department. Last night the mayor called Chief Roach and told him to release Drake.”

“Why?”

“Because someone very high level called the mayor and ordered it done.”

“His bail must have cost a small fortune.”

A wry smile pierced Philips’ lips. “No bail was posted. And I have it on good authority that all charges will eventually be dropped. And if that’s not enough to get your journalistic juices flowing, this is the fourth time in three months that he’s been arrested, and the fourth time that all charges have been dropped.”

“Who the hell is Drake Matthews?” asked Jessica.

“That’s what you’re going to find out. I’ve assigned Bill Carter to you as photographer. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

“Of course.” Jessica had all she could do to restrain her excitement. Philips just offered her the proverbial opportunity of a lifetime, an opportunity she had been waiting years for. Jessica knew she could handle the assignment, and that once it had been successfully completed her career would take off. She had prepared for this for years. Trained for this. Played out this scenario in her mind. Jessica had no doubts she could do this job. Nonetheless, she needed to know the answer to one question.

“Why me?”

“Fair question.” Leaning forward, Philips rested his elbows on the desk and paused, carefully formulating his thoughts. “Normally I’d give this to a more senior reporter, but they’re currently all on assignment. I’ve been watching your work, and I think you’re up to it. So don’t let me down.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m counting on it.” Philips flashed a smile to show his confidence in her. Then grabbing another piece of copy from his desk, he leaned back in his chair, propped his feet up, and began editing.

Jessica quietly slipped out of the office, trying not to do a jig in excitement.

DRAKE LUMBERED THROUGH the lobby of his apartment building and made his way to the bank of elevators. He jabbed the up button several times, relieved when the doors immediately opened. Staggering inside, Drake pressed the button for the thirteenth floor, then leaned back against the wall as the doors slid shut. After the excitement two nights ago and close to forty-eight hours in a jail cell, the elevator’s ascent seemed pathetically long. When it finally lurched to a stop and opened onto a long, elegantly-carpeted hallway, Drake had to muster all his energy just to step out.

Thankfully his apartment was only two doors from the elevator.

Once inside, Drake emptied his pockets of keys and money, at least the money that had not fallen out during his joyride through Washington the other night. He then noticed a yellow sticky note stuck to the center of the foyer mirror. It read:

NO MESSAGES AT OFFICE

EVERYTHING QUIET

GET SOME REST

P.S. FED VAN HELSING

GIVE HIM A PET FOR ME

Drake smiled. Good ole Alison. He could always rely on her.

Exiting the foyer to the left, Drake crossed the living room to the den located off the balcony. As he stepped into the den, Van Helsing’s head shot up from his food dish, his lop ears lifted in attention. Upon seeing Drake, Van Helsing jumped straight up and raced up to the second floor of his cage. He made several tight circles, stopping only when Drake opened the cage door. With his hind quarters still hunched in the air, Van Helsing laid his chin on the floor, presenting himself to be petted. Drake reached in, grasped the lop ears between his fingers, and gently massaged. After several minutes of such attention, Van Helsing stood up and raced down the ramp to the first level, and nudged the cage door with his nose. Drake opened it, watching with a smile as his rabbit jumped onto the floor, shook his body, and trotted off to explore the apartment.

Drake followed Van Helsing across the den and back into the foyer as his furry companion raced down the hall toward the master bedroom. Drake followed, then veered into the kitchen. Not counting prison food, he had last eaten over two days ago before he and Alison had gone hunting. He needed a hot, home-cooked meal. Instead, he settled for a can of cold, store-bought chili dumped into a bowl and heated in the microwave.

As Drake’s meal warmed to a barely edible state, Van Helsing raced back down the corridor from the master bedroom and turned into the kitchen. The tiled floor did not provide him with the same traction and speed, and Van Helsing’s claws clicked across the floor as he slipped and skidded. However, once on the carpeted-floor of the dining room, he binked, hopping a foot into the air and turning ninety degrees, before disappearing into the living room.

Drake smiled. Of all the reminders of his early career as a vampire hunter, Van Helsing was the most positive. They had found each other nearly a year ago when Drake was a detective with the Boston Police Department investigating what at the time appeared to be a string of serial killings by a sadist with a penchant for blood. One particularly gruesome murder involved the slaughter of an entire family—mother, father, daughter, and infant son. The only survivor of this bloodfest had been a seven-pound mixed-breed rabbit, mottled brown and white in coloration, with lop ears. The poor thing cowered in the corner of its cage, thumping its rear legs in fear. The officer in charge of the crime scene wanted to drop the rabbit off at the animal shelter where its ultimate fate would be little different, though slightly less violent, than the rest of its family. Drake could not stand to see another life slip by, so he adopted the rabbit. Since he did not know its real name, he called him Van Helsing, rather apropos given Drake’s new profession. It had taken Van Helsing a few months before he became accustomed to his new home and felt assured of no longer living in danger, during which time the terrified rabbit either cringed in the corner of his cage or came out only to hide under furniture. But one night he ventured far enough to present himself for a pet, and Drake had obliged with a half hour ear massage. From that day on, the two had been the best of friends. Each night, Van Helsing eagerly waited for his human companion, asking only for unconditional love in return. Van Helsing was the only one Drake could rely on.

The microwave beeped three times. Drake popped open the oven door, pulled out the bowl, and swirled the chili around. He took his dinner and a can of Diet Coke into the living room, inadvertently startling Van Helsing who had been grooming himself by the sofa. The rabbit bolted across the living room and disappeared into the den. Drake sat in a chair by the balcony overlooking Washington and ate his dinner.

Drake corrected himself. Van Helsing was not the only one he could rely on. He also could count on Alison. She had stood by him for nearly two years now. As his rookie partner in the Boston Police Department, she had been the first to believe Drake when he finally realized that their serial killer was actually a vampire. She had placed her own career on the line to help him track down and exterminate the creature. When the Boston Police commissioner refused to accept the facts of the case and hung Drake out to dry for “the use of grotesquely excessive force” in cleansing the city of that evil, she submitted her resignation in solidarity. And when he moved to Washington to pursue his new line of work, she had volunteered—no, she had demanded—to come along, claiming he could not do the job without her.

He could not argue with Alison on the latter. Since the two of them had begun hunting here in the District, she had saved his life on at least half a dozen occasions, or saved him from the even worse fate of being turned into a vampire himself. She also had spent many a night in the adjoining jail cell. He often thought of the old joke that a friend will always be there to bail you out of jail, while a buddy will be in the cell with you reminiscing about what landed you there in the first place. By that definition, Alison had proven herself a true buddy many times over. He would need her more than ever in the weeks and months ahead.

Finishing the chili, Drake placed the bowl on the end table, then sat back and waited patiently. Within a minute, he felt a gentle nudge against his ankle. Leaning over, he saw Van Helsing by his feet, his soulful brown eyes begging for attention. Just in case his human did not get the hint, Van Helsing hunched over and rested his chin on the carpet, presenting himself for another pet. Drake leaned over, scooped one hand under Van Helsing’s front paws and another under his butt, then lifted his furry companion into his lap. As Drake massaged his lop ears, Van Helsing hunkered down. Within seconds, Van Helsing began quietly grinding his teeth in a rabbit version of a purr.

Drake savored these moments of tranquility because he never knew how long they would last. He had been operating in the District for only three months, but already had chalked up more than twenty encounters with the undead, seven of which had ended in his eliminating a vampire. Not to mention four arrests and no convictions. So far luck had been on his side. But luck was finite, and Drake knew he could not rely on it forever. Besides, so far they had only come up against snuffies, his term for the nameless, expendable army of vampires sired by the masters. Masters were stronger, more vicious, and more cunning, and would not be anywhere as easy to kill. There had to be at least one master out there. With Drake having killed seven of its minions, he felt certain that the master wanted to meet Drake as much as Drake wanted to meet him.

ALISON STOOD IN front of the mirror, checking to see if her outfit had gotten damaged in last night’s encounter, and assessing how she looked in it. The black leather pants hugged her hips and legs. She pulled down on the sides of the black turtleneck sweater, admiring the snug fit. She wore the outfit for its functionality. Black to blend in with the night. Tight fitting so it would not get in the way during combat. And leather to withstand greater punishment. It didn’t hurt that the outfit complimented her toned physique. Battling the undead for a living, plus two hours of daily martial arts training, kept her in excellent physical shape, she filled out her uniform quite nicely.

Too bad Drake never noticed.

Alison always felt guilty whenever she thought about Drake in that way. She had been harboring mixed feelings about him since she first became his partner on the Boston Police Department nearly a year ago. During that time, they had become colleagues in a life-and-death struggle which had led them to become best friends. Her feelings were probably the result of all the time spent together, or the dangerous nature of their work that created a close bond, or maybe that Drake had been the only man in her life for the past year. In any case, she found herself wanting to take their relationship to a romantic level. Only the fear of ruining that friendship prevented her from pursuing her fantasy.

Alison walked over to the bureau and began to undress. As she slipped off her watch and placed it beside her keys, her eyes fell on a wooden picture frame standing in the corner. It held a black-and-white 8x10 photograph of her parents taken during the policeman’s ball a few months before her father’s death. Her mother wore a light blue chiffon gown, her father his Cambridge Police Force uniform. The badge from that uniform hung off of the frame’s upper right corner, with her own hanging on the left.

She barely remembered her father because he died in 1974 in the line of duty before her first birthday. He had been called to investigate a suspicious package outside of a Harvard University research facility that was rumored to be developing biological weapons for the military. The rumors were exaggerated. The facility had been working for the U.S. Government, but to develop influenza vaccines. The suspicious package turned out to be a home-made bomb that detonated, killing her father. No group showed enough courage to step forward and admit responsibility. And because so many radical, anarchist, and fringe groups existed in Cambridge at that time, the authorities never determined who planted the device. Some malcontent sociopath got away with murder, her father received a state funeral, and her mother became a shell of a woman who never recovered from depression and a broken heart.

Despite the death of her father, the police influence in the Monroe household never diminished. Her father’s friends dropped by regularly to check on Alison and her mother. These were old-style cops. Most had joined the force after returning from overseas following World War II and Korea. They walked a beat, and knew those neighborhoods as well as they did their own. Cop killings were almost unheard of, and televised high-speed chases non-existent. Over time, these men became surrogate fathers. From them she learned the qualities that would later carry her through life. Duty. Respect. Honor. Integrity. It seemed only natural, then, that upon graduating from college she joined the Boston Police Department.

What she never anticipated was how those qualities would be so severely tested on her first assignment.

When first informed that she would be assigned as Drake’s partner, Alison had been excited. Drake’s reputation as one of the department’s more intuitive cops meant he often received the more difficult and high-profile cases. Fulfilling her rookie assignment with Drake guaranteed that she would be assigned to a case that permanently would affect her career. Alison got her wish.

A thousand fold.

After slipping out of her work clothes and into a silk nightgown, Alison crossed the bedroom and grabbed a flannel robe from the end of the bed. She stepped out into the living room and over to the balcony doors that looked out over the city. The Capitol jutted above the skyline, its dome bathed in the white glow from scores of floodlights. Beyond that stood the Washington Monument, with the Lincoln Memorial in the distance. The city appeared so elegant. Peaceful. Safe. Many people called Washington home. Others viewed it as the seat of government. Some defined the city by it businesses or its tourist attractions. Alison saw beyond all that. For her, Washington was the latest battleground in a millennium-long war between good and evil.

Alison first joined this struggle back in Boston almost a year ago. Around the time that she had been assigned as Drake’s partner, the Night Stalker case came to prominence. It involved three gruesome murders. A hooker. A petty drug dealer. And a college coed from New Hampshire. Each was believed to have been perpetrated by the same killer. The only thing in common among them had been the manner of death, with each body being completely drained of blood. No one could agree on what type of psycho committed the murders. Naturally, the case fell to Drake.

Over the next month, the killings increased in number and brutality, culminating in the slaughter of a family of four in their home. The discovery of the blood-drained corpses and surrounding carnage changed Drake. A consummate loner, he uncharacteristically took in the family’s pet rabbit rather than have it sent to a shelter to be put down, claiming he could not bear to be responsible for allowing another life to be ended. His deepening obsession with stopping the Night Stalker led him to entertain any theory about the killer, including the absurdity that the killer was a vampire. By now, most of the department labeled Drake as a head case, just another cop who had suffered a breakdown under the stress of the job.

At first even Alison thought Drake had gone off the deep end, though she never admitted as much. She stayed with him not because she believed they were hunting vampires, but because she respected Drake and wanted to make sure he did not harm himself or some innocent bystander. At least until that first encounter with the creature in the Boston Common. It was the first time either of them faced a vampire, and it almost was her last. She expected to run up against your typical serial killer, not the undead. If not for Drake, she would have been killed that night, or worse, become one of them. Yet in saving her, Drake allowed the creature to escape.

The next time they encountered the Night Stalker, events turned out differently because this time they were prepared. Thanks to Professor Reese, they knew exactly what they were fighting and how to defeat it. That final battle took place in Old South Church. Drake saved her life yet again, but not before destroying the thing once and for all, and burning the church and half a city block.

Drake was forced to leave the police force because of the Night Stalker case. To Alison’s surprise, the commissioner agreed to let her stay on the force without so much as a reprimand. Drake advised her to accept the offer, but Alison refused. Drake had saved her life. Twice. She would be damned if she would repay Drake by letting him take the fall. So she resigned from the force and followed Drake to Washington to hunt vampires for a living. Thanks to some brief but intense training in the martial arts and hand-to-hand combat, for a change she had been able to save Drake’s life on many an occasion.

Besides, after what happened in Boston, she could not look at that city in the same light anymore. Though born and raised there, Boston now held too many unsettling memories for Alison and too many potential horrors.

As she looked out over the Washington skyline, she could not help but feel those same feelings brewing for this city, too. Only this time Alison could not walk away. Not until she and Drake had cleaned out the city of vampires.

Alison sighed. If the last few weeks were any indication, that would not happen anytime soon.

Heading back into the bedroom, Alison climbed into bed and stretched out, allowing her body to sink into the silken-sheeted mattress. Only then did she realize how tired she was. That realization did not last for long, for within minutes Alison fell asleep.

TONI STOMPED DOWN the corridor of the time-ravaged Federalist-style row house, her heels clicking off the faded hardwood floors and echoing through the empty rooms. She slammed open the door to the foyer with such force that it bounced off the wall and banged into her shoulder as she passed through. Shadows cast from a dozen candles danced along the paint-chipped walls as she turned onto the massive stairway that wound up to the third floor. The shadows swirled and merged into one, progressively growing the higher she ascended, much like the anger that raged within her. Toni had tolerated Ion’s shit for nearly eighty years, and finally had reached a breaking point.

Ion used to be the best. Or more precisely, she and Ion used to be the best. He had sired dozens of vampires in his thousand-plus years. Yet none of them shared the special relationship he had with Toni. Not just because they were lovers. Ion and Toni fed off of each other’s lust for violence and depravity, a lust that had plunged Europe into an orgy of carnal darkness. For nearly six hundred years they had terrorized Europe, hiding their bloodlust behind the region’s numerous wars and natural disasters. Many a village had been paralyzed with fear at the mere mention of the names Ion Zielenska and Antoinette Varela. Many a lover had come to their bed as a sexual conquest and left as a minion of the undead. Many a hunter had died a bloody and painful death trying to add Ion and Toni as notches on their stakes.

All that ended in 1933. Ion brought the coven to Ukraine where he hoped to exploit the political disarray caused by the Sovietization of the region. It turned into a bloodbath. Their own. None of them anticipated that Moscow would react with such violence. In centuries past, the coven had concealed their feastings by hiding among the people they fed upon. Who could have foreseen that the local commissars would seal off Ukraine and slaughter hundreds of thousands of their own people just to kill a handful of vampires, hiding the fact that they had waged man’s only successful war between the living and the dead behind the façade of collectivization and mass famine. Seven million died between 1932 and 1933, but the Soviets had nearly succeeded in wiping out the coven, slaughtering a dozen masters and hundreds of vampires. Only Ion and Toni survived the holocaust, and just barely. It became the greatest loss in the two-thousand-year history of the vampires.

The incident in Ukraine changed Ion. The nobleman from Bulgaria who had charmed Toni into joining the undead as a master, and whose coven had feasted their way across Europe for centuries, after 1933 became decadent and sloppy. Ion now preyed on humans not just for food but to satisfy his sadistic pleasures. He grew careless in his stalking, showing little or no concern for covering his tracks. Over time the new members of the coven became the same way, engaging in a bloodlust of hunting that eventually attracted the humans’ attention. At that point, Toni should have taken over the coven and restored order. Instead, she protected Ion and covered up his mistakes.

But Toni had not fully protected the coven, and now the Master had taken notice.

Approaching the twin doors to the master bedroom, Toni noticed the right side remained open, allowing her to hear a commotion on the other side. She slowed down and listened. Intermingled with the rustling of bed sheets, she heard a feminine moaning, a mixture of fear and pleasure. Gently pushing the door open, Toni peered inside.

Ion knelt in the center of the bed. His raven black hair cascaded down his neck and over his muscular shoulders. His white shirt, unbuttoned and dangling outside his trousers, exposed his burly chest. The same chest Toni had straddled many a night when they concluded their feeding with an orgy of lust. She began to feel her own desire burn between her legs when a whimper drew her attention to the end of the bed. A young girl, barely sixteen years of age, pressed herself tightly against the headboard, her legs drawn up against her chest and clutched by a par of spindly arms. Matted hair stiffly fell across dark, hollow eyes wide with fear. Faded, dirty clothes hung loosely on a body that had eaten little in several weeks. Ion reached out for the girl’s dirt-encrusted hand, but she drew her arms and legs more tightly against her body.

“We had a deal,” Ion said in a gentle tone that barely masked the menacing tinge in his voice. “I’ve taken you off the streets. Now you must fulfill your part of the bargain.”

The girl swallowed hard and took a deep breath, then hesitantly held out her left arm. Ion cupped her hand in his own, and with his left hand pushed the frayed sweater up over her forearm. He leaned forward and kissed her wrist, moistening the skin with his tongue. In an instant, his handsome Balkan features morphed into a pallid, protruding, and deeply furrowed forehead, the blood-red eyes gleaming in anticipation of a meal. Fear filled the girl’s eyes, but she did not withdraw her arm. Ion pulled her wrist to his mouth and bit. The girl closed her eyes and throatily moaned.

After a few moments, Ion stopped drinking and leaned back onto the bed, his breathing rapid. As his excitement waned, Ion’s face softened into its human visage. Without taking his eyes off the girl, Ion pushed the shirt off of his left shoulder and scraped a finger across his left breast, creating a two-inch rivulet of blood.

“Your turn,” he beckoned.

Without hesitation, the girl uncurled herself from the fetal position and slowly crawled across the bed. She lowered her face toward Ion’s chest and paused, seductively licking her lips. She looked up at Ion, her eyes seeking permission to continue. Ion clasped her by the back of the head and pushed her toward the wound. She sucked hungrily. Clutching her hair, Ion pulled the girl closer into him.

Toni’s rage boiled over. By exchanging blood, Ion was turning the little slut into a master beholden to him. A plaything for his perverse desires. Someone to fuck around with while Toni picked up the pieces of his negligence. No more. She had had enough.

Shoving the door open, Toni barged into the room. “Can you quit your whoring for five minutes?”

Ion turned to Toni. Grasping the vagrant by her hair, he pushed her mouth even further into the dead skin of his chest, eliciting a throaty moan from the girl. He smirked at Toni. “Jealous?”

Toni ignored the taunt. “I just talked to Chiang Shih. She’s not happy about the other night.”

“She’ll get over it.” Ion returned his attention to the girl, caressing her hair. “She always does.”

Crossing over to the couple, Toni grabbed the girl by the hair and dragged her off of Ion. The girl screamed. Toni flung her off the bed onto the floor, watching unsympathetically as the girl scrambled backwards into the corner and cowered. Toni spun around to face Ion.

Ion already had jumped out of bed to confront her. “Need I remind you that I’m in charge of this coven?”

“Then act like it. A few more incidents like the other night and the humans will start hunting us again.”

“The coven’s security is your responsibility, not mine.”

“No. Your job is to enforce discipline within the coven, and you’ve fucked that up. While you’re taking sluts to our bed, the coven has become sloppy and careless. Just like in the Ukraine.”

“That’s enough,” Ion bellowed, his human incisors morphing into fangs in anger. “Be careful. You can be replaced. You are not the same woman I sired.”

Toni refused to back down. “I could say the same about you.”

“What do you mean?” Ion asked threateningly.

“The vampire who sired me would never have let Drake Matthews live this long.”

Ion huffed. Turning, he walked away. “He’s merely a nuisance.”

“A nuisance doesn’t take down seven of our coven in three months.”

Ion stopped, clenching and unclenching his fists as he tried to control his anger. But the furious quiver in his voice belied his seemingly calm demeanor. “And I suppose you can do better?”

“Of course.”

“Then Drake Matthews is yours.” Ion turned to Toni and smiled, his anger replaced by an unsettling calm. “Do with him as you please.”

“I will,” Toni answered defiantly.

“Just so long as the next time we talk you tell me that Drake Matthews is dead.”

Before Toni could respond, Ion walked over to the twin doors, swung them inwards, and glided into the darkened corridor. Once again he had shirked his responsibility. But he gave the task of protecting the coven to her, and she would not fail. Toni would save the coven like Ion once saved her back in Ukraine.

A whimper caught Toni’s attention. She looked into the corner. The vagrant whore pulled her knees against her chest and tightly clasped her legs. Her eyes, wide with terror, focused on Toni. With Ion gone the poor thing feared for her safety. With good reason.

Toni lunged. The girl started to cry out, her scream being choked off as Toni’s hand clutched her throat. Toni pulled the girl to her feet. Letting go of her throat, Toni traced the back of her fingers along the girl’s neck and caressed the back of her head. The whore closed her eyes, moaning softly. Clearly this one would do anything to stay alive. Suddenly, Toni grabbed the girl by the hair and yanked her head back. Toni’s once beautiful face transformed into the vampire’s hideously-furrowed forehead. Shocked out of her silence, the girl attempted to scream. Toni plunged her fangs into the girl’s throat, turning the cry into a gurgle as she fed. Digging her fangs deep in, Toni ripped out her throat. As the girl’s lifeless body crumpled to the floor, Toni ran a pair of dead fingers across her blood-stained lips, licking them clean.

Soon Toni would be savoring the blood of the hunter.

A SMALL VILLAGE 100 kilometers north of Donetsk, Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic. Summer 1933. Holodomor. A bastardization of the phrase moryty holodom, to inflict death by hunger. A very apt description, thought Ion Zielenska.

That was how the Ukrainian peasants referred to the famine forced onto the region last summer by decree of the Communist Party leaders in Moscow. There were numerous theories to explain why the Kremlin chose this strategy. Most peasants thought it was an overreaction by party apparatchiks in response to Ukraine’s failure to produce a harvest large enough to meet its quota. Others thought it was Moscow’s attempt to crush a growing bourgeoisie that posed a threat to Stalin’s socialist rule. Conspiratorial types believed the ultimate goal was political, to punish the wayward province for not falling into line behind Lenin’s successor. The end result was the same – more than seven million Ukrainians starved to death over the past year.

Only a few such as Ion knew the truth.

He moved closer to the second-story window of the grain warehouse just outside of the village, taking special care not to allow the sunlight filtering in to fall on him. No one was in sight. But it was still early in the morning, and he did not expect the Russians’ inactivity to last much longer. They would not stop now, not when they were so close to their goal of eradicating the first vampire nation.

When Ion first heard of the plan just over a year and a half ago, he was excited. Everything seemed to have fallen into place. The world was in the middle of the Great Depression, and no one paid attention, let alone cared, what went on inside the Soviet Union. Stalin was too busy consolidating his power in Moscow to pay much attention to what transpired in the countryside. Ukraine presented a power vacuum ripe for exploitation. It was why Ion, Antoinette, and eight other trusted masters were sent to the region to establish a nation of the undead, the initial step in their goal of obtaining dominion over all mankind. At the time, Chiang Shih described the plan as a brilliant strategic move that would ensure the vampires’ ultimate victory.

Brilliant strategic move. What a fucking joke. Ion wondered if Napoleon said the same thing just before his invasion of Russia. He saw firsthand how that turned out.

The masters chose as the site of their efforts a small village fifty kilometers east of Kiev. They swept down upon a kolkhoz one night in June 1932 and began their takeover. Surreptitiously at first, each night turning ten residents into vampires and keeping them hidden away so as not to arouse suspicion. In two weeks, when they had more than a hundred vampires at their command, they descended upon the kolkhoz in full force, completely taking it over. Those who refused to serve as familiars and keep watch over their masters by day were made part of their legion of the undead. The complete takeover of the kolkhoz took less than forty-eight hours. Within another week, five of the surrounding villages were also brought under the vampires’ control. Other masters were sired from among the more compliant locals, and these new masters set off to bring more of Ukraine under the vampires’ dominion. Within a month, conditions would be ideal to move against the primary target – the Ukrainian capital of Kiev. Victory seemed within their grasp. They had taken everything into account, except for the brutality of their human enemy.

Or more precisely, the brutality of one man. Joseph Stalin.

Ion and the others knew full well that, once the humans understood what was happening, they would encounter fierce resistance. By that time, they had hoped to have established a firm foothold in Ukraine from which they could not be dislodged. To root out the vampires would require destroying everything around them, a scorched earth policy no one thought the humans were capable of.

Ion and the others had grossly underestimated Stalin.

Stalin had refused to allow any threat to his authority, and the fact that the threat came from the undead made no difference. Once word of the vampires’ plans reached Moscow, he ordered the entire Ukraine immediately cut off from the rest of the world. As a Communist who denied the existence of God, and as such the dichotomy between good and evil, he could not publicly reveal the true nature of the threat. Instead, he concocted a story about having to stop the Ukrainian peasants from hoarding grain and ruining the push for nation-wide collectivization. Stalin’s plan was genius in its simplicity. Remove all the grain from Ukraine and starve the peasants, and ultimately deprive the vampires of food and starve them.

NKVD troops, the regime’s secret police, roamed from village to village searching for vampires. If found, they were immediately destroyed. The NKVD shipped off to gulags anyone even remotely suspected of serving as a familiar, where fates awaited them far worse than anything the masters could have dreamed up. They even slaughtered livestock to prevent the vampires from feeding off of them. Once a village was secure, the NKVD left troops behind to ensure the threat would not resurface, and then moved on to the next village. Within two months, the vampire nation crumbled. Most of the vampires and more than half the masters had been killed. The survivors fled east, reduced to scavenging for what little food they could find while trying to outrun the NKVD.

Being human, the Soviets could move by day, and used vehicles that could outpace the vampires. One by one, most of the masters were tracked down and eliminated until only Ion and Antoinette remained. He feared their turn had now come. For the past three days, they had kept ahead of one NKVD unit of three hundred soldiers equipped with a T-34 tank. Just before sunrise, the NKVD had entered the town he and Antoinette had been holed up in. The two barely escaped and made it as far as the warehouse before they were forced to take cover from the morning sun. A local peasant had spotted them and made his way back to the village. Ion knew it would not be long before the Soviets closed in for the kill.

As if on cue, a squad of NKVD troops appeared on the horizon in a line abreast, heading directly for the warehouse.

“Ion!” Antoinette called out from the opposite side of the warehouse. “The Russians are approaching. There’s about a hundred of them. And they have a tank.”

Ion abandoned his position and went to her. Poor Antoinette. She was to have been his queen. Now they would merely share a common grave. He knelt beside her and took her hand. She gestured out the window.

The troops were about fifty yards away. As he and Antoinette watched, a small squad of ten soldiers broke off and dashed toward the rear door of the warehouse. One of them carried a flamethrower. The remaining soldiers took up firing position.

“There’s another squad approaching from the back,” he said. “And I’ll bet they have troops on each side.”

“Then this is the end, isn’t it?”

Ion nodded.

“What are we going to do?”

“Take as many of the humans down with us as we can. Come on.”

The two masters maneuvered to the edge of the loft overlooking the rear door and hid behind bales of hay. They did not have long to wait.

The squad of NKVD troops rushed into the warehouse and formed a semi-circle around the door to prevent anything from escaping. Their attention was drawn inside the building, scanning it for vampires. No one bothered to look up. Ion and Antoinette morphed into their vampiric forms and dove off the loft, landing directly among them. The humans spun around to face the threat. The closest four troops died in seconds, their throats ripped out. Blood spurted from their wounds, splattering their comrades. The quickness and severity of the attack produced the desired effect as panic spread through the remainder of the squad. They fired wildly, trying to kill the vampires, but only succeeded in gunning down two of their own number.

Ion lunged at the soldier at the far end of the line, the one carrying the flamethrower. He clasped a taloned hand over the soldier’s face and ripped it off, clutching the bloody skin in his hands. The soldier fell to the dirt, his terrified screams emanating from his gore-covered skull. His finger tightened around the dispenser’s trigger. Ion dove to the right and rolled to safety as flames shot out from the nozzle. Liquid fire engulfed the front wall and two escaping squad members. Their anguished howls could be heard over the melee. One soldier fell to the dirt, thrashing around for several seconds before his body went still, his corpse crackling and popping. The other ran outside, flames emanating from his scorched body like he was a demon. He made it only a few meters before a comrade fired a burst from a submachinegun into his chest, mercifully putting the soldier out of his misery.

Antoinette attacked the final soldier. He flung aside his weapon and attempted to flee. Antoinette pounced on his back, dragging him to the dirt.

“Nyet! Nyet!” Tears poured down his cheeks.

Antoinette ignored his pleas and plunged her fangs into the back of his neck, savoring her last meal.

From outside, someone bellowed a command. A volley of gunfire erupted. Bullets tore through the warehouse. A second later, the T-34 fired. The round punched its way through the wood and rocketed out the other side of the warehouse. Humans must be using armor-piercing rounds, thought Ion. A small break for them, though it only delayed the inevitable.

“Get back upstairs,” ordered Ion.

Antoinette looked up from her feasting, her mouth covered in blood. Springing from the dying soldier, she ran over to the ladder and climbed out of harm’s way. Ion followed, but by now the hail of gunfire was steady and intense. Three rounds slammed into his chest as he crossed the warehouse. Each one knocked him off balance as they tore through flesh and punctured organs. Although the pain was unbearable, none of the wounds were fatal.

Once in the loft, he made his way back to the window. Antoinette already peered out, trying to gauge the humans’ next move. Flames crawled up the wall and licked at the corners of the loft. As Ion joined her, the T-34 lumbered forward, slowly heading toward the warehouse. Its commander dropped down into the turret, closing the hatch behind him.

“I have an idea,” he said.

“What is it?”

“No time. Just follow me and do what I tell you.”

Ion led Antoinette away from their position above the rear door to a safer location off to the side just as the loft ignited behind them. Several seconds later, the tank’s engine revved. It crashed through the rear wall of the warehouse and pushed its way into the building. The section of loft where the two masters had stood a moment before collapsed, covering the tank in flaming wood. Its turret machine gun sprayed the ground floor, chewing up everything in its path. The tank backed up a few meters, allowing the section of loft to collapse completely. It then shifted into forward and pushed through into the warehouse.

Ion raced forward, dove off the loft, and landed on top of the tank’s turret. Antoinette joined him. From inside the tank, panicky voices yelled commands. The tank lurched to the right, its driver looking for an escape route. Ion did not have much time. He grabbed the handle to the turret hatch, but it was secured from the inside. He pulled on the handle with both hands. The muscles in his arms strained until he thought he would tear his arms out of their sockets. Finally, the metal screeched in protest and the hatch gave way. It popped open, knocking Ion backwards. Which was fortunate, because a hail of bullets from a revolver shot through the open hatch.

When the gunfire stopped, Ion reached in and grabbed the commander by the head. Digging his taloned fingers into the human’s eyes, Ion pulled him out of the tank. The commander clutched Ion’s arm, kicking and screaming. Once out of the tank, Ion flung the commander onto the dirt below. He rolled onto his knees, howling and cupping his face, blood streaming between his fingers. A section of the flaming loft broke free from the wall and toppled over, crushing him.

Antoinette slid through the open hatch into the tank. The gunner and loader were both reaching for their side arms, but in the strict confines of the turret could not get to them in time. She grabbed the loader on both sides of his head and twisted. A loud crunch filled the interior as his head was turned around one hundred and eighty degrees. With her foot, Antoinette kicked out at the gunner, driving his head into the side of the turret with such force that it burst against the metal, showering the interior with blood and brain matter.

Ion jumped in and closed the hatch. The tank crashed into the loft and lurched to a halt. The driver attempted to escape. Antoinette dropped down into the gunner’s position, grabbed him by the back of the head, and yanked it back so he was forced to look up into her face. The smell of shit wafted up from his position. She leaned closer to him, her face inches from his, and bared her gore-covered fangs.

“Drive us to safety, or I promise you’ll live just long enough to regret it. Understand?”

The driver nodded furiously. Sliding back into his seat, he shifted into gear, revved the engine, and continued plowing through the warehouse until the tank burst through the side wall. A cheer went up from amongst the NKVD troops. Ion looked out of the commander’s view ports. A line of soldiers stood directly in front of the tank, waving for it to stop. When the tank continued across the open field, the troops suddenly realized what must have happened. They all dropped to their knees and raised their weapons. Dozens of weapons fired at the tank, pinging harmlessly against the hull.

The driver looked up at Antoinette. “They’re blocking my path.”

“I don’t care.”

“B-but, they’re my comrades.”

“DRIVE!” she howled.

The driver accelerated. The tank lurched forward, heading directly for the soldiers. Ion grabbed the turret machinegun controls and fired, sending a stream of bullets across the line of men. Most broke and ran. Several took rounds to their guts, dropping to the ground and rolling around in agony. Unable to get out of the way, they were crushed underneath the tank’s treads as it rolled over them. Ion could hear their screams even over the roar of the engine and the cascade of bullets against the hull.

Ion looked around for the turret control. When he found it, he rotated the turret to the right and looked through the view scope. The NKVD squad was chasing them, firing their weapons or throwing hand grenades that fell short. Fortunately, none of them carried rocket launchers. Even more fortuitous, Ion did not see any vehicles in the area, the troops apparently having walked here from the village. That tactical mistake gave him and Antoinette a chance.

When the turret completed a full traverse, Ion stopped it. A copse of trees sat on the horizon, probably twenty or so kilometers distance. They looked thick enough so that the sunlight could not penetrate to the ground. It would be far from an ideal place to hide, but it would give them a head start on the NKVD and a chance to get away. Which was a lot more than they had ten minutes ago.

“We’ve lost them.” Ion leaned down to talk to the driver. “Head for that forest straight ahead.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Antoinette turned to look up at Ion. “Shouldn’t we head for the road and try to put some distance between us?”

“They’ll have aircraft and motorized vehicles looking for us within the hour. If we get caught in the open, we’re goners. Our best chance is to make it to the forest and try to escape from there.”

Antoinette nodded her understanding. She gazed down at the driver, back up at Ion, and mouthed the words, “What about him?”

Ion placed his forefinger against one side of his throat and slowly drew it across to the other side. Antoinette licked her lips in anticipation. When she turned her attention back to the driver, Ion peered again out the rear view port. By now the NKVD troops had fallen so far behind they had given up the chase.

He and Antoinette might just make it out of this after all.

3

DRAKE ENJOYED HIS mid-morning commute to work. With an insulated mug of iced coffee in one hand and a Macanudo cigar in the other, he strolled down Pennsylvania Avenue, a slight limp in his step. He turned right onto 13th Street, basking in the bustle of downtown Washington. Unlike most Washingtonians, he delighted in the throngs of pedestrians and traffic-clogged streets. Even the noises that became sources of aggravation for others were a symphony to Drake’s ears. The grinding and growling of large vehicles as they downshifted through the congestion. The blaring of car horns. The clickity-clack of skateboards and rollerblades. The crying of babies and the whining of tired children. The chatter of a thousand conversations. The yelling of cell phone users trying to be heard. Drake thrived on it because it signified life.

In a few hours, when the traffic cleared out and the throngs had returned to their homes or hotels, a quiet would descend over Washington.

Then the city belonged to the vampires.

Drake finally arrived at his office in a three-story Victorian-house-turned-office-building near Franklin Park. A nondescript building, its exterior architecture blended with the surrounding structures. Even the black stenciling on the glass panel on the front door that read DRAKE MATTHEWS, CONSULTANT vastly downplayed its significance. From the outside, no one would know that the Bastion, as they called it, contained some of the most up-to-date and unique security features outside of the federal government, ranging from the heat and motion detectors to a sprinkler system fed by holy water.

Drake climbed the stairs to the second-floor entrance and stepped inside the small foyer. Placing the cigar between his teeth, he punched the entry code into the keypad by the door and, upon hearing the electronic buzz signifying that the door had been unlocked, pushed it open and stepped inside.

Alison sat at her desk in the reception room. He immediately noticed that she wore a sheer white silk blouse, tan skirt, and matching high heels, a far cry from the black leather outfit she wore while hunting. The colors accented her brown eyes and hair. She chatted with a young man seated on the sofa opposite her desk, her disarming kindness and gentle smile putting the kid at ease. If only Drake was not ten years Alison’s senior as well as her boss.

Alison’s conversation partner seemed out of his element, looking as if he would be more comfortable at a science fiction convention. Barely out of high school, the kid still had a lean, lanky figure and an unblemished face accented by short blonde hair gelled into tiny spikes. He wore a teenager’s version of proper business attire—red sports shirt, clean blue jeans, and black sneakers. Yet Drake immediately noticed the strength of character in the kid’s blue eyes and demeanor. Despite the uncertainty of the situation, the kid did not seem to be intimidated.

Upon seeing Drake, Alison’s grin broadened. “Good morning, Boss.”

“Morning. What’s up?”

“Not much. We had a message from the repair shop. The Ram will be ready in three days. And the owner sends his thanks.”

“Why?”

“He said that at this rate he’ll be able to put his daughter through college by the spring.”

“Everyone’s a comedian.”

As Drake crossed the reception room, Alison noticed his limp. Her light-hearted manner suddenly grew serious. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

“Nothing. Just sore from being banged around the other night.”

“Maybe you should go to the hospital and get it looked at.”

Drake shook his head. “No way. You know how I feel about hospitals. They’re death’s waiting room. Nothing will get me in one.”

Drake took a drag on his cigar.

Alison sighed in exasperation. “You know, those things will kill you.”

Drake blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “There are some things worse than death.”

“Speaking of which, Smith is waiting for you,” said Alison in a lowered voice.

Smith was the name, assumedly a pseudonym, for the front man of their anonymous benefactor. His presence usually boded ill.

Drake stepped into his office, a large spartanly-furnished room in the back of the house. An oak desk with a leather executive chair dominated the room, with two leather armchairs facing it. A dark brown cloth sofa with an accompanying floor lamp sat in the far corner. Above the sofa hung a painting of Max Schreck as Nosferatu, the only accoutrement that even hinted at their true profession.

Smith sat in one of the armchairs in front of the desk. He stood as Drake entered and straightened the vest of his Savile Row suit. At six-foot-three-inches and two hundred pounds, a physique that testified to considerable time in the gym, and ruggedly-handsome good looks, Smith looked like a Hollywood version of a lawyer. Presumptuous, Drake admitted, since he had no idea what Smith did as a profession. Smith served as the go-between for Drake’s crew and their unnamed benefactor. He had arranged for Drake and Alison to set up in Washington three months ago after they had been forced to leave Boston, including arranging the purchase of this house plus the accompanying equipment. He ensured the funds were always available when required and, presumably, calmed the waters on those occasions when Drake stirred things up with the city’s authorities.

Drake placed the cigar between his lips as he slipped off his jacket and hung it on a hook on the back of the door. “Morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Matthews.” Smith motioned to the cigar clenched between Drakes’ lips. “You know, those things will kill you?”

“So I’ve heard.” Drake walked behind his desk and slid into the leather chair. “Thanks for getting me and Alison out of jail again.”

“That’s my job.”

“But squaring things with three police jurisdictions? This time you outdid yourself.”

“I could say the same for you.”

Drake nodded sheepishly. “The vampires usually confine their feeding to the Mall or to seedy bars. The other night was the first time they’ve ventured off their usual hunting ground.”

“Any idea why?”

“None. Hopefully it was an isolated incident. A rogue snuffy. Otherwise we’re facing the prospect that these things are either becoming very aggressive or incredibly sloppy.”

“That’s what I thought.” Smith grimaced. “Either way, it’s not good.”

“Nothing we can’t handle.”

“Maybe so. But my boss had to call in a lot of favors to get you two out of jail this time.” Smith held up a hand, cutting Drake off in mid-protest. “That’s not a criticism, just a fact. A couple of more encounters like the other night, and it won’t be long before even my boss is helpless to get you off the hook.”

“That’s a lovely prospect.”

Smith contemplated his next question. “Do you have any idea who the Master is?”

“Not a clue.”

“Do you think there even is a Master?”

“There has to be. We’ve come across too many snuffies for this to be random. There’s a nest somewhere in the city. I just haven’t figured out where.”

“Maybe I can help.” Smith smiled as he gestured with his head toward the reception area. “The kid is James Delmarco. Good kid. And bright. Perhaps a little too bright. Like you, he’s had a few run-ins with the authorities. My boss has smoothed things over and wants him to join your team.”

“What’s his specialty?”

Smith grinned conspiratorially. “Engineering. Leave it at that.”

“Is he reliable?”

“We wouldn’t be asking you to take him on board if he wasn’t.” Smith paused, then offered Drake an out. “If the kid doesn’t work out, let me know and we’ll pull him. Nothing can interfere with your primary task.”

“I can’t ask for more than that.”

“Do you need anything else?”

“Just the location of the nest.”

Smith chuckled. “Trust me, if I had that you’d be the first to know. I’ll be on my way then.”

Both men stood and shook hands, then Drake escorted Smith out into the reception room. When Smith left, Drake turned to Jim and offered his hand. “So, you’re the new kid?”

“Yes, sir.” Jim jumped up, wiped his hand against his pants leg, and grabbed Drake’s hand. He had a strong grip, probably the result of being nervous. “James Delmarco, sir.”

“No need to be so formal.”

Jim smiled weakly. “Sorry. It’s just that she always calls you Boss, so I thought you preferred it that way.”

Drake laughed. “Once you’ve been with us awhile you’ll learn that Alison calls me whatever she wants. I’m just glad she picked a name that can be used in public.”

“At least around you I do.” Alison grinned mischievously.

Drake turned his attention back to Jim. “Smith says you have a knack for engineering. What experience do you have?”

“Three and a half semesters at Caltech. I was about to wind up my second year when…” Jim hesitated.

“So what are you in for?” asked Drake.

“Excuse me?”

“What did you do that caused them to banish you here?”

“Well…” Jim paused again, then averted his eyes. “I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

“Not a problem.” Drake patted Jim on the shoulder. “Alison, show Jim where he’ll be working.”

“Sure thing, Boss.” Alison stood up and straightened her skirt, then looked over at Jim. “Follow me.”

As Alison led Jim upstairs, Drake limped back to his office to plan the next hunt.

AS LUCK SHOULD have it for Jessica, Chief Roach had scheduled a news conference for noon, ostensibly to discuss the Drake Matthews’ case. When Philips told her yesterday that Matthews would be released, it had been privileged information. By this morning, every local newspaper and network affiliate had gotten wind of the story. Considering the damage Drake had caused, that information generated a firestorm in the District. This news conference would be the chief’s attempt at damage control, and Jessica’s opportunity to get some answers.

Since Jessica had received this assignment yesterday morning, she only had enough time to conduct research in The Standard’s database archives. Thankfully that provided more than enough background information. It was the only newspaper not only to report on Drake Matthews’ original arrest at the motorcycle bar three months ago, but also the other two arrests since then. It would definitely make for an interesting news conference.

The briefing room was two-thirds full when Jessica entered. She found a seat five rows back and off to the left, the closest to the podium she could get. Slipping off her overcoat, Jessica barely had draped it over the back of her chair and taken a seat when a bustle occurred behind the podium. Roach entered followed by two other officers, one in uniform and the other in civilian clothes. The flashes from numerous cameras and the glare of television klieg lights lit up the room. Roach stepped up to the podium, with the others taking position behind and to either side of him. He forewent any formalities.

“We’ve received numerous phone calls over the last twenty-four hours with regard to the arrest of Drake Matthews and Alison Monroe. Before we begin, I want to confirm that the reports of Mr. Matthews and Miss Monroe being released are accurate. With me is Robert Dekker, the chief medical examiner, and Sergeant Juan Rodriguez, the arresting officer. They’ll help me answer your questions.”

Half the reporters in the room began asking questions at once. Roach admonished everyone to be quiet, and when order returned he resumed.

“When we originally arrested Drake Matthews and Miss Monroe, we assumed they were responsible for the incident at Union Station and the events that followed. Further investigation, however, cleared them of all charges.”

“What about the assault on the boy at Union Station?” asked the reporter from the local NBC affiliate.

“There was an assault on a ten-year-old boy, but Mr. Matthews was not the attacker. In fact, he saved the juvenile’s life. We have that from the juvenile himself.”

“Will you be releasing the boy’s statement?” asked a television reporter.

“No. Because he’s a juvenile, every aspect of the case that relates to him will remain sealed.”

A young, attractive black woman stood up. “Cheri Tewes. Channel Nine News. If Drake Matthews was not responsible for the attack on the young boy, then why did he run from police?”

“Mr. Matthews did not run from the police,” Roach responded somewhat unconvincingly. “He was pursuing the real attacker when he became stranded on the back of the tanker. Miss Monroe gave chase to save her friend, and although she did commit numerous moving vehicle violations, she did so while trying to save Mr. Matthews from a life-threatening situation, and as such will not be charged.”

“Then who attacked the boy?” asked an older gentleman whom Jessica did not recognize.

Roach hesitated just long enough to shroud his answer in suspicion. “We don’t know who the attacker is.”

“You mean you haven’t positively identified the attacker’s body yet?”

“I mean we haven’t identified the attacker or found his body.”

Another barrage of questions. It took Roach several seconds to quiet everyone down. When calm had been restored, the older reporter asked a follow-up question. “Chief Roach, I’m confused. Didn’t the initial reports indicate that the arresting officers found the remains of the attacker at the scene of the crash?”

“The reason for that…” began Dekker before Roach cut him off with a withering look.

“The initial reports were erroneous,” said Rodriquez as he stepped up to the podium. “I was one of the arresting officers. When we arrived on the scene of the accident, we saw something on fire fall out of the cab of the truck. What we had originally assumed to be the driver turned out to be one of the seats.”

“But didn’t your initial report state that given the violent nature of the accident, nothing could have survived both the impact and the fire?”

“Nothing could have, sir.”

Roach quickly jumped in. “What we’re saying is that we haven’t found the remains yet, which is not unusual given the circumstances behind this crash. The driver was either ejected from the vehicle by the force of the impact, in which case we’ll discover the remains once we expand our investigation into the surrounding area, or, more than likely, was incinerated.”

“Is that another erroneous assumption?” someone called out.

“No,” Roach said forcefully. “We’re still cleaning up the accident site. The remains will be found.”

Jessica saw her opportunity. “Chief Roach, you mentioned that Drake Matthews and Alison Monroe would not be charged because their actions were deemed self-defense. Was self-defense the same reason all charges were dropped following the incident at Jack Nasty’s?”

Roach looked as though someone had inserted an electrode up his ass and flipped on the switch. “Excuse me?”

“Jack Nasty’s. The motorcycle bar down by the Navy Yard. Three months ago the police found Drake Matthews and Alison Monroe inside the bar surrounded by half a dozen bikers who had been beaten so bad they needed to be hospitalized. Were the charges dropped because whatever happened in the bar was deemed self-defense? And was self-defense the reason why the charges were dropped following their second arrest, and after the incident of arson?”

Roach stared at Jessica. She watched as his initial perplexity by the question turned into anger. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name, Miss…”

“Reynolds. Jessica Reynolds.”

“And you’re affiliated with?”

Now Jessica felt uncomfortable. “The Washington Standard.”

Roach chuckled. The rest of the room laughed. Jessica hoped none of them noticed her turning red.

Roach waited for the noise to die down. “Miss Reynolds, I can assure you that, despite what your readers may think, there is no conspiracy between us and Drake Matthews. While we’re not at liberty to discuss these earlier incidents, rest assured that if we ever have reason to suspect Drake Matthews and Miss Monroe of being engaged in criminal activity, we will arrest them. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

Roach and the other men turned and strode off the podium followed by a barrage of unanswered questions. Soon the reporters began filing out, many casting disapproving glances at Jessica or uttering snide comments under their breath as they passed. Rather than face the humiliation, Jessica waited until the others had cleared out before leaving the building herself.

Halfway down the front stairs of the police station, Jessica heard someone calling her name. She stopped and turned just as Dekker raced down, slightly out of breath.

“Miss Reynolds, I’m glad I caught up with you.”

“Why? Were there some cheap shots at my expense you forgot to get in back there?”

“You were the only one asking the right questions.”

“How so?”

“Not here.” Dekker cupped Jessica’s elbow in his left hand and guided her down to the sidewalk, then led her down the street. “Do you know where the city morgue is?”

Jessica nodded.

“Good. Meet me there tomorrow night at eight o’clock. I have something you need to see.”

“Can’t you just tell me what this is about?”

“No, ma’am,” Dekker said emphatically, shaking his head to emphasize the urgency of his request. “This is something you need to see. Will you be there?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Thanks. Trust me. You won’t regret this.” Giving Jessica a friendly nod, Dekker turned and headed back toward the station.

As Jessica watched him leave, she began to wonder what was so special that Dekker needed to show her, and if she would regret doing this.

ALISON SHOWED JIM around the office, pointing out how the structure differed from the typical Washington house. Steel-reinforced door and window jams. Iron plates in the walls to deter the undead from gaining entrance. Extensive bay windows and a large skylight, each fitted with thick shatter-proof glass. The installation of infrared detectors, fine-tuned to pick up temperature variations of only a few degrees, a necessity since vampires generate no natural body heat. And a structure-wide sprinkler system fed off of a one-thousand-gallon container of holy water located underneath the garage. Jim found the third floor laboratory of particular interest, or at least what passed as a laboratory. The entire floor had been renovated into one large open space except for a single room in the rear corner. Despite its size, the space held only a single gun safe, a metal cabinet containing wooden stakes and bottles of holy water, and a cleared work bench.

Jim strolled around the lab, opening the safe and cabinet to examine their contents, decidedly unimpressed. When Alison finished the tour, he leaned back against the work bench.

“I appreciate you and Drake taking me on, but what am I supposed to be doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

Jim swept a hand around the empty lab. “There’s nothing for me to work with.”

“Filling it is your job.” Reaching into her pocket, Alison withdrew a credit card and handed it to Jim. “Get whatever you need. And don’t worry about the cost. If you need something and can’t find it, let me know and I’ll get it for you.”

“Even if it’s illegal?” Jim joked.

“Yes.”

“Are you serious?”

Alison nodded. “What we’re doing is very important and extremely dangerous. Our backers know this, which is why we have an unlimited bank account and access to anything we need. All we have to do is ask.”

“And what exactly are we doing?” The hesitation in Jim’s voice betrayed that he really would rather not know the answer.

“Didn’t Smith tell you?”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“We hunt vampires.”

Jim sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“You don’t believe in vampires?”

“I hoped that was just a cover story, and that I’d really be working for the CIA or the Department of Defense.” Jim pushed himself away from the workbench and walked over to the cabinet. He opened the doors, pulled out a wooden stake, and held it in his hand. Several seconds passed before he turned back to Alison. “Vampires?”

Alison nodded.

“Like Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee?”

“I’ve seen these things up close. They are not suave and debonair. We deal with monsters, like something out of a John Carpenter or Wes Craven movie.”

“How many… vampires are we going up against?”

The smile fell from Alison’s face. “I wish I knew. We’ve already killed about a dozen vampires in the past three months, and had several run ins with others. That suggests there’s a nest here in Washington, but we haven’t been able to find the master.”

Jim shook his head and held up both hands. “Wait a minute. Nest? Master?”

“There are two types of vampires. Masters are the most dangerous. They’re cunning, intelligent, and more powerful than your average vampire. They’re also extremely difficult to hunt down because they look human and transform into a vampire only to feed. By then it’s usually too late to do anything about them. Wherever a master goes, it establishes a nest and creates a horde of vampires to protect and serve it.

“The vampires created by a master are ugly, blood-thirsty creatures. They’re created when a vampire feeds on a human and the human dies from their wounds. That human comes back to life a few days later as a snuffy.”

“What’s a snuffy?”

“An expendable. They’re sole purpose is to be snuffed in order to protect the master.”

Jim sighed. He closed the cabinet and turned to Alison. “I guess I have a lot to learn.”

“You will. With time. Right now you only need to know how to kill them.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because your job is to help us find better ways to get rid of these things.”

Jim smiled, finally feeling in his element. “And exactly how do we kill them?”

“There are several options.” Alison motioned for Jim to follow, and the two headed for the stairs. “The traditional method is to drive a stake through their heart. Decapitation and incineration are also very effective. Exposure to sunlight will destroy them instantly. Holy water won’t kill them, but it does major damage and slows them down. We just haven’t figured out a way yet to turn it into an effective weapon.”

“Silver bullets will also kill them, right?” Jim asked excitedly. “Or is that a werewolf?”

Alison chuckled. “You definitely have a lot to learn.”

LEESBURG, VIRGINIA. THIRTY-FIVE miles west of Washington. A suburban town on the fringe of the region’s urban sprawl. It offered the vampires a poor hunting ground, and so had never been prowled. Until tonight.

Toni sought a special prey that required special bait. In this case, knee-high stiletto boots, a leather miniskirt, and a tight black tank top. The hunting ground was a motorcycle bar. Not just any motorcycle bar, but the Roadhouse Café, an establishment known for its particularly rowdy clientele. The sign hanging in the front window succinctly characterized the type of patrons—Better here than across the street—a reference to the county courthouse located opposite the square.

As Toni approached, the glow from a green neon sign bearing the bar’s name and the accompanying Harley Davidson logo reflected off her face. Straightening her tank top, Toni pushed open the door and stepped inside. Travis Tritt’s “T-R-O-U-B-L-E” blared from a series of speakers mounted along the wall, attempting to drown out the twin televisions mounted above each end of the bar and the raucous conversations. The lighting came mostly from a series of fluorescent lamps hanging over each of the half dozen pool tables and the small lamps on each of the tables arranged along the rear wall. Eddies of cigarette smoke churned by ceiling fans swirled around the pool tables. An ideal, seedy environment filled with bikers, rednecks, and good ole boys. The perfect marketplace for Toni.

The door had barely swung shut behind Toni when she suddenly became the center of attention. The pool players near the front noticed her first. Then, like a wave through the bar, others began turning in her direction. Toni strolled through the billiard tables with a gait honed by hundreds of years of seduction. Her gaze met that of several men, trying to find just the right one.

“Hey, sweet thing.” A scrawny man just over five feet in height with a three-day growth of beard and uncombed hair blocked her path. A cigarette with ash still attached hung from his lips. He reeked of second-hand smoke and beer. The word repulsive came to Toni’s mind.

“I’m Big Eddy. Remember that name. You’ll be screaming it later tonight.”

Toni fought back the urge to rip open this maggot’s throat and watch him die. She could not even stomach the idea of feeding off of this human.

Fortunately, fate intervened. A behemoth of a biker walked up behind Big Eddy. Over six feet in height and weighing more than three hundred pounds, the biker’s chest and beer belly strained against his T-shirt and black leather vest emblazoned with the Harley Davidson logo. He still held a pool cue in one hand, grasping it in such a way that it could easily be turned into a weapon if necessary. Not that anyone in this bar would be crazy enough to pick a fight with him.

The biker grabbed Big Eddy by the back of his neck, lifting the runt so he had to stand on his toes, then turned Big Eddy to face him.

“Jesus, Mike. What are you doing?” Big Eddy thrashed about, trying to break free.

“What have I told you about bothering me?”

“T-to never get in your way i-if I knew what was good for me.”

Mike squeezed Big Eddy’s neck, evoking a yelp of pain. “So why are you bothering me?”

“I-I’m not. I’m t-talking to her.”

“Well, she’s with me.” Mike squeezed Big Eddy’s neck again. “Understand?”

Big Eddy nodded furiously, so Mike released his grip. The runt scurried out of arm’s length, nervously looking over his shoulder, then headed for the front door.

Toni looked at Mike and smiled seductively. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Eddy’s an obnoxious little shit who hits on every broad who comes in here. A lady like you deserves a real man.”

“Like you?”

Mike stepped forward, wrapped an arm around her waist, and puller her closer. “Damn straight.”

“You’re wrong about one thing, though.”

Mike scowled. “You better not be teasing.”

“I’m not.” Toni wrapped her fingers around the pool cue and began to stroke the shaft. “You’re wrong when you referred to me as a lady.”

“Damn,” Mike drawled. “I’m buying you a drink.”

“Why waste time on a drink when I’m ready for the main event.” Toni pulled the cue toward her lips and gently blew on the tip.

“Hot damn.” Mike tossed the pool cue to a friend. “Take this. I’m going back to the apartment.”

The friend grabbed the pool cue in mid-air. “I guess you want me to make myself scarce for an hour?”

“Make it two.” Toni wrapped an arm around Mike’s arm and ushered him toward the parking lot out back.

Mike had parked his Harley in the far corner of the lot among several other motorcycles, all of them hidden behind a van. He mounted the Harley and started the engine, then patted the seat behind him. Toni straddled the seat. She ran her hands up and down his arms.

“You ready, baby?”

Toni nodded.

“Good. You’re about to have a night you’ll never forget.”

“So will you.”

Mike did not see Toni morph into a vampire. His first indication that his life was almost over came when Toni plunged her fangs into his neck. Mike struggled to break loose, but could do nothing more than flail around. She sucked deeply, drinking his blood until he had been drained enough to stop fighting. Toni tore a huge chunk of flesh from Mike’s throat, then spit it into the grass. It took only a few minutes before the life completely drained from his body.

4

TONI TRUDGED THROUGH the muck of the Washington sewers. The collected waste from hundreds of thousands of humans soiled her stiletto boots while the stench of excrement invaded her nostrils, sickening her. Of all the vile habits of these filthy creatures, feeding off of animal flesh had to be the most disgusting. Rather than thrive on something as pure in essence as blood, they preferred dead flesh. The odor of decay oozed from their pores and tainted their blood. It was why she preferred to feed on the young, whose bodies had not yet been tainted. These creatures deserved to be hunted.

Toni despised having to travel through the sewers like vermin, a demeaning but necessary evil. Hundreds of years ago, she and Ion had roamed the Balkan countryside at will, feeding on humans like the cattle they were. Now vampires needed to show caution less they become the hunted. In order to maintain the coven’s security, its members had to enter and leave the row house through a slanted passage dug by hand through the ground that connected the basement with the sewer underneath the foundation.

Upon reaching the passageway, Toni scanned both ends of the sewer for humans. Seeing no one around, she sprang up to the opening in the ceiling and scrambled the fifteen feet to the basement. Sailing out of the passageway, she landed on the floor with a thud. Startled, a large sewer rat scurried for cover under the desiccated body of a sanitation worker who inadvertently had stumbled across the coven several months earlier. Toni ignored the rat and made her way upstairs.

Upon entering the master bedroom, Toni discovered the corpse of a young black man drained of blood and thrown into the corner like a discarded blanket. From the scraggly hair and soiled clothes, she surmised he had been a straggler. From the bruises on his shoulders and back, Toni knew he had been brutalized before being drained.

Toni shuddered as the nightmare images of her own turning flooded back into her consciousness.

Ion was a sadist. He always had been, even before his transformation into a vampire. As the undead, Ion terrorized entire villages and in some cases entire countries. Many of the masters Ion sired had gone insane during their turning, themselves then becoming scourges of Europe. But none ever compared even minutely to Ion’s viciousness and decadence. A few centuries ago, Toni had met the vampire who had sired Ion and heard the truth about Ion, for the first time becoming aware of just how deep the well of depravity was sunk into Ion’s soul.

Ion had been born in the late thirteenth century as the youngest of seven sons of a Romanian nobleman. With six heirs ahead of him, he had no decent prospects for his future other than the priesthood, which provided a measure of prestige and limited authority, but at the price of morality and celibacy. Instead, Ion traveled to Jerusalem and joined the Knights Templars, the order of religious warriors who renounced their worldly possessions and lived in the Holy Land to protect Christian pilgrims and the local crusader kingdoms. He had readily adapted to his new profession, thriving on the Papacy-sanctioned slaughter of Muslims, and soon built a reputation as a brave and particularly fierce defender of the faith. Rome and Jerusalem paid him accolades, while Damascus and Cairo issued fatwahs for his death. There even had been talk of nominating Ion as the next Grand Master of the Templars.

Despite the greatness that lay before him, Ion balked against the limits, few as they were, that had been placed upon him in his cleansing of the Holy Land and quickly wearied of his vows of virtue, celibacy, and poverty. Renouncing his pledge to the order, he assembled a group of local bandits and set out to raid the pilgrimage routes to Jerusalem. At first the raids were no more than a nuisance to the crusader kingdoms, robbing pilgrims of their wealth and a few women of their virtue. Possessed by a growing obsession for violence, however, Ion soon abandoned all restraint. The raids plummeted into an orgy of brutality. All men over the age of twelve, the elderly, and the infirm were massacred or left in the desert to die from dehydration. Women and young boys were sold into slavery, but not before many of them experienced sexual perversions they could not ever have conceived of. When the Templars attempted to stop Ion and bring him to justice, he shifted his raiding to the east, preying on the caravans leading to Mecca, and showed the Muslim pilgrims even less mercy then he did Christians. Within two years of his arrival in the Holy Land, Ion had become the most hated and wanted man alive.

Things fell apart for Ion in 1289. After almost two centuries of Christian occupation of the Holy Land, Cairo and Damascus raised an invincible army and launched the final campaign to push the infidels back into the sea. One by one the cities of the crusader kingdoms fell to the Muslim forces until only the Templar citadel at Ashlit remained. Ion managed to evade the rampaging armies and sneak into the city before the last Christian ship departed, but because of his renunciation of his vows and his crimes against Christians, the Grand Master refused him passage to safety. Instead, the Templars chained Ion to the main gate of the city and left him for the Muslim conquerors.

Ion could not even conceive of the horrors the Muslims had in store for him. Sworn to bring Ion back to Damascus alive, his captors inflicted on him every indecency they could imagine short of death. By day his hands would be bound and tied to a horse’s tail, forcing him to walk through the beast’s urine and dung until he collapsed from exhaustion, and then would be dragged along for the remainder of the day. By night he would be repeatedly sodomized by as many as thirty of his captors. It took three weeks to reach Damascus, by which time Ion longed for the execution he expected would put him out of his misery.

The caliph of Damascus had lost an aunt and three nieces on one of Ion’s raids against Mecca-bound pilgrims, and lusted for revenge. First, he ordered Ion’s anus seared with a red-hot poker to punish him for the sin of sodomy. Next, the caliph had Ion lashed to the tallest minaret in the city and his head covered with honey, then left alone until his face swarmed with bugs that infested his mouth and nose. This torture was repeated daily for a week until the incessant buzzing and gagging drove Ion insane. Only then satisfied that Ion had suffered enough, the caliph banished him to a dungeon beneath the city’s garrison where his jailors took turns sodomizing and humiliating him. One of Ion’s jailor-rapists had been a master who, over the course of several violations, sired Ion into the legion of the undead. Soon after, the master arranged Ion’s escape. Yet by now the damage to Ion’s psyche had been irreparable, and his victims would greatly suffer for it. Toni among them.

The images of that nightmarish evening still haunted her even after all these centuries. A peasant girl from the southeast Austro-Hungarian Empire, Toni’s destiny became entwined with Ion’s during the Muslim assault against Budapest in the mid-fifteenth century. Ion rode with the Saracen hordes as a jihadist warrior so he could hide his feeding amidst the pillaging. Toni’s village had fallen in an orgy of slaughter. She tried to hide in her family’s pasture, and might have survived had not Ion been in search of prey. Ion had smelled her fear and tracked her down. She had braced herself to be raped. It would not have been the first time. But nothing this side of hell could have prepared her for that night.

Dragging her to a nearby barn, Ion molested her repeatedly over the course of a week, feeding off her blood with each violation, slowing draining her of life while preparing her to be a master. The true depravity occurred during her feedings on Ion as part of the siring process. Ion forced her to perform oral sex on him. She could still remember the feel of his cold, dead flesh between her lips. The way Ion clutched her hair and held her head in place as he raped her mouth. The sperm that filled her throat, its flavor that of rancid death. The taste of blood as Ion forced her to bite his cock and feed. And the degradingly erotic thrill from being violently seduced. Such humiliation was actually a sign of his affectation for Toni, for Ion treated in this manner only those he intended to sire.

The unlucky ones, like the corpse discarded in the corner, were brutalized and drained of blood.

Toni started undressing when Ion walked in. He wore only a red satin robe that hung open at the front. Dried blood caked around his mouth and encrusted his pubic hair. Upon seeing her, his eyes narrowed into menacing slits. “I’m glad to see you finally decided to come home.”

“I had something to take care of.”

“I don’t suppose it involved killing the hunter?”

“Be patient.” Toni barely disguised her disdain. “He’ll be taken care of in due time.”

“I hope so.” Ion crossed to the other side of the bed. He used his foot to push the corpse out of the way, then flopped onto the mattress. “For your sake.”

Toni felt her insides clench. Do not argue with Ion, she warned herself. Concentrate your energy on killing the hunter.

Hoping to change the subject, she turned and pointed to the corpse. “Who was that?”

Ion shrugged. “Some junkie. He hit me up for a fix. Must have thought I was a dealer.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Nothing. I’ve already drained him.”

“What are you going to do with the body?”

“Throw it into the basement with the others.”

This was Ion’s way of pawning off unpleasant tasks on her. At times like this it did no good to argue. As Ion slid deeper into decadence and irresponsibility, he became more aloof and demanding, and had slowly pushed Toni to the periphery of the coven. Only when she brought down the hunter would she be able to regain some of her lost authority. Until then, taking care of this menial task would give her an excuse not to share her bed with Ion.

STANDING BY THE door to the back office, Jim looked around the work area and mentally patted himself on the back. Yesterday this area sat empty except for a few stray pieces of furniture. After a dozen phone calls and a trip to Best Buy and Home Depot, and a shopping spree at a gun store in northern Virginia, he had stocked the room with almost everything he would need. An ammunition reloading press. A woodworking lathe. A miter saw. A table saw.

Now he needed a warm meal, a hot shower, and good night’s sleep.

Jim entered the small bathroom off of the office. He turned on the shower and set the faucet to hot, and while the water heated he stripped out of his clothes. His gaze fell upon his reflection in the mirror. In particular, the mottled red scar tissue across his right shoulder and chest. His hand involuntarily came up to touch the dead skin, recoiling at the leathery texture. Revulsion welled up inside of him. Not from the scar, but from the circumstances surrounding how he obtained it. It served as a constant reminder of what he had been. Or more accurately, what he had become.

Jim disrobed and stepped into the shower. He adjusted the nozzle to pulsate mode, then increased the flow. The pulsating stream from the showerhead pounded into his skin, soothing tired muscles. He slowly rotated his shoulders from side to side, letting the jets massage his back. It felt good against his skin, except for the disfigured tissue. How could a lack of sensation carry so much emotion? He had hoped to wash away the memories, but the events that led up to this were as deeply etched in his memories as the scars on his body.

Orphaned at the age of ten by a drunk driver, and with no other family who could—or wanted—to take care of him, Jim had wound up in a foster home in New London, Connecticut. His foster parents were kind enough, and were far from abusive or neglectful, but the entire clan could have been the poster family for dysfunctional. Being a lawyer, his foster father worked sixteen hours a day seven days a week, and rarely came home. His foster mother, however, doted on Jim. Smothered would have been a more appropriate word. She craved the attention because her biological son, David, was spoiled and self-centered. A nearly perfect GPA. Captain of the hockey team. Acceptance to Harvard Law School. And an engagement to the most beautiful and popular girl at school. David had it all. Even worse, he felt entitled to it. David treated his mother like one of the servants, and because of that she focused her attention on Jim. At first Jim had not minded, for the attention partially filled the emotional void left by the loss of his own parents.

David took issue with this. Despite treating his mother like dirt, his selfish streak would not allow him to share her affections. David grew resentful of Jim, and as a result began bullying him. It began as minor stuff. Name calling. Stealing things from his room. An occasional punch in the arm. Egged on by his friends, David’s behavior soon escalated into full-fledged harassment until, before long, half the hockey team hunted down Jim in the halls. On one occasion, a few of David’s friends beat him up in shop class. Jim refused to rat them out, and for a while David treated him decently. Jim had hoped that the bullying had finally come to an end, and that David had realized he had gone too far and had backed off.

No such luck.

Turning off the faucet, Jim grabbed a towel and began drying himself. He had been doing the same thing when David and four of his hockey teammates cornered him in the high school shower after gym class. Jim knew he could not beat them in a fight and tried to walk past. They roughed him up, cranked the shower to its highest setting, and threw him in. Unfortunately for Jim, the water heater had been turned up too high. The scalding water left Jim with second-degree burns over thirty percent of his shoulders and back.

The repercussions were typical. Because the scalding had been unintentional, and because the bullies were part of the “in crowd,” they got off light—one week suspensions and probation for the remainder of the school year. Because David’s father was a highly-respected lawyer, both the school board and the police agreed to keep this case out of the courts. Despite their getting off so easily, the incident did not endear Jim to David or any of his friends. They continued to verbally, but quietly, harass him in the halls, though they were too afraid to do anything beyond that.

Jim, however, did not feel restricted by such inhibitions.

Jim could not take on David and his friends in a fight, but he did have his own way of doing things. After being released from the hospital, he spent the next few weeks with a digital camera acquiring photographs for the yearbook. Not that he served on the yearbook staff. But then, these were not your traditional yearbook photos. He thought of them as a commemoration to the life and times of his assailants. David downstairs in the family room in a very comprising and X-rated situation with a cheerleader who was not his fiancée. The goalie, the most macho of the hockey team members, as the centerpiece of a gay gangbang. Two other team members torturing a cat. And the fifth buying a hit of ecstasy off a local drug dealer. Jim placed copies of each of these photos between the pages of the yearbook just prior to distribution. Within seventy-two hours, his assailants’ darkest secrets were laid bare for the entire school to gawk at.

More importantly, the payback outweighed his expectation. David’s fiancée publicly broke off their engagement at the senior prom during her acceptance speech as prom queen, then went home with the football player who had been crowned king. His photos of the cat torture and drug deal generated considerable interest from the local authorities. The local humane society investigated the incident and uncovered enough evidence to prosecute, sending each of the torturers away for six months. While the police could not gather enough evidence to put away the ecstasy user, it derailed his application to join the State Police. And in an ironic twist of fate, the goalie who had been outed now became the target of the school’s homophobes, being beaten so badly on one occasion he required hospitalization.

Jim never felt any regret over the suffering he had caused his assailants, which seemed unusual for a supposedly sensitive type of guy. Deep down he knew he should feel guilty, but they had no qualms about harassing and bullying him. They never even showed remorse for scarring him. Jim reasoned that if he could inflict a little heartache and a few legal problems, then he had partially settled the score.

As Jim stood in front of the mirror and straightened his clothes, he could not ignore the fact that this cavalier attitude stayed with him in college, and eventually generated his own legal troubles. Major troubles. Which was how he wound up working for a vampire hunter.

Still, no matter what happened, he had no regrets.

Stepping back into the main area, he saw Drake and Alison milling around the work bench. Drake examined the ammunition reloader, nodding in approval. Upon hearing Jim, the two turned. Alison smiled and offered a quick wave. Drake gestured toward the work bench.

“Impressive.”

“It’s nothing.”

“No. I mean it,” said Drake. “What you’ve done is impressive.”

“Thanks.” This time Jim said it with pride.

“Did you have any trouble getting this stuff?”

“Not really,” Jim said excitedly, anxious to talk about his work. “Most of this was off-the-shelf. I picked up the reloader and the ammo in northern Virginia. But I couldn’t buy the guns because of the restrictions here in Washington.”

“Tell Alison what you need and she’ll arrange it.”

Jim looked at her in disbelief. “You can do that?”

“No problem.” Alison smiled. “I’ll have it for you in a few days.”

“Great. I’ve thought up some new weapon designs. I’ll start working on them right away.”

Drake shook his head. “Hold off for now. Go home and get some rest. Tonight you’re going hunting with me and Alison. We’ll pick…”

“Whoa.” The excitement Jim felt a moment ago had drained away. “Hunting? Like for vampires?”

“Is that a problem?”

“I’m not a hunter. I’m more of an… idea man.”

“I’m not asking you to mix it up with the vampires. I just want you to stay with the vehicle.” Drake tried to sound reassuring. “But if you’d rather not, we can work around that.”

Jim had not counted on this. He had been intrigued by the engineering part of the job, but never anticipated being asked to participate in the hunt. He had been terrified of confronting the bullies in high school and college. The idea of going up against the undead nearly paralyzed him with fear. But Jim’s fear that he would let down Drake and Alison bothered him even worse.

“No need for that.” Jim attempted to muster a confidence he did not feel “Just let me know what you need me to do.”

“Go home and get some rest, then be back here around midnight.”

“Sounds good.”

Drake nodded his approval and headed for the stairs. Alison followed, pausing by Jim long enough to offer a few words of encouragement. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”

“I hope so.”

Jim watched Alison walk out. I just hope I don’t screw up and get us all killed, he thought.

“THIS PLACE GIVES me the creeps.” Bill Carter reached down and unconsciously fondled his Nikon 35mm camera as a source of comfort.

“It’s not that bad.” Jessica led the way down the basement corridor of the city morgue.

“Bullshit. This place smells like death.”

Just the opposite, thought Jessica. She had been to several crime scenes and accidents, and knew the stench and decay that accompanied death. This place had an antiseptic smell. Alcohol. Cleaning fluid. Disinfectant. A smell that was artificial. It made Jessica uncomfortable. She shivered and zipped up her jacket. Not against the cold, but against the chill that ran down her spine.

Halfway down the corridor, an older black man with short gray hair sat on a folding chair. His paunch strained against the dark blue jacket of his security guard uniform. He was pouring coffee from a thermos when he heard Jessica and Bill approach. He placed the thermos and cup onto the floor and pushed himself out of the chair, using the wooden back as support.

“May I help you folks?”

“We’re looking for Robert Dekker.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “You realize it’s after office hours?”

Jessica quickly formulated a cover story. “We’re doing a piece on the television show CSI and how it’s making criminals smarter. Dekker volunteered to help us with our research, but asked to do so on his own time.”

The guard looked between Jessica and Bill, uncertain as to whether or not he should believe them. He finally shrugged, not caring one way or the other. Sitting back down, he bent over for his thermos. “Dekker’s is the first door on the right.”

Jessica thanked him, and the two proceeded down the corridor.

“I don’t see why you needed me here,” said Bill.

“I told you.” Jessica tried not to let her irritation show. “Dekker said he had something he wanted to show me. You’re here to take the photos.”

“The only photos I’ll be taking is of you and Dekker getting it on.”

“What?”

“Come on. Dekker invites you to the morgue after hours because he says he has something special to show you.” Bill spoke the last five words with heavy sarcasm. “He has something stiff to show you, all right. In his pants.”

“You’ve got to stop reading Hustler.” Jessica feigned a laugh. Although part of her started to wonder if Bill’s sex-obsessed mind actually had hit upon the truth for once. If Dekker intended that, she would lay the bastard out on a slab. In either case, she would soon find out. They stood in front of the door to the morgue.

“Remember,” said Bill. “I’ll take the photos of you two, but I own the rights to post them on the ’Net.”

Jessica ignored him. She knocked three times.

No answer.

She knocked three times again, only harder.

Still nothing.

Reaching for the knob, Jessica found the door unlocked. Opening it a few feet, she stuck her head inside and gagged at the odors that assaulted her senses. It smelled of human waste, like an intense bout of diarrhea brought on by food poisoning, only mixed with the sickeningly sweet smell of rotting meat. Swallowing hard to keep down her vomit, Jessica leaned forward to peer inside.

The autopsy room had a sterile appearance that belied the disgusting stench. Dull yellow tiles that looked as if the brightness had been scrubbed out of them covered the walls. Glass cabinets and a stainless steel counter dominated the opposite wall, the metallic surface lit only by a string of lights mounted underneath the cabinets. A stainless steel dissecting table sat in the center of the room, illuminated by a bright ceiling-mounted surgical lamp that had been positioned over the cadaver of a young woman. A Y-shaped incision already had been cut into her skin, which had been pulled back to reveal the body cavity.

Dekker stood in front of the table dressed in a blue smock and white latex gloves. Reaching over to a metallic cart, he picked up an electric bone saw and switched it on. The saw emitted a high-pitched whir not unlike that of a dentist’s drill. Jessica watched as Dekker made a V-shaped cut along the cadaver’s ribs from the outer, lower extremities of the ribcage up to the sternum. When finished, he put down the saw and lifted the severed breastplate. The tip remained attached to the sternum, so Dekker began twisting and pulling until the breastplate separated from the ribcage with a loud crack.

Jessica breathed deeply through her mouth to block out the stench, then entered. Bill followed. Dekker had picked up a scalpel and was using the blade to scrape the pericoidal sack away from the heart. Jessica cleared her throat to catch his attention. Dekker did not hear her. She took a step closer, this time clearing her throat more loudly. Dekker looked up. He stared at her quizzically for a moment, then his expression changed to one of recognition.

“Miss Reynolds. I’m glad you made it. But you’re a little early, aren’t you?”

Jessica motioned to the wall clock behind him. “Actually, I’m about fifteen minutes late.”

Dekker looked over his shoulder and shrugged, realizing he had lost track of the time. “Sorry about that. Guess I got carried away. This case is fascinating. Last night, 911 received a call to go to George Mason University in response to a young girl unable to breathe. When the EMTs arrived, the girl was already asphyxiated. But here’s the interesting part.”

Sliding his left hand into the chest cavity, Dekker squished through the viscera. With his free hand he motioned for Jessica to join him. She hesitated, so Dekker motioned more emphatically. Knowing she had to go through with this to get her story, she stepped closer.

Dekker pulled out an organ that looked bluish-black. “Look at this lung. In a twenty-year-old college girl, it should be pink. This black color means liquid has been aspirated, or breathed into, the lungs. The probable cause of death was that she vomited in her sleep, breathed in the vomitus, and asphyxiated herself.”

Bill stepped up beside Jessica and peered into the body cavity. “You mean she drowned in her own puke?”

“Pretty much. I’ll draw some blood from her heart to send to toxicology. My guess is that it’ll turn up significant traces of alcohol. These kids can get so drunk they don’t even realize they’re drowning in their own vomit. Sadly, this happens all the time on college campuses.”

Bill moved around to the opposite end of the dissecting table and watched Dekker as he made an incision along the stomach’s surface, then used the blade to push the flaps of tissue aside. A yellowish liquid filled the stomach cavity. Taking a glass jar and a soup ladle from off the cart, Dekker inserted the ladle into the cavity, scooped out some of the yellowish liquid, and poured the contents into the bowl. He had begun to scoop out a second ladle when Bill leaned closer. “What are you doing?”

“Preparing a sample of the stomach contents for toxicology. They’ll examine the particulates for toxins or biological contamination.” Then, as an aside. “She died shortly after her last meal.”

“How can you tell?”

“Stomach acid breaks down food within three hours. After that, the contents pass on into the intestines. Since her stomach was more than fifty percent full, we can determine the time of death as one to two hours after her last meal.” Dekker secured a plastic lid over the glass bowl, then held it up to look at the contents. “Did you know that stomach acid is one of the most corrosive substances known to man? Slaughterhouse workers who cut out the intestinal tracts of cows and pigs are covered with skin ulcers due to their exposure to the acid.”

“I didn’t know that.” Bill walked around to the head of the dissecting table. As he passed behind Dekker, Bill held up his right hand, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger, then used the forefinger of his left hand to simulate sex.

Jessica tried to ignore Bill, but Dekker caught the motion in his peripheral vision. For the first time, Dekker noticed the camera dangling around his neck. “What’s that for?”

“To take pictures,” said Bill in a smart-ass tone.

Dekker turned to Jessica. “Why did you bring a photographer?”

“I’m sorry.” Jessica attempted to sound apologetic. “You said you had something to show me. I wasn’t sure what, so I brought Bill along just in case.”

“What I have to show you can’t be photographed. And you can’t site me as the source.”

“But if I can’t source the story my editor w…”

Dekker crossed his arms across his chest. “Only myself and Roach know this. If it gets out, I’ll be fired. Or worse. My conditions, or no deal.”

Shit. Jessica knew that if she agreed to this, she would not be able to run with the story. If she resisted, she would never find out what Dekker had to show her. She had no choice but to agree. If she could at least find out what Dekker wanted to tell her, she might be able to find the same information from another source.

Resigned to the inevitable, Jessica looked over at Bill. “Could you wait outside?”

Bill shrugged. “No skin off my teeth. I still get paid.”

“Thanks.”

As Bill exited, he muttered to himself just loud enough for the others to hear. “I wonder where the freezers are? I’ve never tried necrophilia.”

Jessica sighed. “Sorry about that. Bill can be an asshole sometimes.”

“Can he be trusted? I’ll be in a world of shit if it ever gets out that we talked.”

“Bill’s cool on the score. He may have a big mouth, but he knows when to keep it shut.”

Dekker hesitated as if reconsidering his decision to talk to her. After a few seconds, he nodded and turned back toward the cabinets. Opening one up, he removed a piece of folded cloth, placing it on the counter. He motioned for Jessica to join him. As she approached, Dekker unfolded the cloth, revealing what looked like a charred piece of meat and several chunks of bone.

“What is it?”

“A piece of the lower jaw and some dislodged teeth from the truck driver who died in the crash at the Woodrow Wilson Bridge. The suspect who Drake was chasing.”

“Roach said at the news conference that they hadn’t found the driver’s body.”

“He lied. When the arresting officers arrived at the crash scene, they reported seeing the driver emerge from the cab on fire before disintegrating.”

“So?” asked Jessica. “He was cremated in the fire. What’s the big deal?”

“To cremate a body you need to burn it at fifteen hundred degrees for two to three hours. The temperature of the fire at the crash site, and the time the body was in the fire, didn’t even come close.”

“Then what caused the body to disintegrate?’

“I don’t know. In over twenty years as a medical examiner I’ve never seen anything like this. But that’s not the strange part. Look at these.”

Dekker pulled the cloth containing the jaw fragment and teeth over to Jessica. “The arresting officers brought these back. One of them reported seeing these fall off of the driver as he emerged from the wreckage. I sent one of the teeth and a portion of the jaw fragment over to the lab for testing.” Dekker hesitated, uncertain as to whether he wanted to continue.

“Go on,” Jessica prodded.

“All they could determine with any certainty was that whatever disintegrated at the crash site had once been human.”

“Once?”

“The lab conducted a carbon dating test to determine the age. These jaw fragments and teeth are over three hundred years old.”

Jessica hoped she had only misunderstood. “What are you implying?”

“That whatever crawled out of that truck was at least three hundred years old.”

“Impossible.”

Dekker shook his head. “I thought the same thing at first. So I had the lab run the tests again. The results were the same.”

“But how?”

Dekker shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.”

“Did you check these results with anyone else?”

“I wasn’t allowed to. Once Roach heard about this, he ordered me to sit on it.”

“So why are you telling me?”

“I’m a scientist, not a cop. I understand the need to hold certain information from the public. But Roach is trying to ignore this information and deny that it even exists. Since I’m under orders not to investigate this any further, I’m hoping you can.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“I am.” Dekker picked up one of the teeth and dropped it into a glass vial, which he then handed to Jessica. “Get this independently evaluated. Then run down the story until you uncover the truth.”

Jessica took the vial. “But you just said you’ll be in a world of shit when Roach finds out you gave this to me.”

“If Roach finds out I gave you these samples. The press have been all over the crash site. If anyone asks, just say you found it at the scene of the accident and assumed it came from the driver. I’ll catch some flak, but as long as you don’t rat me out I should be fine.”

“You have my word on that.” Jessica slid the vial into her pocket. “I don’t know how I can thank you.”

“Just let me know if you find out who that tooth belongs to.”

“Or what.”

“Yeah.” An uneasy moment passed between the two. Finally, Dekker averted his gaze. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to get back to work.”

“No problem. I’ll let myself out. Thanks again.”

As Jessica headed for the door, Dekker returned to the dissection table and took a scalpel from off the tray. Jessica hurried out so she would not have to watch any more of the autopsy.

Bill waited in the corridor, crouched down with his back against the wall. On seeing Jessica, he pushed himself upright. “That didn’t take too long. I guess he didn’t hit on you after all. Or he’s a quick shooter.”

“Very funny. Come on.”

Bill fell in behind Jessica. “Did you get what you came for?”

“Yup.” Jessica reached down and felt the vial through her pocket. She had gotten a lot more than she had hoped for.

THE MIDNIGHT-BLACK SUBURBAN rolled along the far right lane of Independence Avenue, passing the Air and Space Museum and heading west toward the Potomac. Alison drove. Drake sat in his usual spot in the passenger seat while Jim fidgeted in back. Not that Drake could blame Jim. It was just before seven in the morning, a few minutes before sunrise. They had been on the hunt for almost seven hours and had cruised the Mall twenty times, but with no luck. Which surprised Drake. He hoped tonight had just been a fluke. If the vampires had changed their feeding patterns, it would take months to determine the new ones.

“What do you think, boss?” asked Alison. “The sun’s coming up soon. Should we call it a night?”

“Might as well,” he said reluctantly. “Continue until you hit 17th Street, then let’s head back.”

Alison cruised along for another few hundred yards until they had to stop for the pedestrian walk light in front of the Smithsonian Institute’s Art and Industries Museum. A young Asian couple holding hands started across the street, followed by a jogger, a young woman on a bicycle, and a middle-aged man in a business suit. Seconds later, another figure raced out of the museum’s shadows and into the crosswalk. Stooping over and slightly bowing its head away from the stopped cars, the figure quickened its pace and rushed across the street. Though dressed in a thin brown greatcoat and a black wool cap pulled down over its ears and forehead, the hunters could clearly see the pallid skin of the undead.

Drake leaned forward in his seat, his eyes fixed on the thing. “Alison!”

“Don’t worry, boss. I’m already on it.”

Alison watched the vampire to see in which direction it headed. When the other pedestrians reached the sidewalk, they turned right, except for the Asian couple who turned left and headed back along Independence Avenue. The vampire turned with them, maintaining a discreet distance but still close enough to move in for the kill at any moment. Alison attempted to make a U-turn, but by now the traffic signal had turned green and the oncoming lanes of traffic surged forward, blocking her path. The moment a break in the traffic became available, she spun the steering wheel sharply and gunned the Suburban into a 180-degree turn. By now the driver behind Alison had grown impatient and, in frustration, blared his horn. The commotion attracted attention, and everyone who had crossed the street turned to look, including the vampire. Upon seeing the Suburban, it bowed its head and raced past the Asian couple.

Jim leaned forward. “Are we going to take it down?”

“Not out in the open,” Drake responded. “We’d attract too much attention. We have to wait until it’s isolated.”

“You might get your chance.” Alison pointed toward the vampire as it turned onto 4th Street and broke into a run.

Drake smiled. “Let’s get him.”

Alison swung onto 4th Street and accelerated. The vampire was already a block down the street. Alison gave chase. Just as they were about to overtake it, the vampire veered off into the slanted driveway of an underground parking garage, ran down the ramp, and disappeared around the corner. Alison overshot the driveway. Shifting into reverse, she backed up a few feet, and drove the Suburban down the ramp.

“Stop here,” ordered Drake as they entered the garage.

Alison shifted the Suburban into park. Drake and Jim got out and moved around to the front of the vehicle, each looking around for the vampire. Off to the left and recessed about ten feet back from the main wall sat a foyer. The foyer housed a single elevator and, surrounding the outer wall of the shaft, a staircase leading down. With multiple levels to the garage and a score of vehicles parked on each level, the hunt would favor the prey.

Drake walked around to the driver’s window and leaned in toward Alison. “Pull into one of these empty spaces, but keep the engine running. If the snuffy slips past us and tries to escape, take it down. We’ll call you if we get into trouble.”

“Which should be in about two minutes,” Alison said through a flirtatious grin.

As Alison backed the Suburban into an empty space opposite the exit ramp, Drake stepped over to Jim. He pulled a pair of stakes from the pouch inside his leather jacket, holding one in his right hand by the hilt so his forearm partially hid it. He passed the other one to Jim.

Jim took the stake and looked at it tentatively. “What’s this?”

“A wooden stake. Very effective for killing vampires.”

“No shit. Why are you giving it to me? I thought I was tech support?”

“You just got promoted.” Jim started to complain, but Drake held up a hand to cut him off. “I need someone to cover my ass, and you drew the short straw. Of course, if you’d rather go down there without a weapon.”

“Point taken.” Jim held up the business end of the stake and grinned.

Drake shook his head and led the way into the garage.

Both men slowly walked down the center of the ramp, Jim six feet behind and to the left of Drake. Drake listened for any sound and watched for any movement that might betray the vampire’s whereabouts, but heard or saw nothing unusual. Just the whir from a series of exhaust fans and the dripping from a leaky water pipe. Ten feet beyond the foyer, a large sewer rat bolted out from under a parked Nissan and scurried across the cement. Startled, Jim jumped back and took a battle stance, then let out an embarrassed sigh when he realized it was only a rat.

At the turn onto the second level, Drake crouched to scan underneath each vehicle for their quarry. Nothing. Climbing back to his feet, Drake continued down the garage and turned the corner onto the third level.

Drake and Jim had just passed the elevator on the third level when they heard a commotion behind them. Drake spun around in time to see the vampire drop down from the ceiling where it had been hiding amongst the steam and water pipes. It hit the cement with a dull thud. Raising its head, the thing snarled at the hunters through clenched fangs. Before Drake or Jim could react, it bolted for the stairs and raced down to the lower levels.

Drake slapped Jim on the shoulder and pointed to the ramp leading down. “I’m going to take the stairs. You go that way and make sure it doesn’t try to backtrack on us.”

Before Jim could answer, Drake raced off after the vampire. Jim turned and ran down the ramp.

Drake pressed his back against the outer wall of the stairwell as he descended, slowing briefly on each landing to peer around the corner. He reached the bottom of the stairs just as Jim rounded the corner onto the lower level. The vampire crouched in the middle of the foyer, its gaze alternating between the two hunters. Drake cautiously approached the thing, waiting for it to attempt to escape. Yet it did not attack or try to run. It crouched there, watching each of them in turn. Drake and Jim closed in slowly from either side, stakes at the ready.

Only when they were a few yards from the vampire did a deep, gruff voice emerge from the shadows. “Hey, hunter. Maybe you’d rather take a crack at me instead?”

Drake turned around, his eyes widening in amazement at the behemoth that emerged from the shadowy corner of the foyer. It looked like a Hell’s Angel member straight from hell itself. The thing weighed well over three hundred pounds and stood over six feet tall, with biceps as large as Drake’s thighs. A more than ample chest and beer belly strained against a blood-stained T-shirt and black leather vest emblazoned with the Harley Davidson logo. The pallid coloring and stench of decay, as well as the ragged open wound in its neck, designated it as a vampire. As it approached, the first vampire crouched and scurried away, slipping past Drake and heading for the stairwell. Drake ignored the first vampire, concentrating instead on the more dangerous threat. The biker vampire stood in front of Drake and puffed out its chest in defiance, all the while glaring down at the hunter.

Jim stepped up beside Drake. “I think you’re going to need a bigger stake.”

Lunging toward the vampire, Drake plunged the stake into its chest. The wood made a dull thud against the thick chest. Nothing happened. The vampire grinned, exposing a pair of yellow fangs.

“You’re definitely going to need a bigger stake,” said Jim.

Drake punched the hilt of the stake, driving it further into the vampire’s chest and bruising his knuckles in the process. Still nothing. As Drake massaged his hand, the vampire looked down at the stake with the same disdain someone would show for a bug. Grabbing the hilt, it pulled the stake from its chest and threw it away. The vampire’s grin spread into an evil smile. A cold meaty hand shot out, grasping Drake by the front of his neck and digging its fingers into the skin, lifting him nearly a foot of the ground. Drake felt his windpipe being closed and fought back the urge to panic.

“Alison!” Jim called into his radio. “Lower level! By the elevator! We need help!”

“On my way.”

Jim did not hear the response. Pulling a crucifix from under his jacket, Jim lunged at the vampire from its left, his arm outstretched, the crucifix brandished in a hand shaking from fear. Turning its head slightly toward the new threat, the vampire leered at Jim, contempt filling its eyes. Using its free hand, the vampire grabbed Jim by the underside of his arm, then twisted up and over. Jim yelped in pain as he was bent over backwards. With Jim off balance, the vampire let go and reached around to grab Jim by the scruff of the neck, then with a push threw Jim face first into the wall. He fell to the floor, unconscious.

In the few seconds it took to knock Jim out of the fight, Drake reached under his jacket and removed two more stakes. Placing one in each hand, he stretched his arms to the sides and pointed the weapons inward. The vampire returned its gaze to Drake, realizing what would happen next, but did not have enough time to react. Drake plunged the stakes toward the vampire’s hand, driving them into each side of its wrists. Howling in pain, the vampire released its grip. Drake fell to the cement, landing hard on his knees. He gasped several times, still struggling for air. Only after several seconds did his windpipe open enough for him to catch a breath.

Using its free hand, the vampire pulled the two stakes from its wrists one by one, dropping each to the ground. It looked at the gaping wounds for a moment, then focused its gaze on Drake. Its lifeless eyes burned with fury. “You’re going to pay for that, hunter.”

Drake started to crawl away from the approaching vampire when the squeal of tires caught his attention. He and the vampire turned to see Alison drive the Suburban onto the lower level, fishtailing around the corner. Instantly sizing up the situation, she steered into the foyer and aimed for the vampire. Drake rolled to the side. The vampire did not move as quickly, and the Suburban slammed into it. The cracking of its legs as the bumper shattered bone combined with the meaty thud of its torso as it smashed against the hood. Its three-hundred-pound body sailed across the foyer and crashed into the elevator doors. Alison braked, and the Suburban skidded to a stop only a few feet from the elevator.

Alison rolled down the passenger side window and leaned over. “The cavalry’s here.”

“In the nick of time, as always.” Drake climbed to his feet and brushed himself off. “Let’s finish that thing off and… Look out!”

Alison turned to the left. Despite two broken legs, the vampire had crawled over to the Suburban and pulled itself up onto the chassis. Hanging onto the roof rack with one hand, it plunged its left hand through the driver’s window. The window disintegrated with a loud pop, showering Alison in shards. She looked away to protect her eyes. Pulling itself halfway into the Suburban, the vampire grabbed Alison by the hair on the right side of her head and drew her toward its gaping mouth. Alison placed her hands on the vampire’s chest and tried to push it away, but the thing was too powerful. She felt the vampire’s drool dripping onto her neck.

With the strength in her arms draining away, Alison reached her right hand into her jacket pocket and withdrew a bottle of holy water. She shoved it into the vampire’s mouth, then using the same hand smashed the thing’s lower jaw into the bottle. The bottle ruptured. A hideous howl emanated from the vampire as the holy water seared its dead flesh. The vampire lowered its head, blood and spittle flowing over its withered lips. Thrashing around, it tried to crawl back out of the Suburban, but Alison would not relinquish the advantage. Grabbing the top of the seatbelt, she wrapped it down and around the thing’s neck. Then, with a rapid tug, she locked the seatbelt in place, and the vampire in the vehicle.

Shifting into reverse and shoving her foot down on the accelerator, Alison backed out of the foyer, spinning the steering wheel to the right so that the Suburban faced the opposite direction. Alison again shifted into drive, pressed down on the accelerator, and raced toward the exit. The vampire hung at the driver’s window, disoriented by the pain in its broken legs and its burning mouth, yet desperately trying to break free from the seatbelt twisted around its neck.

Drake picked up two of the stakes littering the ground and had started to move around the front of the Suburban to attack the vampire when Alison backed out, leaving him behind. He ran after the SUV, but Alison already had pulled away and was heading for the main level. Drake chased them for a few feet before realizing he could not hope to catch them, then ran back to the foyer and headed for the stairs. Jim had regained consciousness and struggled to his feet.

“What happened?”

“We got our ass kicked.” Drake grabbed Jim by the right arm and hurried him toward the stairs. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To help Alison.”

By now, Alison reached the first level. As she spun the Suburban around the last turn, the exit ramp lay ahead of her, brightly lit by the morning sun. Realizing what was about to happen, the vampire began flailing about frantically and clawing at the seat belt around its neck, tearing at its own flesh. Alison increased speed, turned onto the ramp, and accelerated up the slope. Once on the street, she spun the steering wheel hard and slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop so the driver’s side faced east. The brilliant sunlight that flowed down the street washed over the Suburban like a wave.

The sunlight burned the vampire’s skin, which seared off in scorched flecks like embers in a fireplace. The layers of flesh on its back burned away after a few seconds, exposing internal organs that began to shrivel and disintegrate. Arching its back, the vampire bellowed an agonized wail. Decomposition accelerated, with the vampire turning to ash from the inside out. What remained of the thing rapidly crumbled. Its wail died out as its chest and vocal chords turned to dust.

Drake and Jim ran out into the street in time to see the final death throes. As the dusty remains disappeared in a small eddy of wind, Drake raced up to the driver’s window. He reached out and touched Alison’s arm. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” she answered reassuringly, then brushed the ash off her shoulders and arm. “I’m not the one who comes apart under pressure.”

Drake shook his head in mock frustration, then motioned for Jim to get in. “Let’s get out of here before the police show up.”

“I’m fine with that,” replied Alison. Once everyone had climbed aboard, Alison turned the Suburban around and drove back toward Independence Avenue.

TONI EMERGED FROM the shadows of the parking garage’s first level where she had watched the battle play out. Beside her stood the vampire who had led the hunters here.

“This is bad, mistress. Not even the big one could stop them.”

“I didn’t want them stopped. I wanted to see how they fight.”

“Did you see enough?”

“Yes.” Toni stepped forward and watched the Suburban drive past the entrance. “The woman is the true hunter of the group. She’s the one we have to eliminate if we want to stop them.”

“Do you want me to take care of her?”

“No.”

The vampire disappeared back into the shadows to remove the manhole cover that would lead them to the sewers and back to their lair. Toni smiled maliciously, revealing her fangs. “I have something special in store for her.”

5

“CAN ANYONE TELL me what the hell happened last night?” Jim took a sip of his Diet Coke, his eyes alternating between Drake and Alison.

Seated behind his desk with his feet propped up on it, Drake lifted the iced coffee to his lips to hide the grin. He empathized. He and Alison had experienced the same disorientation after their first encounter with a vampire. No matter how long and carefully you prepare yourself to deal with the undead, no matter how mentally you fortify yourself, a small part of yourself still clings to that preconceived notion that these ungodly creatures of the night cannot possibly exist. Such illusions are quickly shattered in the opening moments of that first encounter. The shock of confronting something that is already dead. The sheer terror and adrenaline rush it generates. The exhilaration in fighting and taking down one of these creatures. And finally, the realization that vampires do exist and you are hunting them. It truly is a life-altering moment. As Alison once joked, once you go Drac you never go back.

“You killed your first vampire,” said Drake. “Congratulations.”

“No. Alison killed the vampire. You and I were tossed around like toys.”

“You were still part of the take down.”

“I’m cool with hunting vampires.” Jim nervously swirled the Diet Coke around in its can. “What I want to know is why the damn thing wasn’t even phased when I showed it a crucifix.”

“Because everything you ever learned about vampires from the movies is bullshit.”

Jim’s expression reminded Drake of a little boy who had just learned that there was no Santa Claus. “Are you serious?”

“Yup.”

“But how? Why?”

Drake looked to Alison, who sat stretched out on the sofa, and nodded to her.

“It’s like that game you played in school,” began Alison. “The one where someone makes up a story and whispers it to a friend, who whispers it to their friend, and so on. By the time the story reaches the last person, it has completely changed. It’s the same with the vampire legend. Over the years the truth has been so distorted by movies and television that current legends bear little resemblance to the facts.”

“So then crucifixes have no effect on vampires?”

“None.” Alison saw the confusion on Jim’s face and explained. “The crucifix is a religious symbol, like the Star of David or the Islamic crescent. It has meaning to us because of its spiritual significance, but has no effect on vampires. The same goes for all religious symbols or scriptures. Vampires can enter churches, cemeteries, and other consecrated ground.”

“You mean I wasted all those Saturday nights watching Creature Feature for nothing?”

“Afraid so,” Alison chuckled. “To tell the truth, most of the accepted facts about vampires are false. They don’t sleep in coffins filled with soil from their homeland. They don’t turn into bats or wolves. They cast reflections in a mirror. They…”

“I get it.” Jim sighed, overwhelmed by the flood of information.

“I know it’s a lot to take in.” Drake swung his legs off the desk and rested his elbows on the desktop. “Most of this you’ll learn by trial and error, like we did. Right now, the only thing you need to know is the three ways to kill a vampire. A stake through the heart. Decapitation. Cremation.”

“What about silver bullets and holy water?” asked Jim.

“Silver bullets have no affect other than to piss them off. Holy water won’t kill them, but because it’s been blessed it burns like hell and slows them down a bit.”

“Nothing like keeping it simple.”

“It’s far from simple. Vampires are pure evil. Their souls were ripped from their bodies when they were turned. With no morals or conscious, and possessed with incredible strength, they’re the fiercest creatures you’ll ever face.”

Jim sighed. “And this is supposed to make me feel good how?”

“It’s not. But you eventually grow accustomed to it. You have to. If you screw up, you’re dead. Or worse, you become one of them.”

Realizing the conversation was growing much too somber, Drake stood up and pulled his leather jacket from the back of his chair. “Don’t worry about it, kid. You did good last night. We won’t be hunting again for another two nights, so go home and get some rest.”

“Is that an order?”

“A recommendation.” Drake slid on his jacket and straightened the sleeves. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be home with Van Helsing.”

TONI TOOK HER time returning to the coven, despite having to endure extra time in the sewers. As much as she despised these stench-filled bowels of the city, they provided her with a solitude lacking at the coven. Right now, she needed time to think. To analyze last night’s attack on the hunter. To plot. Ion would surely view last night as a failure, which could not be further from the truth. Toni never meant for the biker to kill the hunter, but to test him. From that test, she had learned a lot.

The addition of a new hunter to the team had been a bit of a surprise. The child’s fighting skills, though, were slightly better than pathetic. Once the hunters had been eliminated, she would track down the child for amusement like a cat toying with a frightened mouse. The game against Drake Matthews would be deadly. He was a tough, fearless, determined opponent. His weak spot was his tendency to rush into combat, to let bravado take the place of prudence. Yet even that vulnerability was offset by Alison Monroe. Although she possessed the same courage, strength, and determination as Drake, she tempered her abilities with training and discipline. Of the two, she would be the more formidable opponent. If the huntress could be taken out, Drake would be no match for the coven.

By the time Toni climbed the tunnel connecting the sewers with the row house’s cellar, she had formulated a plan for taking down the hunter.

As Toni walked through the main foyer, the double doors to the dining room swung open. Ion stood in the doorway. His yellow eyes glared at her, filled with anger.

“Antoinette, we need to talk. Now.” He turned around and stepped back into the dining room without making eye contact.

Toni sighed. Ion used this demanding tone and her full name whenever he intended to reprimand her, usually for some minor infraction of the coven’s rules, giving him a chance to exert illusionary control over his waning power. Let him indulge his vainglory, Toni advised herself. Do not let him ruin your moment of triumph.

Toni followed Ion into the dining room and stopped short. She had anticipated a private dressing down. Instead, Ion had gathered together the coven. She counted eleven vampires in attendance. Almost the entire coven. Whatever Ion had in store, Toni harbored no doubts that it would be unpleasant.

Strutting over to the dust-covered mahogany table centered in the room, Ion spun around and leaned against its edge, his arms folded across his chest. Silent. Defiant. The coven huddled around the room, many of them shuffling from foot to foot. Others cowered in the shadows, hoping not to be noticed. An uneasiness hung in the air. Toni surmised that Ion planned to engage in some type of melodramatic power play. Usually she acquiesced because for years Ion’s leadership had been little more than that of a figurehead. Over the past week, however, she had done more to protect the coven than Ion had in the past decade, and this time she refused to back down.

“What?” Toni demanded.

Ion quickly switched from confrontation to conciliation. “There’s no need for an attitude, my dear. You said you were going to kill the hunter. We’ve just been informed that you fought him tonight.”

Toni flashed a withering glare at Joel, the vampire who had led the hunter into the trap in the underground parking garage. She should have realized that the treacherous little prick would rush to Ion to report on what had transpired. Joel slunked over and stepped behind Ion to be out of Toni’s line of sight.

“So? Is the hunter dead?” Ion smiled like a sardonic Cheshire cat.

“No.”

“But you promised that you were going to kill the hunter tonight.”

Toni needed to put an end to Ion’s melodrama before the coven began to question her authority. “I promised to take care of the hunter. Nothing was said about killing him tonight.”

“Then why did you play out your little fiasco?”

“It was far from a fiasco, despite what that little cock sucker told you.”

Joel leaned out from behind Ion and hissed. Toni took a step forward and Joel jumped back. She returned her attention to Ion. “I arranged tonight’s battle to watch the hunter in action. Because of it, I’ve figured out how to take him down.”

“Please tell us. We’re anxious to hear.” Ion held out his arms and looked around the room, receiving several nods of approval.

Toni ignored the taunt. “The woman is the key. She’s the strongest of the group. Every time we go after the hunter, she comes to his rescue. If we take her out, then Drake and the child will be easy to pick off.”

“That’s your plan? To go after the woman?”

“Of course. Take out the strongest of your enemies first, then the others will be helpless calves being led to the slaughter. It’s what I would have expected you to suggest. Or have you lost your edge?”

Ion lunged forward at Toni’s challenge. He partially morphed into a vampire as he shoved his face close to Toni’s, fangs exposed, eyes burning red with fury. “Don’t be insolent with me. Or do I have to remind you who’s in charge of this coven?”

“Then act like it,” Toni spat, bearing her own fangs. “For months the hunter has preyed on us, and we’ve done nothing. I’m offering a solution to rid us of the threat. If you have a better plan, then I’d like to hear it.”

The murmurs of consent around the room signified that Ion had lost the upper hand. Rather than exploit her victory, Toni waited. As expected, Ion backed down. He morphed back into human form. Without looking at the coven, he headed for the door, pausing by Toni long enough to issue a warning just loud enough for the others to hear.

“You have three days to kill the huntress. But be careful, little one. Insolence without success will not put you in good stead with the coven.”

Toni turned to watch Ion storm out of the room, ignoring the eleven sets of dead eyes that fixed on her. She had gone through worse, and had learned from her mistakes. It was what made her so formidable as a master. Sadly, Ion seemed to have forgotten that. No matter. The next time the hunters come out, Toni reassured herself, the female will be mine. Then Ion will learn how decadence without accomplishments will affect the leadership of the coven.

Rennes, France. 17 October 1793.

THE COUNTRY DEVOLVED into glorious chaos. A new order was being established in France, erected on the ashes of the Ancien Regime and cemented in blood. What had started as a simple demand for political equality had spiraled out of control until revolution tore France apart. Revolution soon gave birth to its nefarious offspring, counter-revolution. Total anarchy settled over France. An individual could go to the guillotine for showing too much revolutionary ardor just as easily as for opposing the Committee of Public Safety. No one was safe. For most Frenchmen, it was a time of violence, uncertainty, and fear.

For Antoinette Varela, it presented the perfect opportunity to hunt.

She made her way cautiously through the streets, being careful to avoid contact with groups of people, keeping to the shadows to remain inconspicuous. Feeding off of the occasional citizen posed little risk these days. Frenchmen disappeared off the streets all the time, and no one dared question what happened. On the other hand, groups posed a major threat because that usually meant gangs of sans-culottes sanctioned by the local Committee of Public Safety to maintain discipline, or worse, angry mobs seeking revenge on the aristocracy or their personal enemies. Such groups presented an uncertainty even a vampire hoped to avoid.

As Toni rushed across the street to get back under the cover of darkness, a door in front of her opened. Laughter and boisterous talk flowed out the open door, followed by an attractive man of about thirty dressed in old but expensive cloths. He stumbled, falling back into the door as it closed behind him. The man obviously had been drinking. So much the better for Toni. Alcohol always made the kill easier.

Toni sized up the situation. She approached the man as he staggered onto the sidewalk and greeted him with her most sultry voice. “Bonjour.”

Not having noticed Toni up until now, he was startled by her sudden presence. He tried to appear sober. “Oh, bonsoir, Citizen. I didn’t see you there.”

“Understandable. We all have a lot on our minds.” Toni placed her hand on his right shoulder. As she circled him, she tenderly ran her fingers across his back, up over his left shoulder, and down across his chest. “I can help clear your head for a little while.”

“Really?” It took a few seconds for him to realize he was being seduced. The anticipation on his face turned to concern. “How much?”

“No charge.” Toni’s fingers glided down his chest and caressed his manhood. “Consider it my contribution to the revolution.”

As she massaged, he hardened through his clothes. “Do you know of a place where we can have some privacy?”

“Y-yeah.” Taking Toni by the hand, he led her back the way she came. “By the way, I’m Andre. Who are you?”

“I can be whoever you want.”

Andre led Toni to a small, dark alley between two closed shops. They strolled four meters down the alley to a small alcove off to the right. Pulling Toni into the alcove, Andre threw her back against the wall and roughly fondled her. He was so drunk and excited, Toni feared he would cum before she had a chance to feed. Pushing his fumbling hands away, she grabbed Andre by his shirt, spun him around, and pushed him back into the wall.

“What’s this, salope? You better not have changed your mind.”

“No need to worry.” Toni kissed him lightly. “I said I was going to take care of you.”

Toni dropped to her knees and reached for Andre’s belt buckle. This was her favorite way to feed, and not just for the sexual act itself. The blood from a sexually-aroused cock tasted so much better than normal human blood. Plus the screams of terror and pain from the struggling victim excited her own bloodlust. Toni took Andre into her mouth and slid her lips along the shaft. She would give him another minute to become fully excited, and then she would feed.

A commotion coming down the alley distracted her. Andre heard it at the same time. Cursing under his breath, he pulled himself out of Toni’s mouth and fumbled to buckle himself up. Five men stepped into the opening. Two carried muskets and two others held torches, the light from which illuminated the alcove. They were all poorly dressed in tattered and dirty clothes, more than likely peasants. Except for their leader, a tall man with soft features and clean clothes with a tri-colored brocade attached to his chest. These were enrages, or enraged ones, a self-appointed band of vigilantes who took the revolution into their own hands. Enrages were notorious for being dangerous and unpredictable. Toni stayed on her knees and remained quiet, hoping they would ignore her.

“I told you I saw the bastard come down here.” A short, paunchy man pointed his torch at Andre. He sneered, revealing a mouth missing half its teeth.

The tall man with the tricolor brocade nodded approvingly. “You did well, Citizen.”

“Pierre.” Andre stepped toward the tall man, but stopped when the pair of muskets was aimed at him. “You’ve known me since we were children. I’m not a threat to the revolution.”

“You had your chance to join us. It’s too late now.” Pierre nodded to the short, paunchy man. He and the other torch bearer grabbed Andre by each arm.

“Pierre, please.” Andre put up only token resistance. “Have mercy.”

“I have mercy only for France and the revolution. Not for those who refuse to join the cause. Let’s go.”

Toni almost sighed with relief when she realized they were ignoring her. Her relief was short-lived.

“What about the whore?” asked one of the enrages with a musket.

Pierre glanced down at Toni with self-righteous disdain and sized her up in the glare from the torchlight. “She cavorts with traitors. The blade can always handle one more. Bring her.”

Toni lunged for the alley exit. However, since she was on her knees, she wasted valuable time standing up. The second musketeer slammed the butt of his weapon into her face, shattering her nose and cheek bone. She dropped back to her knees, stunned. The first musketeer stepped up behind Toni and drove the butt of his weapon into the back of her skull. Toni fell face first onto the dirt. The two musketeers pummeled her head with their muskets until, on the fifth or sixth hit, her skull split with a sickening crack. An agonizing pain shot through her senses. Her vision and hearing blacked out.

The musketeer whose blow had cracked Toni’s skull looked at the body. “Sorry, Citizen. I didn’t mean to hit her so hard.”

“No harm done.” Pierre ignored Toni’s moans. “Just be careful in the future. You don’t want to be accused of having too much revolutionary ardor.”

“Of course, Citizen.”

“Should we leave her?” asked the short, paunchy man.

Pierre glanced at the body, noticing the belabored breathing. “She’s still alive, so bring her with us. The blade doesn’t care what condition she’s in.”

Toni heard none of this, being only vaguely aware of a buzzing in the background. She concentrated on regenerating. The musketeers’ attack easily would have killed a human, but Toni was undead. She could feel her wounds healing, her broken skull mending back into shape, and the damage to her brain correcting itself. As her body rejuvenated itself, Toni gradually became aware of her surroundings.

She sat on a hard surface, with her back propped up against something solid. Her body swayed from side to side, which meant she was moving. Around her, quiet cries and prayers intermingled with a rhythmic creaking. Among the voices, she could distinguish that of Andre, pathetically sobbing between whispered calls to God to spare his life. Toni tried to open her eyes, but the moment her lids opened searing pain shot through them. A kaleidoscope of flashing lights played on the inside of her eyelids.

She immediately closed her eyes.

Toni blacked out again, coming around only when the contraption she was in came to a stop. The crying and praying around her became louder and more frantic. A hand grabbed her by the hair and yanked her across the hard surface. She fell onto pavement, the jolt igniting every wounded nerve ending in her skull. More hands grabbed her by the arms, lifted her off the ground, and dragged her away. After a few seconds, whoever carried Toni dropped her face first onto the ground, sending more bolts of pain ricocheting through her head.

Toni forced her eyes open. Her healing brain protested against the intrusion of light on her senses, but at least this time she could see, albeit through a blurred haze. A few meters away stood a horse-drawn trumbel, the wooden cart used by the Committee of Public Safety to carry the condemned to their deaths. Pierre and the paunchy bully stood by the rear exit shoving people off and herding them in her direction. Andre stood beside her, his face lowered and his eyes closed. Tears flowed down his cheeks.

“Here’s a fine one.”

Toni gazed toward the voice. An obese man with a white, sweat- and blood-stained shirt hovered over Toni. He had a long, deep scar running from his forehead, down across where his left eye used to be, and cutting across the lips until it ended on his chin. Toni repulsed in horror at his hideous visage.

Scarface sneered at the insult. Hocking up a mouthful of phlegm, he spit it into Toni’s face. “Cunt.”

Pierre joined him. “This is the last bunch for tonight.”

“What did you bring me?”

“The usual. Counter-revolutionaries. Profiteers. And a whore who wasn’t particular about the company she kept.”

Scarface turned and climbed a flight of wooden stairs. “Bring them up.”

The musketeers herded the others toward the stairs, prodding them along with their weapons. Once the prisoners began their ascent, the musketeer closest to Toni came over to inspect her.

“What about her? She can’t even stand.”

“Carry her,” ordered Pierre.

Handing his musket to the paunchy man, the musketeer wrapped his arms around Toni and hefted her over his shoulder. “Damn, the salope is heavy.”

“She’ll be a few pounds lighter in a few minutes.” Pierre laughed. “Now move.”

As the musketeer lumbered up the steps with his load, Toni glanced around. Her vision had cleared a little, allowing her to make out objects at a distance. Off to her right, illuminated by the glow of scores of torches surrounding the square, she saw the front façade of Chartres Cathedral, its hundred-meter-high twin bell towers extending into the night, their spires invisible in the night sky. Panic suddenly set in. Chartres Cathedral, which was the heart of Rennes. The tumbrel. The stairs. Even in her confusion, her mind put the pieces together. She was being sent to the guillotine.

Toni struggled on the musketeer’s shoulder. In her weakened condition, she did not have the strength to break free, succeeding only in knocking the musketeer off balance.

“Stop squirming, whore.” He punched her in the head with his free hand. Her vision blurred.

The musketeer finally stopped climbing, but still clutched Toni over his shoulder. She raised her head. Three meters in front of her stood the guillotine. The blade was being raised, its metal sheen darkened by blood. The other musketeer pushed Andre forward. He forced Andre to stand on the wooden platform at the base of the tilting board, and then tightened the restraining straps across his back and legs. Once secured, Scarface tilted the board into its horizontal position and lowered the upper portion of the lunette until it clamped down behind Andre’s neck, holding his head in place directly below the blade. Andre struggled, kicking frantically against his restraints, all to no avail. Scarface walked over to the lever that held in place the rope attached to the blade.

In a last burst of defiance, Andre shouted, “Damn the revolution and the Committee of Pu-”

The blade fell, striking Andre’s neck with a dull, meaty thud. Andre’s body convulsed several times before going limp. Scarface stepped over to the front of the guillotine, reached into the basket, and lifted up Andre’s severed head by the hair. He displayed it to the small crowd of onlookers, who cheered wildly. Scarface dropped the head back into the basket. A pair of men unstrapped Andre’s corpse and removed it, the sliced-open neck disgorging blood as they lifted the body off the tilting board. Scarface pulled on the rope, raising the blade back into position, and secured the rope with the lever. With the guillotine reset, he turned to the others.

“Come on,” he yelled. “I don’t have all night.”

The musketeer stepped forward. “Do the whore next so I don’t have to carry her anymore.”

“Come on.”

Lumbering up to the guillotine, the musketeer flopped Toni onto the tilting board. He started to wrap the restraints around her back, but Scarface stopped him. “Flip the whore onto her back.”

“What?”

Scarface shoved the musketeer aside and flipped Toni onto her back. Since she was practically unconscious, he did not bother strapping her down. After lowering the board into its horizontal position and securing the lunette in place over her throat, he leaned in close to Toni’s face.

“I thought you’d like to watch. In a few seconds you’ll be uglier than me.”

Toni barely heard him. Her entire concentration centered on the blade dangling precariously four meters above her head.

Thankfully the enrages had not bothered to bound her hands. Toni reached up and grabbed the lunette, pulling at it with all her might. The wood bent, but did not break. She was still weak from the blows to her head.

“Hurry up,” yelled Pierre. “She’s trying to break free.”

“Let her try,” chuckled Scarface. “She can’t get loose.”

Toni grabbed the lunette again, took a deep breath, and focused her energy. Summoning every ounce of energy she could muster, she yanked again. The lunette strained, creaked, and splintered into a thousand pieces.

“Merde!” Scarface reached out and released the lever.

Toni heard the blade sliding in its grooves a split second before she saw it plummeting toward her neck. She sat up. The blade whizzed by, missing her head by inches and slicing off long strands of her hair. For a moment she sat on the tilting board, dazed and weakened.

The others stood around, immobilized by shock. Pierre was the first to regain his composure. “Shoot her!”

The musketeer who had carried Toni up the platform went for his weapon, only then realizing he had left it with the paunchy man. Toni sprung off the table and raced toward him, slamming into his chest. The two tumbled off of the platform. Toni positioned herself so that she would land on the musketeer, using him to cushion her landing. When they hit the pavement, the musketeer’s head shattered like a ripe melon.

Gunfire erupted around her. One shot ricocheted off the pavement beside her, and the other struck Toni in her lower back. Despite the pain, she jumped up and raced over to the trumbel. More gunfire sounded from behind her, but thankfully her attackers were inept at hitting a moving target. She jumped onto the back of the horse pulling the trumbel. The terrified animal bolted, heading straight for the crowd of onlookers. Most fled in fear of being trampled. A few braver souls attempted to stop her. By morphing into her vampire form, she was able to frighten them off. She crouched down against the horse, presenting as small a target as possible. The next volley of gunfire was erratic, missing her and the horse.

Toni finally was able to steer the horse toward the main road leading out of Rennes. She looked behind her. No one followed. Thank Satan. She was in no condition to fight the humans right now. In a few minutes she would be clear of the city and heading for the nearby forest. Once there, she would stop, feed off of the horse, and find a safe place to sleep for the day while she regenerated and regained her strength.

After that, she would leave France for good and find easier hunting grounds.

JESSICA SET HERSELF up on the cement rim of the Capitol Reflecting Pool. She placed her Caesar salad wrap and Diet Coke on the rim, slipped on a pair of Rayban sunglasses, and flipped open her cellular phone. 11:48. That gave her twelve minutes before her meeting with Bill. She had no idea what Bill wanted, only that he claimed to have something she would be pleased with. Time would tell. Until then, she had enough time to eat lunch and make a call.

Reaching into her jacket pocket, Jessica pulled out a piece of notepad paper on which she had jotted down the telephone number for the Boston Police Department. Last night she had spent four hours on the Internet combing through the archives of The Boston Globe and The Boston Herald looking for information on Drake Matthews. She had uncovered only a limited amount of information, but what she did unearth intrigued her. According to the newspapers, Drake and Alison had been the lead detectives tracking down a serial killer in Boston known as the Night Stalker. Details about the murders were minimal, other than that each of the victims had been drained of blood, even though no blood was found at the scenes of the crime. The police refused to provide more specifics than that so as not to compromise the investigation, or so they claimed. Inside sources admitted that the police had two theories. First, was that the victims had fallen afoul of a satanic cult that required human blood for some form of bizarre ritual. Second, was that the killer suffered from porphyria, a rare disease characterized by irregularities in the production of red blood cells which, though treatable through modern medicine, in ancient times had been cured by the consumption of human blood.

Drake and Alison’s names exploded in the media after they tracked down the Night Stalker and killed him, in the process burning out Old South Church in Copley Square. For more than a week, Boston’s newspapers were filled with stories quoting officials from the Mayor’s office, the Boston Police, and state and local governments branding Drake as everything from a rogue cop to being “one donut shy of a dozen.” Possible charges being bantered about were arson, public endangerment, use of excessive force, even murder. The media vilified Drake with a greater fervor than they had shown toward the Night Stalker himself. Then suddenly, after eight days of being crucified journalistically, the press coverage of Drake Matthews or Alison Monroe died out. The only mention of them Jessica could find came from a blurb in The Boston Herald almost a week later, buried in two small paragraphs on page sixteen, noting that Drake Matthews had been fired from the Boston Police Department for the use of excessive force and that Alison Monroe had voluntarily resigned.

The dearth of information only heightened her intrigue and left many questions unanswered. If the Boston newspapers did not want to ask them, then she certainly did.

Jessica punched the phone number for the Boston Police Department into her cellular phone and pressed the send button. She wanted to get in contact with Michael Daugherty, the department’s press spokesman at the time of the incident. After three transfers and two minutes on hold, a man with a Boston accent picked up the line.

“Michael Daugherty here. How can I help you?”

Success, Jessica congratulated herself. “Good morning. I’m Jessica Reynolds with The Washington Standard. I was hoping for a few minutes of your time.”

“Sure thing,” Daugherty said in a pleasantly professional manner. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to ask you a few questions about Drake Matthews.”

“Oh.” The pleasantry deflated from Daugherty’s voice.

“Drake has been building quite a reputation for himself down here in Washington.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“I’m trying to develop a profile on him, but there’s not much information in the newspapers. I was hoping you could fill in the gaps.”

“Not much more to tell than what’s already in the papers. Matthews is a whack job, pure and simple. It’s a shame, too. He was a good cop. Ten years on the force without a single blotch on his record.”

“So what happened?”

“He became obsessed with the Night Stalker case.” Daughtery’s voice took on a tinge of regret. “He started to take the case personally, especially after the murder of that family in the Back Bay. Four of them in one night. At that point, something in him snapped. The guy wound up adopting the family’s pet so it wouldn’t be sent to the pound. Said he wanted to save something from that slaughterhouse. We should have seen it coming and removed him from the case. But we didn’t. Things really started going downhill when Matthews began listening to that other whack job.”

“Who was that?”

“A professor at Salem State College. An expert on the Salem Witchcraft Trials. Also a self-proclaimed expert in the supernatural. Vampires. Demons. Satanic possessions.” Daugherty let out a sigh. “They’ll let anyone teach nowadays.”

“And?”

“He filled Matthews’ head with all sorts of occult shit. Convinced Matthews that the serial killer was really a vampire. Unfortunately, we didn’t know about this until after Matthews had tracked down the killer.”

“I read about that in the local papers.”

“Yeah? What didn’t make the papers was that when we found the killer’s remains, Matthews had staked the body to the alter and decapitated it.”

“How were you able to determine Matthews did it?”

“Because the crazy bastard admitted it. He even confessed to setting fire to the church to ensure that the killer stayed dead. Wanted to go public. You want to talk about a wicked public relations nightmare.”

“If he admitted to the killing, why didn’t he go to jail?”

Daugherty chuckled, more out of frustration than humor. “Believe me. It wasn’t for any lack of effort on our part. Both the Mayor and the police commissioner wanted to hang Matthews out to dry. Even Archbishop Defeo called for Matthews’ head after the destruction of Old South Church. Then word came down that Matthews was not to be prosecuted.”

“Who gave the order?”

“I have no idea. All I know is the mayor and the commissioner were not happy about it. Matthews walked and all charges against him were dropped as long as he agreed to leave Boston and never return.”

“What’s the story with Alison Monroe?”

“Alison was a rookie working with Matthews on the Night Stalker case. She would have made a good cop. Unfortunately, she let her loyalty to Matthews interfere with her better judgment. Whoever got Matthews off the hook did the same for Alison. She could have stayed with the force, but instead she resigned and followed him to Washington.” A momentary pause, then Daugherty said, “I hate to be rude, but I’m going to have to cut this short. I have a news conference in a few minutes.”

“No problem. Just one more question. Do you know the name of the professor from Salem State College who Matthews talked to?”

“Doctor Reese. I don’t remember the first name, though.”

“That’s all right. You’ve been a great help. Thanks.”

“Hey, no problem. Good luck with your research.” Then, as an afterthought. “You’re going to need it.”

Jessica disconnected the call and stared across the Mall. She had found out Drake Matthews’ dirty little secret. He was nuts. Or at the very least, he had suffered a complete mental collapse. In either case, he was now running around loose here in Washington. Granted, a lot of people were running around the city who would be better off in a padded room. But she doubted many of them could claim that they had torched a church and destroyed a bridge. She would lay even odds that whoever had protected Matthews in Boston was doing so here. Jessica knew of only one way to find out. She had put off calling Matthews until she gathered enough information to make an interview worthwhile. Now seemed as good a time as any.

A hand grabbed Jessica’s shoulder. She cried out and jumped, nearly sliding off the reflecting pool. Turning around, she looked up into the grinning face of Bill Carter.

“You scared the shit out of me. You could have warned me you were sneaking up on me.”

“I did. But you were so engrossed in whatever you’re doing you didn’t hear me.”

Jessica repositioned herself on the cement rim, then motioned for Bill to join her. She took a bite of her Caesar wrap. “What’s so important that you needed to talk to me here rather than at the office?”

“This.” Bill reached under his jacket and withdrew an envelope which he passed to Jessica.

Placing her wrap back on the rim, Jessica broke the envelope’s seal and pulled out a single piece of legal-size paper folded twice widthwise. She unfolded the paper. A 3x5 photograph of a young boy had been stapled to the upper left corner. He looked about ten years old, but with no particular outstanding feature.

“I’ll bite,” said Jessica. “Who is he?”

“Jason Clark.”

“And he’s of interest to me how?”

Bill smiled broadly. “Jason Clark is the boy who was assaulted at Union Station. Besides Drake Matthews, he’s the only one to have seen the attacker up close.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yup. He’s a sixth grader at Beers Elementary School. He usually waits out in front of the school for his mother to pick him up. The kid’s mother works at a nearby Food Lion. They get out of school and work at the same time, so there’s a window of about ten to fifteen minutes when Jason is unsupervised. In case you wanted to talk with him.”

Jessica read the sheet of paper, which included not only the information Bill had just related but also biographical data on Jason. After a few minutes she looked up at Bill. “Where did you get all this?”

“From a friend who’s a private detective. I helped him buy his camera and set up his darkroom. He owed me a favor.”

“He more than paid you back.”

“Thanks. So what’s the game plan?”

“Tomorrow’s Friday. We’ll meet at Beers Elementary School at two o’clock. With luck, I’ll be able to interview Jason before his mother shows up. Bring your zoom lens. I want to get a picture of Jason, but if we both try and talk with him, he’s liable to get spooked.”

“Sounds good to me.” Bill stood up. “See you tomorrow, then.”

Jessica finished her wrap as she thought of the questions she wanted to ask Jason. She would have to keep them to the point since she had no idea how much time she would have to talk with him. She could worry about that later. Right now she had to make an important phone call.

THE EDDIES OF bluish-white smoke swirled around Drake’s head for several seconds before being carried by the breeze across the enclosed balcony and out the window. He took a deep puff on his cigar, then exhaled another eddy of smoke. It swirled around the tail end of the first eddy and followed it out. As he watched the smoke make its slow escape, he picked up the tumbler of Baker’s Bourbon and took a drink. It burned slightly going down, causing Drake to cough. As with his cigars, the bourbon excited his senses and reminded him how good it was to be alive. It had become a ritual after every hunt. To sit out on his balcony in a lounge chair, his feet up, enjoying a stiff drink and a good smoke. What better way to reward himself after battling the undead.

This time he poured himself a double shot of bourbon. He needed it. Last night’s encounter had been unsettling, though he refused to admit as much to the rest of the team. Those concerns had nothing to do with the size and strength of the vampire, or with the difficulty they had in taking it down. Given the thing’s enormity, that was expected. What bothered him was the way in which last night’s encounter seemed to have been precisely orchestrated. The snuffy they had run into on the Mall deliberately led them to the underground parking garage and the biker vampire.

Why?

Despite its size and strength, the biker vampire was no match for Drake’s team. Did the vampires intend to scare off Drake? Unlikely, for his team had run up against tougher and more terrifying creatures before and had yet to back down. Maybe the vampires were breeding a new weapon, breeding a race of uber snuffies to combat the hunters? Possible. But why introduce them piecemeal and forfeit the advantage of releasing them against Drake’s team all at once? It made no sense. All Drake knew for certain was that the vampires were up to something. What he could only guess at. It did not bode well. Maybe if…

Drake glimpsed the movement in the doorway out of the corner of his eye. It raced onto the balcony and lunged. Drake moved to sit up. Before he could react, it landed on his abdomen. Bourbon sloshed out of the tumbler onto Drake’s chest and burnt cigar ash flittered to the floor. Drake froze. It turned to face him, its nose twitching.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

Val Helsing raised his ears and tilted his head. With a tiny leap, the rabbit landed on Drake’s chest and inched forward with his front paws, flattening his head and upper body. The large brown eyes stared up at Drake, begging for attention. Placing his tumbler on the floor, Drake took the lop ears between his thumb and index finger and gently massaged. Van Helsing closed his eyes, and within seconds was gently grinding his teeth in satisfaction, making a clicking sound that sounded almost like a cat’s purr.

The ringing of Drake’s cellular phone shattered the quiet. Van Helsing’s head popped up and his ears lifted to the side as he looked around for potential danger. Drake gently patted Van Helsing’s behind to reassure him. Convinced that nothing threatened him, the rabbit lay back down on Drake’s chest. Drake resumed massaging his ears, and with his free hand picked up the cellular phone and pressed the talk button.

“Hello?”

“Hello.” The female voice had a sultry quality to it, with a hint of a Midwestern accent. “Is this Drake Matthews?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Jessica Reynolds. With The Washington Standard.”

“Thanks. But I’m not interested in a subscription.”

“Please don’t hang up. I’m not selling subscriptions.” Jessica spoke rapidly. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

A hesitation. “About the Night Stalker affair in Boston. And about similar incidents here in Washington.”

“Similar incidents?” Drake feigned ignorance.

“Since arriving in Washington you’ve been arrested several times, but have never been prosecuted. You operate a consulting business that doesn’t have clients. Or we could talk about your joy ride through Washington the other night that ended up in burning out half the Woodrow Wilson Bridge.”

“I never burned down anything in Boston.”

“Really? What about the Old South Church?”

Damn, this woman has done her homework. Drake warned himself to be careful what he said around her. “You seem to know a lot about me already, Miss…. I’m sorry. What was your name again?”

“Jessica Reynolds.”

“You seem to know a lot about me. I don’t know what more I could tell you.”

“Quite a bit, actually.” A rustling of papers came across the line. “You could start with the Night Stalker affair. At the time…”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t give phone interviews.”

“That’s fine.” Jessica tried to sound amicable. “We can do this at your office. Or we could arrange something down here at the paper.”

Drake smiled. He admired her persistence. “Miss Reynolds. You seem nice enough, and I hate to be rude. The truth is, I don’t give interviews. To anyone. Nothing personal.”

“Don’t you want people to know the truth about you?”

“Not particularly.”

A momentary pause as Jessica contemplated her response. “Why not?”

“Because of the kind of work I’m in. The fewer people who know about me, the easier it is for me to conduct my business.”

“And what type of business would that be?”

“Protecting the world from evil.”

“Really?” For the first time, a hint of frustration edged Jessica’s voice. “That’s an extremely vague job description.”

“That depends on your definition of the word ‘evil’.”

“And how would you define…”

“Now, now, Miss Reynolds.” Drake cut her off in a firm but friendly manner. “If we keep this up, you’ll wind up getting an interview out of me after all.”

“That was my plan,” she replied lightheartedly.

“Good night, Miss Reynolds.”

Drake disconnected the call. He placed the cellular phone back on the table and picked up his cigar. Shit. The embers had died out. He could relight it, but that would require moving Van Helsing, which he refused to do. He had continued petting his companion throughout the conversation, and now Van Helsing demanded his undivided attention. Drake massaged Van Helsing’s ears again, and was rewarded with a loud satisfied clicking.

“Well, boy. Let’s hope this Jessica is as pretty as she sounds, because I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing a lot of her in the future.”

ION MOVED THROUGH Rock Creek Park like a phantom, staying near the edge of the path so as not to be seen. The night was crisp and clear. The usual overhanging haze had given way to a starlit night and a waxing gibbous moon that cast a dim light across the park. Not that Ion needed light to see, for he relied on his sense of smell to detect enemies or prey. Not tonight, however. The burden of leading the coven was wearing him down, and he needed to get away for a few hours. To unwind. To think. To get away from that infuriating bitch Toni.

Veering off the main path, Ion turned down a narrow lane. The overhanging trees blotted out the sky, plunging the lane into near total dark. It reminded him of the way the world used to be way back when. Before the suburbs. Before electricity. Before modern civilization.

When Ion was turned over seven hundred years ago, the world had been much smaller and considerably more violent. What little law and order existed had been granted by local rulers known more for their unbridled capriciousness than any moral considerations for their people. Violence was commonplace. Entire towns would be slaughtered because they prayed to the wrong god. Men were tortured and slain on the whim of a warlord. Women were raped at will and sold into slavery. Children and the elderly were cast off by families who could not afford to feed the extra mouths. In a world of such institutionalized barbarity, Ion and his coven thrived.

Back then, vampires ruled the night. The coven openly prowled at will because it cast terror into the villagers and made them submissive. Entire villages would lock themselves indoors at sunset, isolating themselves and becoming easy prey. Superstition and ignorance kept them docile, and neighboring villages were too terrified to offer assistance. Occasionally, a local warrior or holy man would surmise the danger and rally the people behind him. The agonizingly brutal death of their leader, however, would inevitably erode the mob’s resolve. When an area finally had been drained of its choicest food, or on those rare occasions when the coven faced annihilation, the vampires joined up with a conquering barbarian horde and changed hunting grounds.

Ion sighed. Those days had long passed. As the Dark Ages gave way to the Age of Enlightenment, so had superstition given way to scientific reasoning. Rather than cower in terror, the humans began to fight back. Many a master and vampire fell in battle. As society grew larger and became more modern, the coven limited its activities and restricted its feeding to the dregs of society, the vagrants, addicts, whores, and criminals whose death went unnoticed. Caution and stealth became the coven’s tenets, for it could ill afford any publicity. A single missing person resulted in unwanted attention and massive manhunts, and the discovery of a corpse drained of blood generated a media circus. Publicity attracted hunters.

Most of the hunters Ion had encountered over the centuries were insignificant little men, more of a nuisance than anything else. They worked alone or in small groups. In a few instances, the coven had confronted a team of hunters, well-equipped and highly-trained, and more often than not funded by a church or mosque. Once, in the Ukraine, they faced an entire government. In each case, they defeated the hunters or escaped to new territory. In seven centuries, Ion could remember only twice facing a hunter who posed a serious threat to the coven’s existence. Most notable had been Dr. Nathan Cushing, a particularly adept and enthusiastic hunter whose personal dedication and Christian devotion to eradicating evil transcended death.

And Drake Matthews.

Toni failed to comprehend this. She envisioned herself as queen of a vampire kingdom that still ruled the night, while ignoring the modern vagaries of their existence. For Toni, nothing had changed since the fifteenth century. She could not understand why the coven did not take the battle to the streets of Washington.

Ion blamed himself. He knew when he sired Toni that she was too immature to be a master. Instinct had told him to feed off of her physically and sexually, then kill her. But he was captivated by her beauty. By her vitality. By her submissiveness. When she begged to become one of the undead, he readily obliged. For centuries things went well. Toni made an ideal mistress for the coven, proving as vicious and terrifying as any master he had sired. Even her taste for depravity had been insatiable, with many a maiden sharing Toni’s bed before meeting an untimely demise.

Yet Toni had not adapted with the times. She began to see his efforts to protect the coven as a sign of weakness and temerity. She viewed him as decadent and incompetent, denouncing the same traits that once attracted her to him. The bitch even had the audacity to accuse him of failing to provide leadership and of allowing the coven to become sloppy, ignoring the fact that her own challenge to his authority had emboldened the coven to act as it pleased.

Toni had boasted to the coven that she would confront Drake Matthews, and that she alone would rid them of the hunter. The fantasies of a foolish girl. She knew how to fight, but so far had only faced inferior foes. She had a lot to learn. Most importantly, that you could not confront an opponent’s strength and hope to win, but needed to exploit his weakness instead. Toni had not yet discovered Drake Matthew’s weakness.

But Ion had.

In a few days, when Toni failed at her attempt to kill Drake Matthews, and had discredited herself in the eyes of the coven, Ion would finish the job and solidify his leadership. A new scent wafted through the night air. Ion sniffed. He knew it well. Adrenaline. Excitement. Anticipation. Someone was hunting him. He did not know who or how many, and as of yet could not see them. But he could smell them. The musky scent of a violent creature of prey confident of an easy kill. Ion kept his pace steady and his eyes straight ahead. He would do nothing to shatter their confidence.

At least not yet.

After several minutes, his pursuers rushed in for the kill. Three sets of running feet closed in behind him. A deep voice menacingly cut through the night.

“Wait up, motherfucka.”

Ion kept on walking. He moistened his lips in anticipation.

A large figure raced past Ion, then turned and blocked his path. Ion could just make out the features of a black man, bald, a shade over six feet in height, with a muscular chest and arms clearly defined underneath a tight t-shirt. The man reminded Ion of a Nubian slave he had taken for a lover back in Jerusalem. For an instant, Ion wondered how suppliant a partner this man would be. But the hateful sneer on the man’s face told Ion that such a thought would remain a fantasy.

The Nubian raised a switchblade in front of Ion’s face and opened it with a metallic click. “Who the fuck do you think you are walking away from me?”

Ion glanced over his shoulder. Two men stood behind him about three feet back and to either side. The man to his right, a stocky Hispanic, pushed aside his jacket to reveal a .38 caliber revolver. The other assailant, a skinny white kid with long hair and a scraggly beard, held a hunting knife down by his leg.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, motherfucka.”

Plunging the knife forward, the Nubian sliced it across Ion’s right cheek, making a deep incision that did not bleed. Ion looked back at the Nubian and smiled.

“Jesus Christ. What the…”

Ion grabbed the Nubian by the shirt with his left hand and placed his right behind the Nubian’s head, reaching around to cup the chin. With a single motion, Ion twisted the man’s head around. The cracking of the Nubian’s vertebrae gave way to a gurgle as the dying man tried to cry out through his ruptured larynx. Ion released the shirt. The corpse swayed for a moment, then collapsed to the path with a dull thud.

The Hispanic removed the revolver and aimed, but never had a chance to use it. Ion swooped around and grabbed the Hispanic’s wrist in his left hand, grasped the gun in his right, and twisted up and to the right. The Hispanic cried out, drowning out the sound of snapping bones. With a single rapid motion, Ion grabbed the revolver from the Hispanic’s hand and shoved the barrel into the man’s mouth, knocking out several of his front teeth. The Hispanic gagged on fragments of enamel and blood, but only for a second. Ion pulled the trigger. The back of the Hispanic’s head exploded, showering the third assailant in gore. Still holding the Hispanic’s wrist, Ion flipped his arm to the side, discarding the body into the grass.

Ion stepped over to the skinny white kid who trembled in terror. Urine flowed down his right pants leg and formed a pool around his feet. Ion scooped a bloody piece of brain matter off the kid’s face and popped the morsel into his mouth, then licked his finger clean. The kid dropped his gaze and began sobbing, struggling to pray through deep breaths.

“Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace.”

Ion placed an index finger under the kid’s chin and lifted his head. Their gazes met. Ion smiled reassuredly.

“Do you believe in God?”

The kid sobbed deeply and stuttered out the word, “Y-yes.”

“That’s a shame, because you’ll never meet him.”

Ion morphed into a vampire and snarled. The kid became paralyzed with fear, mouthing a scream he could not vocalize. Ion held the kid in place by his shoulders as he plunged his fangs into his throat and drank deeply.

After a few seconds, the kid overcame his shock long enough to attempt to scream. He inhaled, trying to suck in air, most of which escaped through his ravaged neck. Sinking his fangs in deeper, Ion twisted his head from side to side until he tore a chunk of flesh from the kid’s throat. The body thrashed around before dropping to the ground. Ion spit the mouthful of flesh at the corpse. He used his fingers to wipe the blood from his lips and mouth, then sucked his fingers clean. The human might have made a disappointing feast, but once reawakened as the undead would make an excellent vampire.

6

DRAKE SAT AT his desk, his feet propped up on an extended drawer. With a Macanudo clenched between his teeth and the keyboard resting on his lap, he had been surfing the Internet for over an hour. More accurately, he had been searching The Washington Standard’s website to find out everything he could about Jessica Reynolds. Sadly, the effort was a waste of time.

Taking a long draw on his cigar, Drake removed it from his mouth and placed it in an ashtray, then blew smoke into the air. He reached for his iced coffee and took a long drink. With a frustrated sigh, he continued reading. Despite over an hour on the Internet, he found very little to judge her by. Jessica’s biodata page listed little more than her date and place of birth, the colleges she attended, and the other newspapers she worked for. He checked out their websites, but most were small local newspapers that did not maintain archives if they even had a homepage. Even The Washington Standard’s official photograph of Jessica failed to do her justice. Or at least he hoped so since it looked like the reflection from a funhouse mirror.

Picking up his cigar, Drake took another drag. Fortunately, the website had archived all of Jessica’s articles. Mostly reports on political corruption or the sexual indiscretions of the rich and famous. Not a very impressive portfolio, but Drake reasoned that resulted more from the low editorial standards of The Washington Standard than her own abilities. The quality of Jessica’s writing impressed him. And more importantly, the extent of her research. She had a knack for digging deep into a story and for getting people to talk to her, which more often than not led to them revealing the one fact that blew open the entire scandal. To Jessica’s credit, none of the facts she reported had been disproved. Drake felt she could hold her own on any of the city’s major newspapers if given the chance. Which he did not find reassuring. Now that Jessica had begun snooping around their hunting of vampires, it would not be long before she uncovered the truth.

A knock at the door broke into Drake’s thoughts. “Come in.”

Alison stuck her head inside. “I just wanted to remind you that Jim wants to show us his latest gadgets when you have a minute.”

“I’ll be right there.” Drake logged off his computer, took a puff on his cigar, and joined Alison.

Jim was waiting for them when they came upstairs. He stood in front of the work bench, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a nervous schoolboy about to give his first class presentation. He nearly sprang to attention when he saw them approaching. Drake could tell that Jim desperately wanted to impress them.

“Okay, kid,” Drake said in as supportive a tone as possible. “Show me what you got.”

“Yes, sir.” Jim stopped short, realizing he sounded too formal. He gestured for the others to join him at the work bench. First were three instruments that looked like large cellular phones. He picked up two of them, handing one each to Drake and Alison. “I upgraded our communications system. The cell phones were too inconvenient and unreliable, and you could only talk to one person at a time. So I bought us a set of Midland radios. These have a range of ten miles, more than enough for what we need.”

Drake fiddled with the controls. “But aren’t these like CB radios? Won’t anyone be able to listen in on us?”

“Not with these. I’ve calibrated them and enabled the privacy codes, so only you, Alison, and I will be able to communicate through them. I also have belt holders and microphone headsets, so you can use these just like you did your cell phones.”

“Not bad.” Drake put his radio down and picked up an instrument that looked like a hand-held telescope. “What’s this?”

“A night vision scope with a built-in infrared detector. I figure in our line of work we’ll be traveling in some pretty dark places, and I like to know what’s around me.”

Drake nodded in approval. “The night vision will come in handy. But since vampires are already dead and don’t generate heat, we won’t get much use out of the infrared part.”

“A vampire at rest would have the same temperature as its surrounding environment. But when on the hunt, a vampire is moving and generating friction, which creates energy, which raises its temperature. Much the same way as a running engine generates heat. So I made some modifications to the infrared sensors to detect these minor variations. They should show up as light green on the display.”

“Impressive.” Drake meant it, and he did not impress easily. “Have you tested it out yet?”

Jim’s enthusiasm waned slightly. “It works against objects in the lab that I heated to a few degrees above room temperature. I won’t know how effective it is against vampires until we test it in the field.”

“You’ll get your chance to do that soon enough.” Drake handed the scope back to Jim. “Anything else?”

“Oh, yeah.” The enthusiasm returned to Jim’s voice. He put down the scope and picked up a coil of thick wire with a metal ring at each end. Holding one ring in each hand, Jim uncoiled the wire to its full length of two feet, then twirled it in front of him. “I’m especially proud of this. It’s a commando saw used to cut through wood, bone, and soft metals. It’s made of eight woven strands of stainless steel which I’ve sharpened to a fine edge. Let me show you.”

Jim stepped over to a small table onto which had been attached a perpendicular wooden spike approximately two inches in diameter and three feet in length. A watermelon had been impaled onto the spike. Jim draped the commando saw around the watermelon’s circumference, then rapidly drew his arms to the sides. The wire sliced through the watermelon and sheared through the spike, lopping the top half onto the floor. Jim recoiled the commando saw. He turned to Drake and Alison, a wry smile on his face.

“Very nice.” Drake walked over to the half of the watermelon still mounted on the spike and ran his finger along the wood’s severed surface. The cut was smooth. “I suppose this would be just as effective on the undead?”

“It should. It’s the closest approximation I could get to a human neck without using a real corpse.”

“I could get you one if you really need it,” said Alison.

Jim chuckled, only to realize she had not been joking.

Drake examined the commando saw. “How do I prevent castrating myself with this?”

“I have a case for it.” Jim took a black leather pouch large enough to carry a portable CD player off the bench. He unbuttoned the lid and lifted it up. “The rings attach to a Velcro patch near the top so you can get to them easily. The saw will uncoil as you pull it out. Then you get yourself some head.”

Alison suppressed a laugh. Drake tried to look as if he disapproved. “What else do you have?”

Jim picked up a Glock-23 semiautomatic pistol and handed it to Drake grip first. “I’m especially proud of this.”

“A 9mm pistol?”

“Actually, it’s a 40 caliber. Has more stopping power than a 9mm.”

“Not against a vampire.” Drake placed the pistol back on the work bench. “Bullets don’t faze them.”

“Normal bullets don’t faze them.” Jim removed the magazine from the Glock and handed it to Drake. “Check out these babies.”

Drake took the magazine and popped out a single bullet into his hand. It looked normal enough. A 40 caliber round with a brass head, the tip of which had been covered with a daub of wax. “Hollow points?”

Jim nodded. “Filled with holy water.”

Alison whistled between her teeth and stepped forward. She took the round from Drake and examined it. “How did you accomplish that?”

“Easy. I just drilled a small hole in the hollow point, filled it with holy water, and sealed it off with hot wax. The result is a nasty little weapon that may not kill a vampire, but it’ll sure hurt like a son of a bitch and give them something to think about.”

“Very impressive.” Drake passed the bullet back to Jim. “How many of these do you have?”

“Only forty rounds so far. Just enough for one magazine for each of the four Glocks we have. Two for you, two for Alison. But I can easily make more.”

“Do it.” Drake leaned against the work bench. “Anything else?”

“Just one more thing. It’s my pride and joy.” Jim reached over and removed a large piece of cloth from the work bench, revealing a crossbow. He picked it up, making sure he pointed it away from the others. “This has one hundred fifty pounds of thrust. More than enough to drive a stake through a vampire’s heart. I’ve replaced the aluminum bows with ones made out of willow. I also mounted a laser scope on the sights to improve accuracy. Do you want to try it out?”

Jim handed the crossbow to Drake handle first. He gestured to the far wall to a life-sized targeting dummy made of burlap stuffed with straw and mounted spread eagle on a wooden frame. A red circle three inches in diameter marked the location where the heart would be. Drake switched on the laser scope, pulled back on the cables, and placed a wooden arrow in the barrel’s groove. He raised the crossbow, centered the laser beam in the middle of the red circle, and slowly pulled back on the trigger until the bolt released. The wooden arrow sailed through the air with a swoosh and plunged into the target dummy. Eight inches below and to the left of where the laser beam illuminated.

“Shit,” Jim mumbled under his breath.

“What happened?” asked Alison.

“The scope isn’t properly sighted,” said Drake.

“No. It’s sighted properly. I’ve fired it successfully a dozen times with the aluminum arrows.” Jim took the crossbow and placed it back on the bench. “The problem is the wooden stakes. They’re not aerodynamically sound. I still have a lot of work to do on them.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Drake patted Jim on the shoulder. “You’ll work out the glitches. And the rest of this stuff is great. We’ll use it tonight.”

“Tonight?” asked Jim.

“Yeah.” Drake picked up two of the Glocks and looked them over. “Do you have shoulder holsters for these?”

“I have two for each of you.” Jim pointed absentmindedly to the gun safe in his office, then returned to the main topic. “But didn’t we just go hunting the other night?”

“We did. But tonight is Friday night. Everybody hits the streets to party. For vampires it’s like the buffet at Shoney’s.” Drake placed the guns down. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll do fine.”

“Thanks,” said Jim.

Drake turned to Alison and gestured toward the weapons on the work bench. “Are you going to outfit yourself with any of these?”

“Just the radio.” Alison smiled. “It’ll make it easier to keep track of you.”

“You’re not interested in anything else?” asked Jim, unable to hide his disappointment.

“Nothing personal. When I fight vampires, I prefer to rely on my own skills rather than fancy weapons.”

Drake shrugged. “Okay. Set me up with a pair of Glocks in shoulder holsters and a commando saw. And prepare the infrared scope and the radios. Then go home and get some rest. We’ll meet back here at eleven.”

Leaving Alison and Jim to begin preparations for that night’s hunt, Drake went back downstairs. As he entered the reception area, he noticed a young woman seated on the sofa across from Alison’s desk. She wore a pink dress with a small slit up the left side and matching heels, which accentuated her shapely legs. The rest of her figure was not too bad, either. She had been reading something jotted into a small notebook, but lifted her head upon hearing Drake. Drake recognized her from the webpage photo as Jessica Reynolds. Jessica stood to greet him. Drake quickened his pace, wanting to get the upper hand.

“Good morning, Miss Reynolds.”

“Good morning,” Jessica said haltingly. She was caught off guard. “How did you know?”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Drake interrupted. “You are definitely more attractive than you sound on the phone.”

“Thank you.” Jessica quickly regained her composure. Stepping forward, she offered her hand. “You must be Drake Matthews.”

“Please, just call me Drake.” He took her hand. “I guess I don’t have to ask why you’re here.”

“I’m just taking you up on your offer.”

“My offer?”

“Yes,” Jessica said graciously. “Last night you said you didn’t give phone interviews. So I’m here to talk to you personally.”

Drake found himself admiring Jessica’s persistence almost as much as her looks. He leaned back against the rim of Alison’s desk. “You came all the way down here for nothing.”

“So then you won’t grant me an interview?”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

Rather than become angry, Jessica sat back down on the sofa and crossed her legs. “You’re fighting a losing battle by refusing to talk to me.”

“Is that because you’re so persistent you won’t give up until I agree to an interview?”

“That too.” Jessica smiled at the compliment, in spite of herself. “The truth is, whether you want to admit it or not, you’re becoming quite a celebrity in this city.”

“That’s what I’m trying to avoid.”

“Why?”

Drake suppressed a grin. Very clever, he thought. He almost answered that one. He definitely needed to be on guard around her. “If I answered that, then you’d be getting your interview.”

“Well, it would be a good start.”

“But it’s one I’m not willing to make.”

Jessica hesitated, not certain whether to press any further or retreat now and make another attempt later. Drake took advantage of the opportunity. “If you’ll excuse me. I have work to do.”

Resigned to a temporary defeat, Jessica stood up to leave. Drake followed her into the hall and held the front door open for her. “Forgive me if I’m being rude.”

“That’s okay. I won’t take it personally.” Jessica started to leave but stopped. Placing one hand on the door jam, she leaned close to Drake and spoke in a low, almost conspiratorial voice. “But you realize, I’m not going to give up until I get what I want.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t try.”

Jessica slipped out and descended the stairs. Drake watched her until she reached the sidewalk, then closed the door and headed back to his office. Alison sat behind her desk, giving him a prying look as he passed.

“I assume she’s the reporter who called you last night?”

“The same.”

“She seems a lot perkier than you described her.” Alison’s voice had the slightest tinge of jealousy to it.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Seriously, though. We have to be wary of Miss Reynolds. She’s a good reporter, and an even better researcher. And she’s as persistent as a pissed-off wharf rat.”

“I’m sure she’d appreciate the analogy.”

“It’s true. She’s not going to let up until she gets her story.” Drake paused. “Maybe you should call Reese and warn him that he’ll probably be getting a phone call from Miss Reynolds.”

Alison seemed taken aback. “You really think she might track him down?”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t already.”

“What do you want me to tell him?”

Drake thought for a moment. “If Miss Reynolds shows up asking questions, tell Reese to go ahead and answer them.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“I’m going to have to talk to her sooner or later. Before I do, I want to make sure she knows exactly what we’re dealing with.”

BILL SAT IN his Corolla in front of Beers Elementary School, growing increasingly impatient. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes before school got out. He looked down the street, then used his rearview mirror to scan behind him. No sign of Jessica. Where the hell was she? If she did not show up soon, she would blow her chance to meet with Jason.

But that would be typical of Jessica. She was nothing more than a second-rate reporter on a third-rate newspaper who fancied herself as being just one story away from a Pulitzer. A perfect blending of delusion and pomposity. If Jessica had been the one to dig up this lead, she would have made the meeting a priority. Instead, her majesty was out trolling for information from people who refused to be interviewed, either because they were politicians for who “No comment” was a mantra, or Drake Matthews himself. Jim, on the other hand, had tracked down the one person who not only saw the attacker but would hopefully be willing to talk. But because the photographer had surfaced the lead and not the reporter, the information obviously did not matter. Well, screw her. If she did not care enough to be here to get the story, then why should he?

Bill reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the car keys, and inserted them into the ignition. Before he could start the Corolla. A taxi passed by and slowed. Bill noticed Jessica seated in back. The taxi stopped several yards ahead of him. Jessica paid the driver and climbed out of the taxi. As the taxi pulled away, Jessica walked over to Bill’s car and got in on the passenger’s side.

“Did I miss him?” Jessica asked as she closed the car door behind her.

“You mean Jason?”

“Yeah.”

“No. Barely, though. School will be out any minute.” Bill waited for an explanation. When none came he asked, “Where were you?”

“Across town. It took me forever to catch a cab.”

“You ought to break down and buy yourself a car.”

“No thanks.” Jessica lowered the passenger-side visor and began to straighten her hair in the mirror. “Between the registration fees, red light and speed cameras, and the parking scams, it’d be cheaper for me to rent a limo.”

At least I’m not the one who has to chauffeur you around, Bill thought. “What were you doing across town?”

“Talking to Drake. At least trying to, anyway.”

“I take it your interview didn’t go well.”

“If you call getting the brush off an interview.”

“Rude, huh?”

“Actually, he was quite charming.”

“So was Ted Bundy.”

Jessica chuckled. “Not to worry. I can be persistent when I want to be.”

The loud metallic clang of the school bell announced the end of class. Within minutes, the doors burst open and children began to file out. Bill and Jessica searched each of the faces as they emerged, looking for Jason.

Bill tapped Jessica on the shoulder and pointed to a young boy who resembled Jason’s photograph. Dressed in jeans and a denim jacket, with a book bag slung over his right shoulder, he came out of the school and descended the stairs. No one spoke to or paid any attention to him. He made his way over to the bus stop and sat down on the bench to wait. Reaching into his backpack, the boy pulled out a comic book and began reading.

“Are you ready?” asked Bill.

“Yup. You have your camera ready?”

Bill lifted up his 35mm Nikon with a 250mm zoom lens from off of the back seat. “I’ll get the picture. You concentrate on getting the interview. And remember. You have ten minutes. Fifteen at most. So make ’em count.”

“I will.”

“Good luck.”

JESSICA STEPPED OUT of the Corolla. As she straightened her pink dress, she scanned up and down the street. Cars and SUVs pulled up to the curb, the drivers picking up their children. Dozens of other kids hung about, some slowly making their way home, others milling around with their friends. With everyone engrossed in their own activities, with luck no one would pay any attention to her.

Taking a deep breath, Jessica crossed the street and walked over to the bench. She stopped a few feet from the boy reading the comic book. “Excuse me. Are you Jason Clark?”

Jason looked up from his comic book, then answered with an unenthusiastic, “Yeah.” He went back to his reading.

“My name’s Jessica.”

“Hi.”

“May I sit down?”

The boy shrugged.

Jessica took a seat on the bench beside Jason. “What are you reading?”

“A comic book.”

“What’s it called?”

Jason stopped reading long enough to close the comic book and show its cover to Jessica. The Tomb of Dracula. When he thought Jessica had had enough time to read the title, he opened the comic book again and went back to reading.

“Scary stuff, huh?” asked Jessica.

“No. This is only a comic book. It’s not real.” Jason finally looked directly at Jessica. “Are you a psychiatrist?”

“No. I’m a reporter.” It seemed like a very unusual question from a ten-year-old boy. “Why did you think I was a psychiatrist?”

Jason hesitated, almost as if embarrassed to admit the answer. He eventually sighed. “Because lately they’re the only grownups who want to talk to me.”

“Is that because of what happened at the train station last week?”

The boy nodded again and looked down at his comic book. “No one believes me when I tell them what happened.”

“I’ll believe you.”

“That’s what they said. But they didn’t.”

“You mean the psychiatrists?”

“Yeah.” Jason turned to Jessica and forced a smile. “They never said they didn’t believe me. Grownups never do. Everyone thinks I was so scared I imagined what I saw. But I did see it.”

“What did you see?”

Jason acted as if he had not heard the question. “At first they wanted to accuse the man in the leather jacket of attacking me.”

“You mean Mr. Matthews?”

“I guess. I don’t know his name. But the man in the leather jacket saved me from it.” Jason sighed again. “The police wanted me to say he attacked me.”

“Did the police eventually believe you? I mean, about the man in the leather jacket saving your life?”

“Yeah.” Jason nodded his head half a dozen times. “Though they still don’t believe what attacked me.”

Jessica noticed that Jason never referred to his attacker as “he”, but always in the impersonal. Probably because of how much the incident had traumatized him. For a moment, Jessica contemplated ending the interview now, but pushed that thought out of her mind. Jason had been the only person besides Drake Matthews who got a good look at the man who died in the inferno at the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, the man whose bone fragments were three hundred years old. She had come this far and could not turn back now.

“Jason, can I ask you a few questions about the man who attacked you?”

“Sure.” Jason looked at Jessica. His eyes betrayed a range of emotions. Anxiety about reliving the horror of that night. Uncertainty over whether to trust her. Trepidation that he would be disbelieved again. “But it wasn’t a man who attacked me.”

“A woman attacked you?”

“No.”

“Then who attacked you?”

Silence. Jason stared at the comic book as he slowly turned the pages. The only sounds came from children playing in the nearby schoolyard and a police car siren a few blocks away. Jessica hoped she had not scared him off. Not now. Not so close to getting an answer.

“Jason, who attacked you?”

A heavy, resigned sigh. But Jason still would not answer.

“Jason, please tell me. I want to know.”

“You won’t believe me.”

“I will. I promise.”

Jason started to answer, then stopped. Jessica assumed that every adult he told his story to had discredited it. Jason continued to look at his comic book. He finally responded, his voice soft and low.

“I was attacked by a monster.”

Jessica kept her expression stoic as she formulated a response. She now understood why no one believed him. The entire scenario sounded like a self-induced nightmare. Every ounce of common sense told her to walk away, that this led her nowhere. But a gut instinct urged Jessica to forge ahead.

Before Jessica could respond, Jason looked up at her, his eyes accusing. “I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I do believe you,” Jessica lied, trying to salvage the interview.

“You do?” Jason sounded both excited that a grownup finally believed him yet uncertain as to whether he could trust her.

“Of course. I just don’t understand what you mean by ‘monster’.”

A commotion in front of the school attracted Jessica’s attention. A middle-aged black woman in a smart-looking business suit, more than likely the principal, had exited the school’s main entrance and raced down the stairs. She stared directly at Jessica and yelled for her to leave Jason alone. Two burly men followed behind her, one a young muscular man in gym clothes, the other about forty-five and wearing a white shirt, the seams of which strained under his hefty paunch. Even worse, the sirens she heard belonged to a pair of Metro Police cruisers racing down either end of the street. Jessica had no illusions that they were intended for anyone other than her. She should have realized that after the incident at Union Station, everyone would be looking out for Jason. She had miscalculated. Badly. And she was about to pay for that.

The principal and her muscle men were already on the sidewalk and running toward her, and the police cars had closed to within one hundred yards. Jessica had thirty seconds at most before the shit hit the fan. She needed to make the next few questions count.

“Jason, when you said you were attacked by a monster, did you mean a very large and scary man?”

“No. It was a real monster.”

“What type of monster?”

“It looked like this.” Jason folded the comic book in half along its crease and handed it to Jessica so that only one page showed. She took the comic book. The page consisted of a single frame. In it, a young woman cowered under attack from a creature with pale-gray skin, blood-red eyes, talon-like fingernails, and fangs.

A vampire.

Before Jessica could ask another question, the black woman inserted herself between Jessica and Jason. The fat man in the white shirt clasped Jason by the shoulders and gently but firmly steered him back toward the school, while the muscular man stood just behind and to the right of the principal, his arms menacingly folded across his chest.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” asked the black woman.

“I was just asking Jas…”

“Do you have permission to talk with him?”

As the fat man led Jason away, he looked over his shoulder and waved goodbye. Jessica returned the wave, which only excited the black woman to a frenzy.

“I’m talking to you. Do you have permission from Jason’s mother to talk with him?”

“No. Sorry. I didn’t know…”

The slamming of car doors heralded the arrival of the police. Not that Jessica minded, because she felt a lot safer with them than she did around the principal. The officer from the nearest police car approached while the officer from the second car stood back several yards, one hand clasped around his service revolver.

“Ma’am, please step away from the bench and keep your hands where I can see them.”

IN HIS CAR across the street, Bill slouched down into the driver’s seat, desperately trying not to be noticed. He already had taken several photographs of Jessica and the boy, stopping only when all hell broke loose. He watched the black woman and two large men descend on Jessica and made sure the altercation did not become physical. A part of him wanted to go to Jessica’s defense and attempt to calm the situation, but he knew that his presence would only incite the situation further. Any thoughts of playing the hero were pushed out of his mind with the arrival of the two police cars.

Bill watched as the police handcuffed Jessica and escorted her to one of the cruisers. He contemplated snapping off a few pictures. Not for the paper, just so he could have a few photographs of that sanctimonious bitch getting taken down a peg. In the end, though, he opted against pushing his luck. No sense both of them spending a night in jail. Instead, he tried to hide himself in the shadows of the Corolla’s interior.

It took only a few minutes for the police to arrest Jessica. Bill waited until the two police cars pulled away and everyone had gone back into the school before he headed back to The Standard. He had no idea how he would break the news to Dan, but he knew he would enjoy doing so.

THE MIDNIGHT-BLACK SUBURBAN cruised along Constitution Avenue. Jim drove. Drake sat beside him in the passenger’s seat, searching the Mall for vampires. In the back seat, Alison looked out the window with the infra-red goggles. None of them had spoken since beginning the hunt over two hours ago. For the fourth time they traversed the length of the Mall, turning right onto 4th Street, and right again onto Independence Avenue.

Alison suddenly reached out and tapped Drake’s shoulder. “I have one.”

“Where?”

“Heading up 17th Street toward the Washington Monument.” Alison switched the goggles to night vision mode, pausing as the screen adjusted its view. “He’s about halfway between the street and the monument. A few paces behind a couple pushing a baby stroller.”

Drake leaned closer to the window. He easily spotted the couple pushing the stroller. A few yards behind the family plodded a tall, lanky figure in a dark-blue parka, the hood covering its lowered head. It was not on the prowl. It ignored the couple, an easy target, and passed them.

“It doesn’t seem to be hungry,” said Jim.

“They’re always hungry. This one’s keeping a low profile,” responded Drake. “If it corners someone alone, trust me, it’ll feed.”

“What do we do now?” asked Alison.

“Track him.” Drake tapped Jim’s shoulder and pointed toward 17th Street. “Turn here and drop us off by the walkway. Then cruise around the block and wait for my signal.”

“Gotcha.”

Alison kept track of the vampire until the Suburban rolled to a stop. “Okay, boss. It’s passing the southwest corner of the monument.”

Drake could see it plodding along. It had just passed the couple with the baby stroller. “I have a visual. Let’s go.”

Alison pulled off the night vision goggles and dropped them onto the backseat, then stepped out of the SUV alongside Drake. “Ready?”

Drake nodded. He adjusted his leather jacket so it concealed his shoulder holsters. The two headed toward the monument.

FROM ACROSS 17TH Street, seated at the base of the stairs leading up to the World War II Memorial, Toni watched the hunters. Dressed in tight jeans and a denim jacket, she blended in with the tourists and other pedestrians. Toni waited until the Suburban pulled away and the hunters started toward the monument. She then stood up and followed, monitoring them at a discreet distance.

THE CLUSTER OF hunters and hunted wound its way through the Mall in a deadly game of cat-and-mouse. They crossed 15th and 14th Streets, and were almost to 12th Street when the vampire suddenly veered to the right toward Independence Avenue. At the entrance to the Smithsonian Metro stop, the vampire quickened its pace and disappeared down the stairs.

“Feasting on the subway?” asked Alison. “That’s a first.”

“Let’s make sure it’s also a last.”

Drake and Alison raced downstairs into the Metro station, careful to keep the vampire in view. Toni followed.

Once underground, the vampire made its way along the platform, doing nothing to attract attention to itself. It stopped two-thirds of the way down where few people stood, and moved close to one of the central pillars, attempting to blend into the shadows. It pulled the hood down farther over its head.

Turning to keep his back to the vampire, Drake leaned close to Alison. “Wait here. If it tries to leave, follow it. If it gets on a train, take the last car and be ready to provide backup. And make sure your radio is on.”

“Right. Just be careful.”

“Aren’t I always?”

Alison sighed good-naturedly. “You don’t pay me enough for this shit.”

Drake smiled and patted her upper arm. He walked down the platform, stopping halfway between Alison and the vampire.

Toni sat on a bench a few yards from Alison.

Less than five minutes passed before the string of lights running along the platform flashed, signaling the imminent arrival of a commuter train. The vampire glanced at the station clock, then stepped out to the platform’s edge. Deep inside the tunnel, a bright light reflected off the wall, growing brighter as the train rounded the curve and pulled into the station. The vampire walked alongside as the train slowed, peering into each car. It stopped two cars from the front, and stepped inside when the doors slid open.

Drake stepped into the third car from the front and moved to the storm door separating the third and second cars, leaning against the bulkhead so he could watch the vampire through the window. Alison entered the last car and took up position near the rear door. She did not notice Toni take a seat five feet behind her.

As Drake watched, the vampire strolled aimlessly down the car. It finally took a seat between an overweight middle-aged black woman in a nurse’s outfit who sat near the end of the car, and a young woman in an expensive business suit. The only other person in the car was a vagrant in a baggy coat and wool cap who sat off to the left beside the storm door, hunched over and asleep.

With a slight lurch, the train pulled out of the station, disappearing into the tunnel.

“Alison, are you still there?” Drake asked into his headset.

“Haven’t lost me yet. Anything going on?”

“Nothing at the moment.” Drake leaned forward to look through the window. “There are too many people around for it to try anything.”

“That’s fine by me. Last thing I want is a battle royale down here.” Alison paused. “Are you planning on following it if it leaves the Metro?”

“We’ll play that by ear. Just be ready if I need you.”

“I always am.”

Drake stood by the storm door, keeping his eye on the vampire. The vampire did not move as the train stopped at the next three stations—Federal Triangle, Metro Center, and McPherson. At Faragut West Station, the woman in the business suit stood up and exited the car, leaving behind the nurse and the vagrant. As the young woman stepped onto the platform, the vampire looked up slightly. Drake caught a glimpse of the creature’s red eyes. It waited for the doors to close before standing. As the train pulled out of the station and entered the confines of the tunnel, the vampire strolled over to the nurse.

“Shit!” Drake reached under his jacket and pulled out a stake. “Alison, are you there?”

“What’s up?”

“Looks like our snuffy is about to feed. I need backup.”

Drake slid open the storm door and rushed into the adjoining car.

“OKAY, BOSS. BE right there.”

Alison started forward, but a hand tightly gripped her upper right arm. “Not so fast, hunter.”

Turning around, Alison looked into the face of a beautiful redhead. In an instant, those features turned evil as the skin shrunk tightly around Toni’s skull and the eyes morphed into glowing blood-red orbs. The lips contorted into a sneer, exposing a set of fangs that lunged for Alison’s throat.

Drake barged into the train car, startling the nurse. Her eyes widened with concern when she spotted the stake in his hand. He focused not on her, however, but on something to her right. She turned to the new danger as the vampire lunged. It placed one hand on her left shoulder and the other on the side of her head, pushing them apart to expose the woman’s neck. Her screams echoed off the interior of the car as the vampire plunged its teeth into her throat.

Drake fell upon the vampire a second later and plunged the stake into its back. Instead of piercing its heart, the tip broke off.

“Surprise, hunter.” The voice came from behind him. Drake spun around to stare into the dead eyes of the vagrant. The vampire cocked its head to one side and smiled sadistically. Its talon-like fingers slowly curled up into a fist, then tapped its chest with a dull solid thud. “Body armor.”

Before Drake could react, the vagrant vampire attacked. Drake ducked and dodged behind the vampire. When it turned to face him, Drake plunged the stake into its heart. It clunked harmlessly against the body armor. With a sardonic laugh, the vampire grabbed Drake by his jacket collar, lifted him up, and flung him down the car. Drake hit the floor and slid its entire length, coming to a stop only after he slammed into one of the seats. Disoriented, Drake rolled over and struggled to his feet as the vagrant vampire strode toward him.

A loud sucking sound attracted the vagrant vampire’s attention. It stopped and turned. The other creature had finished feeding on the nurse and now stood in front of her, wiping a shriveled hand across its blood-drenched lips.

“Save some for me,” hissed the vagrant vampire. The other creature responded with a snarl.

Drake took advantage of the distraction. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the sharpened commando saw and stretched it to its full length. Racing forward, Drake made a loop of the wire. As the vampire turned to face him, he wrapped the wire around its neck and yanked the handles in opposite directions. The vampire stared dumbfounded at Drake. A rivulet of blood started to flow from the slice in its neck. The vampire looked down at its wound and attempted to howl, its cry cut off as its head fell to the deck, shattering into a cloud of dust. Blood gushed from the open neck, spraying the walls and ceilings and dripping back into small pools on the floor. As its body drained, the thing thrashed around in agony as its skin shriveled and decayed from its skeleton. After several seconds that seemed like an eternity, the vagrant vampire crumbled into dust.

By now the train had slowed as it pulled into Foggy Bottom Station. The other vampire crouched, preparing to attack. Drake took a defensive stance. When the entry doors slid open, the vampire lunged to its right out onto the platform and raced for the exit. Drake ran after it, pausing as he passed by the nurse. Two rows of jagged teeth marks had been gnawed into her neck where the vampire had fed, the mangled flesh glistening with fresh blood. Her eyes were closed, her breathing labored and shallow. She was still alive—for now. Soon she would become one of the undead like the others. The humane thing to do would be to put her out of her misery. Despite everything, Drake could not bring himself to kill a human. He would deal with her later.

Drake rushed out onto the platform and glanced toward the last car to check on Alison. A half dozen or so people raced around trying to find safety, but not Alison. Drake jumped back into the car just as the doors slid shut. As the train pulled out of the station, made his way toward the rear of the train.

ALISON STEPPED BACK quickly and dodged to the left, avoiding Toni’s attack. The master lunged again. Alison grabbed the support rail above her head and pulled herself up, brought her knees to her chest, and kicked out. Connecting with Toni’s chest, she propelled the master across the car into the sliding doors. Alison dropped to the deck and reached under her jacket for a stake, but before she could withdraw it Toni sprang off of the doors. Twisting to her right, Alison stopped the master with a sidekick.

By now the surrounding passengers had become painfully aware of the battle raging around them. Most had either moved to the farthest exit, desperately waiting for a chance to escape, or sat terrified in their seats, leaning away from the conflict.

One young man raced forward to help Alison. Toni spun around as he neared, wrapping the talon-like fingers of her right hand around his face and digging in. Toni’s other hand clasped him by the back of the head. With a quick twist of her hands, she snapped his neck with a loud crack. Toni pulled her hands away with a gesture of disgust. The man’s body crumpled to the deck, his head at an obscene angle.

Alison quickly assessed the situation. For the first time she faced not a mere snuffy, but a master, and this one twice as tough as any vampire she had gone up against before. She could not effectively fight it while trapped amongst the vertical support railings. She had to get out of this confined area, and quickly. With a quick sweep of her leg, Alison kicked the master behind the right knee, knocking it off balance. Alison dived to her right, rolling into the aisle before jumping up and taking a fighting stance.

As the adversaries faced off, the train pulled into Foggy Bottom Station. The passengers practically pulled the doors open to escape. When the doors finally did open, they ran out onto the platform and dashed to safety. Seconds later, the doors slid shut and the train began to pull out of the station.

“Well, bitch,” taunted Alison. “It’s just you and me.”

“That suits me fine.” Toni hissed and sprinted down the rail car.

Alison pushed off the deck with her left foot and spun her body around, slamming her right foot into Toni’s head in a tornado kick. The master careened to the side and stumbled between two rows of seats, smashing the window, momentarily stunned. Pulling a stake from her belt holster, Alison ran between the seats and raised the stake to inflict the fatal blow. Toni’s hand shot up and grabbed Alison by the wrist. With one thrust, Toni threw the hunter over three sets of seats. Alison landed on her right shoulder in the opening by the doors, sliding across the deck until her back slammed into the center pole.

Toni flew over the seats and landed on top of Alison’s chest, knocking the wind out of her. The master pushed herself down on Alison, pinning the hunter’s pelvis to the floor with her own, then ripped open Alison’s blouse to expose her neck. Bearing her fangs, Toni leaned over, pausing only inches from the Alison’s neck.

“Relax, hunter. In a few moments, you’ll be one of us.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” a voice shouted from behind Toni.

Toni looked up to see Drake standing at the opposite end of the car. She snarled. “You have nothing to say about it. She’s ours now.”

Toni bent over Alison, but Drake was quicker. Reaching under his leather jacket, Drake pulled the twin Glocks from their holster, aimed them down the car, and fired off a single round. The bullet caught Toni in the shoulder, knocking her off of Alison. Toni screamed in agony. Not from the open wound, but from the burning that seared its way into her skin. She looked down to see wisps of white smoke curling up from the jagged opening. Turning to Drake, she hissed defiantly and lunged.

Drake walked down the aisle toward Toni, squeezing each trigger alternately, pumping another seventeen rounds into the vampire. Each bullet tore out chunks of dead flesh. The holy water seeped through the wounds, becoming a liquid fire that flowed through her body. So much smoke poured from Toni that Drake thought she had ignited. He stopped firing only when the bolts to the two Glocks locked backed, signifying that he was out of ammunition.

With his thumbs, Drake pressed the grip buttons on each Glock that ejected the empty magazines, letting them fall to the deck with a metallic clatter. He holstered the Glock in his left hand and began to reach for a magazine for the second Glock when an animalistic howl echoed off the walls of the car. Toni crouched, as if about to attack. Eighteen bullet holes riddled her body. Dark putrefying blood dripped from the wounds, while wisps of smoke billowed around her. Her eyes seethed with hatred. Drake braced for an assault. Instead, the master spun around and dived for the rearmost door, shattering through the window and bounding down the darkened tunnel until she disappeared.

Drake loaded a fresh magazine into his Glock and pulled the slide back as he raced over to Alison. His partner moaned and tried to roll onto her side. Drake holstered his automatic and, taking Alison’s hand in his own, slowly raised her to her feet. As she tried to steady herself, Drake straightened her blouse and jacket.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“If you define okay as feeling like shit, then I’m fine.” Alison raised a hand to the back of her head and massaged her skull. She winced. “What the hell happened.”

“We were ambushed.” The train slowed as it approached the next station. “We’ve got to get out of here. Can you walk?”

“No problem.” Alison took a step and stumbled. Draping her left arm over his shoulder and wrapping her right around his waist, she allowed Drake to lead her to the exit.

Seconds later, the train pulled into Rosslyn Station. Thankfully there were only a few people waiting to board, none of them for their car. When the door slid open, the two headed for the exit and made their way to the street where Jim would pick them up.

7

“HEY, BARBIE.”

Jessica ignored the taunt. She sat motionless on the cot that smelled of urine and sweat, propped up in the corner, her arms folded across her chest. She kept her eyes closed and pretended to be asleep, hoping the woman would go away.

“I said ‘Hey Barbie’.”

How the hell did she wind up in this mess, Jessica asked herself. She could understand the police arresting her for talking to Jason. But to throw her into the holding tank with the dregs of society seemed a bit extreme. Jessica shared a cell with two girls in their mid-twenties, both in tussled dresses and disheveled blonde hair, who sat at opposite ends of the tank glaring at one another, more than likely still brewing over a catfight they had gotten into the night before. A crack whore crouched in the corner, sobbing and moaning as her body shook from withdrawal. A hooker in a latex miniskirt and white see-through blouse, an outfit that did not compliment her one-hundred-and-eighty pound frame, stood by the bars, her gaze fixed on the squad room at the end of the corridor. A black woman in stiletto boots and worn jeans stood in front of Jessica, trying to provoke God knows what. And finally Jessica, dressed in a pink dress and matching heels, looking as out of place as Al Sharpton at a Klan rally.

“Bitch, I’m fucking talking to you.”

“Leave me alone.” Jessica tried to sound tough, an impression that was hard to convey when dressed like a doll.

“Leave you alone? Hell, I’m gonna fuck you up real good.”

Jessica sat still and kept her eyes closed, hoping the woman would go away. It did not work.

“Get up, bitch.” The black woman placed a stiletto boot on the edge of the cot and pushed. “You’re gonna get a piece of me whether you want it or not.”

Jessica braced herself. But then a second voice came to her rescue. “Leave Blondie alone. She’s not bothering anybody.”

Opening her eyes, Jessica saw the hooker standing between her and the black woman.

“She’s bothering me,” said the black woman.

“I’ll be bothering you if you don’t fuck off.” Since the hooker weighed almost twice as much as the black woman, she had the power to back up her threat. Both women stood their ground, staring each other down.

Finally, the black woman slumped her shoulders and backed away, keeping her eyes on the hooker. “You just keep that bitch away from me if she knows what’s good for her.”

The hooker waited until the black woman had crossed the holding tank, then sat down beside Jessica.

Jessica sighed with relief. “Thanks. I don’t know what her problem is.”

“Yvette? She’s been fucked up as long as I can remember. Been so long, I forget why. She’s chicken shit, though. Stand up to her, and she’ll back down.”

“Maybe.” Jessica forced a smile. “But I’m not the type to stand up to people.”

“I know that, Sugar.” The hooker’s hand clasped Jessica’s knee and slid up her leg, pushing the dress up along her thigh. “You take good care of me, and I’ll take good care of you.”

Jessica slammed her legs tightly together, but that only enticed the hooker. She leaned over, her lips moving closer to Jessica’s. Jessica tried to pull back, but already was wedged into the corner. She could smell cigarettes and stale sex on the hooker’s breath. Jessica felt the contents of her stomach climbing in her throat, and did not know whether she should vomit or scream.

Thankfully the cavalry arrived in the form of a policewoman who stepped up to the holding tank. “Which one of you is Jessica Reynolds?”

“That’s me,” yelled Jessica with way too much enthusiasm.

The policewoman opened the cell door, keeping one hand on her baton. “Come with me.”

“Where to?” Jessica could have cared less. Any place would be preferable to being stuck here. She started to stand, but the hooker grabbed her arm, squeezing tight and pulling her back onto the cot.

“Where are you going, Sugar?”

“With her.” Jessica tried not to let fear creep into her voice.

The hooker’s grip tightened and her voice became harsh. “But you owe me a little lovin’.”

“I don’t have all day,” the policewoman called out. “So move your little blonde ass.”

Jessica gave the hooker’s hand a gentle squeeze, feigning affection. “I’ll be back. And then I’ll thank you for saving me.”

Uncertain as to whether Jessica meant it, the hooker slowly released her grip. Jessica wiggled her arm free, gently patted the hooker’s knee, and stood up and walked as casually as she could across the tank. Once out of danger, Jessica waited for the policewoman to close and lock the cell, then followed her down the corridor.

“Am I being released?”

“Nope.”

“Am I being moved to another cell?”

“Nope.”

“Then where are we going?”

“You must be the reporter from The Washington Standard?”

“How did you know?” asked Jessica.

“Because you won’t stop asking questions.”

Taking the far-from-subtle hint, Jessica followed along silently. After a few minutes they reached their destination—Chief Roach’s office. Upon entering the office, Jessica’s heart sank. Roach sat behind his desk, his tight lips and furrowed brow a clear indication of his temper. She had seen Roach get that look at news conferences just prior to tearing a second asshole into some reporter who crossed the line of journalistic integrity or pushed Roach over the edge. Across from Roach sat her editor, Dan Philips. His grimace of disappointment upon seeing Jessica bothered her more than being locked up overnight in the holding tank. In the chair beside Philips sat a woman approximately thirty years old dressed in jeans and a sweater. She turned to face Jessica. The woman’s stern expression suddenly changed to fury. She sprang from her chair and pounced at Jessica. Jessica stood her ground but tensed her body, preparing for the anticipated blow. Fortunately, Philips had been quicker and placed himself between the two women.

The woman shook with anger. “So you’re the bitch who attacked my son.”

“What?” Jessica looked to Philips and Roach for an explanation.

“Mrs. Clark, please sit down.” Roach sounded forceful but sympathetic. “Miss Reynolds did not assault your son.”

“Harass, then. Or whatever the legal term is.” The woman shot Roach a withering glance that warned him not to play games with her, then turned her fury back onto Jessica. “I don’t give a shit what you call it. You talked to my son without my permission about that… that night.”

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to ask him…”

“Ask him what? Ask him what it was like to be attacked in a train station bathroom by a sexual predator? Ask him what it’s like to have his innocence taken from him by a pervert the police refuse to throw into jail? Ask him to relive that horrible night so you can get a fucking newspaper story?”

Mrs. Clark stepped forward and tried to slap Jessica, but Philips still stood between them. Roach slapped his desk top, drawing the others’ attention. “Mrs. Clark, that’s enough. You lay a hand on Miss Reynolds, and I’ll arrest you for assault.”

Mrs. Clark spun around to face Roach, and for a second Jessica thought she might lunge at him, too.

Roach sat forward and rested his arms on the desk. “I’m not bluffing. Now sit down.”

Mrs. Clark took a deep breath to control her rage, then nodded toward Jessica. “Why don’t you arrest her?”

“Because Miss Reynolds hasn’t committed a crime.”

“What?”

“Talking to a ten-year-old boy in public without getting the parents’ permission is not a crime.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“I am.” Roach motioned for Mrs. Clark to take her seat. “What Miss Reynolds did was unethical and unprofessional, but not criminal. So I can’t hold her.”

“I don’t friggin’ believe this. So then the bitch gets away with it?”

“Miss Reynolds is not getting away with anything because she didn’t do anything wrong.” Roach paused, then added in a more conciliatory tone, “I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Clark grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair with such force that that sleeves whipped around as if in a heavy wind.

“Do you want me to call someone to escort you out?”

“I can see myself out.” The woman began to leave, but paused in front of Jessica. “And you, you bitch. If I ever catch you anywhere near my son again, you’ll need the police to tear me off of you.”

With that, Mrs. Clark stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind her. Philips moved back to his seat, leaving Jessica standing alone. An awkward silence passed before Jessica finally said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause this much trouble.”

“Bullshit. You knew damn well what you were doing, otherwise you would have gotten Mrs. Clark’s permission first.” Roach gazed over at Philips. “Did you know she was going to pull this stunt?”

“No. Though I wouldn’t have been able to stop her if I did.”

“Great.” Roach leaned back in his chair and massaged his temple. He looked over at Jessica. “I can’t file charges against you this time. But I’m warning you. I have more on my plate right now than I can handle, and don’t need to deal with any of your shit. If you wind up in here again, I’ll find a way to keep you here. Do you understand?”

Jessica nodded.

“Good. Now get the hell out of my office.”

Philips said nothing as they left the police station. Jessica refused to speak first. Yet the silence worried her, for she knew that the longer it lasted the greater would be the intensity of Philip’s anger. After fifteen minutes, she assumed Philips would probably rip her head off. Not until they were in the car heading back to the newspaper did he finally speak.

“What the hell were you thinking by trying to interview that kid?”

Jessica longed to be back in the holding tank. “I just wanted to get a story.”

“A story? How about the one that’s going to appear on the front page of tomorrow’s Post? ‘Standard Reporter Arrested for Harassing Young Attack Victim’.”

“You’re always saying that bad publicity is better than no publicity.” Jessica regretted the comment as soon as she made it.

“You think this is a joke?”

“No,” Jessica answered apologetically.

“Every other paper in this city considers us no better than a supermarket tabloid. This isn’t going to help our reputation.”

“I know. But I’d reached a dead end on the story. Only two people have seen the attacker. Drake, who’s not talking. And Jason. I know what I did was…”

“Unethical?”

“Risky,” Jessica fired back, a little more confident. “Jason’s mother would never agree to grant an interview with her son, so I arranged it myself. I just misjudged how everyone would react. But I got a good interview.”

The journalist in Philips took over, and some of his anger subsided. “What did the kid say?”

“According to Jason, Drake Matthews didn’t attack him. Drake saved him.”

“That’s not what the police believe.”

“I know. Jason said no one believed him. The kid is smart and knows what he’s talking about. If Jason says Drake didn’t attack him, we should believe him.”

“Okay, okay. I trust your judgment. On some things. So who attacked the kid?”

“Jason never got a good look at him.” Jessica hated lying to Philips, but was not about to reveal that Jason believed he had been attacked by a vampire without first having proof. “His attacker wore a hood pulled down over his face and came at him from behind.”

“Is that all he had to say?”

“Yeah. I only got to ask him a few questions before all hell broke loose.”

“Damn.”

“What?”

“We can’t use any of your interview.”

“Why not?”

Philips used the same calming voice on all his reporters when they felt like their work was being unjustly criticized. “You conducted a good interview. The problem is the kid gave you little information to work with. If I run with what I have, Jason’s mother will have my ass in court for violating her son’s privacy. I can’t risk it.”

“I understand.” Jessica did not, but knew better than to argue with Philips once he had made up his mind.

“You need to find out who attacked the kid, and why. Why did Matthews chase the attacker? And where is the attacker now? Which reminds me.” Philips reached under his jacket and pulled from his pocket an 8 x 10 sheet of paper folded in half lengthwise, then handed it to Jessica. “Would you explain this?”

Jessica took the paper and opened it. Her mouth went dry. She held the test results and a bill for almost one thousand dollars from the independent lab that had analyzed the jaw fragments.

“I had them analyze the jaw fragments found near the truck Drake had been chasing. When I talked with Dekker…”

“Wait. Who’s Dekker?”

“Chief Medical Examiner for the D.C. Police. I interviewed him about the remains found at the crash site.”

“Well, the lab you chose can’t do its job. Did you read the results? It says the fragments are over three hundred years old.”

“I know.” Jessica paused, contemplating if she should continue. “Those are the same results Dekker came up with.”

“You’re joking?” Philips looked over at Jessica to gauge her response, drifting slightly into the adjacent lane.

“I’m not. And watch where you’re going.”

Jerking the wheel right, Philips corrected the car’s path to the accompanying blare of car horns. He hardly noticed, completely enthralled by this new mystery. “What the hell is a three-hundred-year-old corpse doing on a tanker truck involved in a high-speed chase?”

The fragments did not belong to a corpse but to the driver, but Jessica would not tell that to Philips until she could explain it herself. So far, the only explanation she could provide was that vampires walked the streets of Washington. If she even hinted at that, Philips would be convinced she had gone off the deep end. Instead, she shrugged. “I’m still trying to figure out that out.”

Philips thought for a few minutes, then suddenly snapped his fingers. “Grave robbers.”

“What?”

“The only reason I can think of for a three-hundred-year-old corpse to be on that truck is if Drake Matthews is involved with grave robbing.”

“Possible,” Jessica lied again.

They arrived at Jessica’s apartment building. Philips pulled over and double parked out front, switching on the flashers. He turned to Jessica. “You’ve got the makings of a great story here. You just need to flesh it out more. So what are you going to do now?”

“There’s someone in Boston I need to talk to who knows Drake Matthews. Once I have that background information, I’m going to corner Drake for an interview.”

“I thought he already refused to talk to you? Twice.”

“He did. But he can’t say no to me forever.”

“That’s true. You can be obstinate when you want to. And I meant that as a compliment.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“I’ll authorize airfare for you to fly up to Boston on Monday and for a rental car. We need to get moving on this before one of the other papers scoops us. I want the story on my desk in a week. Can you do it?”

“Not a problem,” said Jessica with more optimism than she actually felt. She opened the car door and stepped out.

“Good luck.” Philips called out. “And for God’s sake, be careful.”

She closed the door. As Philips drove off, Jessica watched his car moved down the street. She had an uneasy feeling that over the next few days she would need to be very lucky and extremely careful.

“NOT SO FAST, hunter.”

The words sent an icy chill down Alison’s spine. Summoning every ounce of courage she could muster, Alison turned around slowly. She looked into the face of a very attractive redhead. In an instant, the skin shrunk tightly around its skull and the eyes morphed into glowing blood-red orbs. A slow growl emanated from between shriveled lips that contorted into a sneer, exposing a set of fangs. The master lunged at Alison. Alison knew she had to react, but could not. Her mind told her body what to do, but her limbs refused to respond. Her body would not block the attack, would not fight back with a kick or punch. She could not even run away.

With a swing of its arms, the master slapped Alison across the face with enough force that, for a second, Alison thought her jaw would snap. Yet her body would still not respond. Fight back, she yelled at herself. Fight back or…

Another slap across the face, only much harder. The force of the blow knocked Alison off her feet. She spun around and slammed into the center pole, then slid to the floor onto her back, unable to move. The master straddled Alison, pinning the hunter’s pelvis to the floor with her own. It ripped open Alison’s blouse, exposing her neck. Alison desperately tried to throw off the master, but her body refused to respond. Her breath grew belabored, either from exertion or the weight of the thing on her chest. Or from panic. Alison began to hyperventilate.

Bending over Alison, the master drew back its lips and bore its fangs. Alison could smell the sickeningly sweet odor of decayed flesh and feel the cold, lifeless breath blowing on her neck. She tried to scream, but could muster only a frustrated murmur. Her breathing was shallow and quick. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t fight. She couldn’t cry out. She could only lay there helpless and wait to be turned into the undead. Alison felt the master’s fangs press against her neck, then puncture her skin. Oh, God. No. Not like this. Please don’t let me die like this. Summoning every ounce of strength she had, Alison screamed.

Alison sat upright in bed, still screaming. Completely disoriented, she had no idea where she was. Someone approached from her right. She moved back, trying to get away. Then she recognized the approaching figure as Drake. He stepped up beside Alison, wrapping one arm around her back and wrapping the other around her waist. Drake pulled her close. Alison hugged his arm tight and rested her head against his chest. She realized that she was not about to die.

Not yet, at least.

Alison’s panic slowly subsided. Her heart rate returned to normal, and her breathing eased. She became aware of an ache in her back and shoulder blades, and of a soreness across her chest. With the pain came memories of being attacked by the vampire in the subway. After that, her memory went blank. She glanced at her surroundings. It looked like a hospital room, though she could not remember being admitted.

Drake gently patted the shoulder he cradled. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. If you don’t count my back, my shoulders, my head, my chest, and the fact that I’ve been unconscious for God knows how long.”

“Point taken.” Drake patted her shoulder again and tried to break his embrace. Alison hugged his arm tighter and caressed his upper arm, not wanting to let go. She felt a thrill of excitement when Drake ran his hand up over her shoulder and gently massaged her neck. After a few seconds he pulled away, but still stood by the side of the bed.

“Do you remember what happened last night?” he asked.

“Things are blurry. I remember being on the Metro tracking a snuffy and you calling for back-up, then the bitch attacked me from behind. I saw a human face before it morphed into a vampire, so I assume a master attacked me.”

“It did. And you’re lucky to be alive. I pumped eighteen holy-water rounds into it, and it still had enough energy to escape. I doubt I did much more than piss it off.”

“What do you mean? You saved my life.” Alison flashed him an embarrassed smile. “Again.”

“That makes us three for a dozen. So I still owe you a few.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Just over twelve hours.” Drake sat on the edge of the bed. “You passed out while getting into the SUV at Rosslyn Station. We brought you here to be checked out.”

“Where’s ‘here’?”

“Arlington Hospital.”

“I’m surprised you’re here. I thought you viewed hospitals as Death’s waiting room?”

“I do. I just have a good reason to be here this time.”

“Am I as bad off as I feel?”

Drake shook his head. “You’re banged up a bit. But nothing’s broken.”

“So then I’ll live?”

“I hope so. I’d hate to have to train another assistant.” He patted her knee. “Do you feel well enough to go home?”

“Can I?”

“I talked to the doctor this morning. He said if you felt up to it, he’d check you out once you woke up.”

“Good. I have more important things to do than lie around here all day.” Alison tried to sit up but stopped suddenly, cringing in pain.

“When you leave here you’re going home and take it easy for a few days.”

“We have to find the master that…”

Drake placed his fingers over her mouth. Alison felt a tingle course through her body and fought back the urge to kiss them.

“We’ll find the master later. Right now, you need rest. You’re no good to either of us in this condition. Capisce?”

“Capisce.”

Drake stood up. “You rest a bit while I go get the doctor. Then I’ll take you home.”

“I can take a cab.”

“We take care of each other. Remember? Besides, I have the Dodge in the garage, so it won’t be a bother.” Drake opened the door leading to the corridor and paused. “Get some rest. I’ll be back in a few.”

As Drake left the room, Alison made herself as comfortable as possible. Drake was right. Before they could hunt down the master, Alison would need to be back in top condition, which at the moment she fell far short of. She would do as he asked and take the next few days off to relax. But when she got back on her feet, she had a score to settle.

UNSCREWING THE CAP, Roach tapped out two ibuprofen. He popped the caplets into his mouth and washed them down with a swig of cold coffee. He had taken two caplets an hour earlier, but did not care. He suffered from one of those pounding migraines that plagued him every time he had a run-in with Drake Matthews.

It started as a dull pain early that morning when he received a phone call at home advising him of the gunfight that had occurred on the Metro, which left two people dead. When he arrived at the office and read the initial reports, and in turn the first gruesome description of the corpses, the dull pain became a throb. When the Metro Police arrived with a compilation of the security camera videos, the throb quickly became a head-splitting migraine. Much to Roach’s consternation, the video showed Drake Matthews and Alison Monroe in the middle of the melee.

Closing his eyes, Roach massaged the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger, futilely trying to rub away the pain. He should not have been surprised when he saw Matthews and Miss Monroe enter the Metro train just before all hell broke loose. Since these two had moved to Washington nearly three months ago, it seemed like hell had broken out all over the city. Every time it did, Matthews was always in the middle of it. Almost as if he sought it out. Or it sought out him. In either case, trouble and Drake Matthews went hand in hand. Roach felt reasonably certain that if he could put away Matthews, then the trouble would dissipate. Easier said than done, though. So far Matthews and Miss Monroe had avoided serious jail time or prosecution because of their anonymous benefactor. This video should provide enough evidence linking Matthews to the crime scene, at least enough to stand up in court.

Picking up the remote control from his desk, Roach rewound the videotape and began watching from when the Metro train pulled into Smithsonian Station. The video showed several passengers stepping off the train onto the platform, followed by others boarding. Matthews entered the third car from the front, while Miss Monroe entered the last. Seconds later, the train pulled out of the station.

The video cut to shots of the same train pulling into Federal Triangle, Metro Center, McPherson, and Faragut West Stations. At each Station, people disembarked and embarked. Nothing unusual. All that changed, however, when the train arrived at Foggy Bottom. Barely had it come to a stop and the doors slid open when the passengers from the second and last cars raced out. A few stumbled under the stampede of panicking riders or tumbled headfirst into those waiting to board, pushing them along in the mad rush to the exits. Through the windows, Roach could detect movement in the second and last cars that looked like fighting, but he could not make out faces or details. Then suddenly, a figure in a dark-blue parka with the hood covering its head bolted out of the second car, with Matthews close behind. Matthews stopped, looked toward the end of the train, and jumped back on board just as the doors slid shut again. Roach assumed Matthews went back for Miss Monroe.

The next clip showed the train entering Rosslyn Station. Flashes of light were visible in the last car, probably from the firing of a gun since shell casings were found on the floor. The train slowed to a stop. As the doors opened, Matthews emerged from the last car assisting a staggering Miss Monroe. Since the train ended its run at this station, and since the video showed no one else entering or leaving the train before the police arrived, Roach surmised that Drake was the one who had fired the pistol. Which made him a prime suspect in the murder of the young man whose body was discovered in the last car.

Yet something did not settle right, though Roach could not figure out what. He rewound the videotape and played it again from when the Metro train entered Smithsonian Station. He watched Matthews board the third car and Miss Monroe the last. Then it dawned on him. An attractive redhead in tight jeans and a denim jacket boarded the last car right behind Miss Monroe. He had noticed her during the first viewing of the video because of her good looks. But he did not see her get off the train. Roach opened the report filed by the officers who had arrived at the scene first and read it again. Two bodies were found aboard the train, the young man in the last car and a black nurse in the second. But no redhead. He fast forwarded the video through each stop until Rosslyn Station, continuing the video until the police finally arrived, but did not see the redhead again. So what happened to her? Were any other passengers missing?

Roach rewound the videotape to the very beginning when the empty train pulled into New Carrollton Station at the far end of the Orange Line. Taking a pad of paper from his drawer, he began to tally how many people got on and exited at each station. By the time the train arrived at Smithsonian Station, Roach calculated that twenty-eight people were on board, including Matthews and Miss Monroe. Only twenty-four passengers got off at Rosslyn. Taking into account the two dead bodies found aboard the train, that left two individuals missing and unaccounted for. He would have to check with the officers on the scene to see if anyone had searched the subway tunnels between these stops.

In any case, Roach had all he needed. He could place Matthews and Miss Monroe at the scene of a double murder, and most probably link them to the disappearance of the two missing persons. Once he got back the forensics results, then he could…

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. “Yes?”

Dekker entered the office carrying a manila envelope. Roach motioned to the chair in front of his desk. “What do you have for me?”

“I’m glad to see you, too.” Dekker sat down and crossed his legs.

“Sorry.” Roach placed his pen down on the pad of paper. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that every time I deal with Drake Matthews I become…”

“Obsessed?”

“Distracted,” Roach said coldly. “Drake Matthews has caused more trouble for this city than any single person I can remember. But he screwed up big this time. I have video evidence putting him at the scene of two murders.”

“Then you’re going to be disappointed. Drake Matthews didn’t kill that nurse. Not unless he turned into a werewolf first.” Dekker handed Roach the manila envelope and waited for the chief to open it. “I performed an autopsy on the nurse. Sylvia Jackson, from Bethesda. She was on her way to the nightshift at George Washington University Hospital. Apparently she had switched shifts with a co-worker who had needed…”

“The autopsy results,” demanded Roach.

“Miss Jackson died from a hemorrhage as a result of having her carotid artery torn out.”

“Torn out?”

“Technically, chewed out. Something bit her neck with enough force to cut clear through her artery. Nearly ripped out her throat. And before you ask, whatever did it wasn’t human.”

Roach looked at the autopsy photos of Sylvia Jackson. The right side of her throat looked like a mass of raw meat that had gone through a grinder. “What did this?”

“I’m not sure.” Dekker pointed to the photograph. “Look at the pattern of the teeth marks around the wound. The molars and front teeth appear human, but the incisors are finely pointed and more than twice as long as a human’s. Almost like fangs. There’s also the fact that the force behind the bite was more powerful than that of a human. In either case, these wounds were not made by Drake Matthews.”

“Then what made these wounds?”

“An animal of some kind.”

“Impossible. I’ve watched the security camera footage from the Metro. There were no animals anywhere near the train when the attack took place.”

“All I can tell you is what the forensics showed. And according to that, Miss Jackson died from hemorrhaging from the neck artery as a result of the bite wound from some large animal. Between you and me, if a person made those wounds, then you’re dealing with something out of a Friday the Thirteenth movie.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to question your abilities.” Roach meant it, though he knew he did not sound convincing. Dekker was the best chief medical examiner the department had, and never misinterpreted forensics evidence. “What about the young man killed in the last car?”

“Gunnery Sergeant Thomas Napier. Recently returned from his second tour in Iraq. A highly-trained combat veteran. Whatever attacked Sergeant Napier snapped his neck like a twig, shattering every bone in it and practically turning his head around.”

“So he didn’t die from his gunshot wounds?”

“Napier didn’t have any gunshot wounds.”

“More than a dozen shots were fired, and none of them hit Napier?”

“Eighteen shots were fired,” said Dekker. “At least, that’s how many shell casings we found. Each a .40 caliber from one of two unregistered Glock 23s. There were no bullet wounds on Napier.”

“Then where did the bullets go?”

Dekker shrugged. “I wish I knew. We never found them. The police and forensics team searched every square inch of that train car, but found nothing. No rounds were imbedded in the car walls, seat cushions, anywhere. And no windows were open or shattered, so the bullets didn’t exit the car.”

“So, what happened to them?”

Dekker paused, uncertain if he really wanted to answer. “I have an explanation, but it’s one I’ll never admit to publicly.”

“Fair enough.”

Dekker momentarily broke eye contact with Roach, but quickly reaffixed his gaze. “The only explanation I can come up with is that all eighteen bullets hit their target or targets, and that the target or targets escaped before the police showed up.”

“If I bring that theory to the mayor he’ll have us both locked away.”

“I know that.”

“The Metro’s surveillance cameras didn’t show anyone other than Matthews and Miss Monroe getting off the train after the gunshots were fired.”

“I know that.”

“And I don’t care how large or hyped on narcotics you are, there’s no human that could take eighteen .40 caliber rounds and walk away.”

“I know that.” Dekker paused. “But I never said that the target was human.”

Roach refused to even consider that possibility. “Is that all?”

Dekker nodded, so Roach dismissed him. When the door closed, Roach leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He sighed. Common sense told him not to bother arresting Matthews or Miss Monroe. Once again, forensics cleared them of being directly responsible for the murders. Only the security camera video linked them to the scene of the crime, and that showed an apparently injured Miss Monroe being escorted off the train by Matthews. The case would never make it past a grand jury. Hell, even he no longer believed they were responsible for the deaths aboard the Metro, though they were mixed up with it somehow. Roach could hide or ignore the facts, but that did not make them disappear. Bone fragments found at a crime scene associated with Matthews that were over three hundred years old. A ten-year-old boy who swore he had been attacked by a monster. Two corpses from the Metro melee butchered by something inhuman. And the likely existence of something that could take eighteen hits from a Glock 23 and still walk away from the area undetected. Roach desperately wanted to ignore these facts, because to consider them would lead to answers he did not want to contemplate.

Reality, however, also warned him that he would not be able to ignore the truth much longer.

AN INTENSE PAIN sliced through Toni. She sat up in bed, contracting her chest muscles to relief some of the agony. It coursed through her veins and ran through her organs like rivulets of fire. She clenched her teeth, fighting back the urge to cry out. After a minute that felt like an eternity, the burning subsided. Leaning back against the propped up pillows, she sighed.

Over the centuries, Toni had suffered numerous injuries. Failed stakings. Gunshot and sword wounds. Burns, including one incident when she had been nearly incinerated by hunters in a vicious battle in Vienna in 1756. In Rennes during the French Revolution, she came within moments of extinction as a victim of the same Reign of Terror that, ironically, she used to mask her feeding. But never before had she experienced pain like she did now. Not even when she had been turned during Ion’s orgy of sexual deviation and torture.

Pulling aside her dressing gown, Toni gently ran her fingers across the eighteen entry wounds. The agony cut through her body, but she continued to examine the scars. Toni had no idea what type of bullets the hunter used to cause such damage. Probably coated with holy water since it was one of the few things that could inflict such agony on a vampire. When she first escaped from the subway into the sewers, she noticed wisps of smoke and the stench of charred flesh coming from the wounds, accompanied by a burning sensation. Usually her wounds regenerated within an hour. Not these. They left jagged scars that refused to completely heal, leaving her chest permanently and hideously disfigured.

What felt even worse than the pain and disfigurement was her failure to kill the huntress. She had challenged Ion’s leadership in front of the coven, promising to accomplish what he could not. Instead of returning home triumphant with the bitch’s head as a trophy, Toni staggered back bruised and defeated. After the humiliation she had inflicted on Ion, she loathed to think about the retribution he would enact upon her. As she had pointed out to him, in retrospect unwisely, he had grown less tolerant and more cruel in recent years.

A noise at the door attracted her attention. Ion stood there, arms folded across his chest, a smug look of satisfaction on his face. Their eyes locked. Fear and apprehension welled up inside Toni. She wanted to look away but fought back the urge. Instead, she braced herself for the inevitable.

The inevitable never came.

Ion’s stern features softened, reminding her of the master who had been her lover and mentor right after she had been turned. When he spoke, his voice carried a tenderness she had not heard in decades.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

“One of the drawbacks to being a vampire. We’ve become so immune to pain that when we get badly hurt the agony is unbearable.” Ion unfolded his arms and crossed the room, sitting beside her on the bed. “What happened?”

“I’d overpowered the huntress and was about to turn her when the hunter showed up. He fired at me with a pair of pistols. Each bullet burned like fire. I got away as fast as I could and made my way back here.”

Ion attempted to open her nightgown. Toni stopped him, embarrassed to reveal her disfigurement. Ion clasped her hands and gently placed them by her side. Pulling aside her nightgown, he examined the wounds. When he touched one of the scars on her right breast, Toni winced.

“Holy water.” Ion closed the nightgown. “Same thing happened to my master back in Kiev in the 1600s. An Orthodox priest had coated his saber with it and tried to cut my master’s head off. The burning went away after a few days. The scar on his neck never did.”

“So now I’m a deformity.”

“Not to me.”

Toni averted her eyes, suddenly ashamed of the way she had treated him earlier.

“Weren’t you able to separate the hunters?” Ion asked.

“I did. Vladimir and Ilescu kept the hunter occupied in one car while I went after the huntress. He must have gotten wise and came to save her.” Toni looked at Ion apologetically. “You were right. I never should have quest…”

Ion placed two fingers on Toni’s lips, silencing her. “Don’t apologize. We both underestimated these particular humans.”

Ion stood and headed for the door, stopping in the middle of the room. “Come with me. The coven is waiting. They want to know you’re all right.”

“I’d rather just rest, if you don’t mind.”

Ion held out a hand and spoke with a gentle firmness. “Just for a minute.”

Bracing herself against the pain, Toni slid out of bed and adjusted her nightgown, then joined Ion in the center of the room. He took her right hand in his and placed his left arm around her waist. Moving slowly, Ion escorted Toni out of the bedroom and down the hall to the stairwell landing overlooking the foyer. The entire coven waited. Most stood on the stairs, with a few in the central hallway below. Upon seeing Toni, they growled in unison. The accolade lasted several seconds before Ion raised his hands to call for silence.

“As you can see, your mistress is alive and well. She was wounded in battle with the hunters. But, praise Satan, she will recover soon.”

More growls. Ion again raised his hands for silence.

“We have learned a valuable lesson these past few days. A lesson paid for with the lives of many of our brethren. Several of our numbers have fallen to these humans, and last night our mistress almost joined them. These humans are not like the others we have encountered. They are smart. They are strong. They are determined. But they will not prevail!”

A growl of ascension rose from each blood-soaked throat as Ion stirred the coven into a frenzy.

“We are vampires! We are superior to these humans in every way. We can heal our wounds after battle. They can not. We can increase our numbers by feasting on the living. They can not. Their mortality makes them vulnerable. We will no longer hide in the shadows of the night out of fear of these insignificant creatures.

“The hunter may be cunning, but he has a weakness. He cares for these humans, and will put himself in danger to protect them. If the hunter wants to be concerned about these pathetic little creatures, so be it. We’ll exploit that decency.” Ion hissed the last word.

“The next time we face the hunters, we will take them down once and for all.”

8

SALEM. A SMALL tourist town on the coast of Massachusetts north of Boston. Two hundred years ago, Salem had been the most prominent and influential seaport in the United States. It had been the first American city to establish trade relations with China and most of Asia, and its most prosperous merchant, Elias Haskett Derby, became America’s first millionaire. In later years, an unheard of official in the city’s Customs House would leave his bureaucratic endeavors behind and follow his passion for writing, eventually becoming known to the world as Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Yet Salem’s greatest claim to fame rested with a disturbing incident back in 1692—the infamous Witchcraft Trials. Two young girls, Betty Parris and her cousin Abigail Williams, had spent a long winter engrossed in listening to stories of witchcraft and practicing divinations of fortunes with Tituba, a slave Betty’s father had purchased while in Barbados. In February, Betty and Abigail began accusing local women of tormenting them through spectral visitations. Historically it had never been proven whether the girls actually believed their allegations, or were agitated by the stories told to them by Tituba, or were just bored and looking to bring some excitement to this joyless Puritan town. In any event, they set off an hysteria that eventually witnessed two hundred citizens jailed for witchcraft. Before the madness ended nearly a year later, nineteen people were hanged as witches, four accused Salemites accused of witchcraft died in prison, and one man who refused to testify was crushed to death under a pile of rocks during questioning.

Ironically, while virtually nothing from the era of the trials remained in Salem, the allure of the supernatural attracted tourists in droves. In a macabre twist on the “build it and they will come” theme, the locals provided enough makeshift attractions to draw in the crowds. An old church converted into a museum that displayed artifacts that may have been similar to those used by people who lived around the time of the trials. Another old church, the basement of which had been transformed into a paper mache version of what someone envisioned the jails used to detain accused witches may have looked like. History had been distorted to turn human misery into profit, while the truly supernatural aspects had been buried and all but forgotten.

It seemed only fitting that Salem would be home to Harold Reese.

After landing at Logan International Airport, Jessica rented a car and drove to Salem. The city harbored a charm that she found pleasantly surprising, especially when compared with the frenetic energy of Washington. Salem seemed to have maintained much of that famous small-town New England charm. Hell, what the local radio station referred to as heavy rush hour traffic would be comparable to a Sunday morning commute back in the District.

Finding Salem State College was easy, for it lay astride the coastal road linking Salem and Beverly. Jessica had driven only a few miles outside the city center when she came upon the college. Being late in the afternoon, she found street parking near the campus library. The campus was small, so she easily located the History Department in the Sullivan Building, the original red-brick schoolhouse that once served as the college’s only building when the institution had been known as Salem Teachers College.

If finding the History Department had been easy, finding Reese’s office proved more of a challenge. Jessica checked out all three floors as well as the basement, without success. She considered asking at the chairperson’s office, but decided against it, not wanting to attract any attention to herself. Instead, she asked one of the students who she found sitting alone in a classroom.

Jessica followed the student’s directions down to the basement where, in the northwest corner of the building, she found an underground corridor connecting Sullivan Building with the nearby Administration Building. With beige tiles and florescent lights hanging from the ceiling, the corridor reminded her of a well-kept subway station. A deserted subway station, for Jessica realized she was the only person in this part of the campus. Two locked metal doors on her right provided access to the boiler room and a janitorial closet. A single door made of wood and opaque glass sat recessed into the wall on her left. Jessica walked down to it. Painted across the glass were the words: Prof. Harold Reese, History Department.

Bingo. She knocked on the door. No response. Maybe he was in class. She knocked again, this time a little harder.

“Come in.” The voice from the other side sounded distracted.

Turning the knob, Jessica opened the door and stepped inside. Ten feet wide and thirty feet long, the office appeared commonplace for any college campus. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined both walls. Books pertaining to Medieval or Renaissance History filled each shelf, the rows occasionally interrupted by a framed photograph of some European cathedral or by an inexpensive souvenir. At the far end of the room sat a wooden desk two yards wide and piled high with magazines and term papers, some of which spilled over onto the worn leather easy chair pushed against the left edge of the desk. Though a string of florescent lights ran the length of the ceiling, they remained off. The only illumination came from a dust-covered banker’s lamp on top of the desk and a small window near the ceiling that allowed in a minimal amount of sunlight.

Reese sat at his desk, his back to the entrance, turned slightly to his right so he could work on a computer mounted onto a small end table. He appeared to be in his late-thirties, with reddish-brown hair and matching beard. The glare from the computer screen reflected off of a pair of amber-rimmed eyeglasses. He wore khakis, a white shirt that desperately needed to be ironed, and a necktie bearing a painting of Chartres Cathedral and with a poorly-tied knot skewered to one side. He reminded her of a Hollywood version of an absent-minded professor.

Though he had just invited Jessica in, he remained engrossed in his work, seemingly oblivious to her presence. When he did not respond after a few seconds, Jessica slowly moved deeper into the room to attract his attention. Nothing. She stepped a little closer, moving to the right to be in his line of sight.

“Excuse me, Doctor Reese?”

Reese looked up at Jessica, momentarily disoriented. He obviously had forgotten that he invited her in.

“Are you Doctor Reese?”

It suddenly dawned on Reese. He stood to greet Jessica, sending onto the floor a pile of papers that was resting on his lap. Reese hesitated, looking between the scattered papers and his visitor. He finally opted for politeness over cleanliness. Stepping toward Jessica, he extended his hand.

“Yes, I’m Doctor Reese. Well, actually, Professor Reese. I’m still working on my doctorate. You must be Miss Reynolds.”

“I am,” she said hesitantly, gently shaking his hand. “But how did you know…?”

“Drake called and warned me you’d probably be dropping by.”

“Oh.” Jessica did not hide her disappointment. “And I suppose he asked you not to talk to me?”

“On the contrary. He asked me to answer all your questions.” Reese collected the papers from the leather easy chair and placed them on one of the few free spaces left on his desk. He motioned toward the chair. As Jessica sat down, Reese bent over and picked up the papers he had dropped. He stood, looking around for a place to put them, and finally opted for the top of a row of books on the nearest shelf. Turning back to Jessica, Reese spun his chair to face her and sat down. “What do you want to know?”

“To start, why is Drake Matthews suddenly being so generous with information? I’ve been trying to talk with him for a week, but he keeps closing me down.”

“You’ll have to ask him that. I assume he’ll eventually grant you an interview. But he wants you to talk to me first.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t believe what I’m about to tell you, you’ll never believe Drake’s story.”

Jessica knew the story Reese would relate would be questionable. Probably fanciful. From everything she had learned from the Washington and Boston Police, Reese straddled the line between sanity and delusion. Considering everything she had learned in the past week, however, right about now Jessica would believe just about anything Reese told her.

Taking a small notebook from her pocketbook and flipping it open to the first blank page, Jessica leaned back into the chair. She crossed her legs to form a makeshift table. “Okay. So what do you want to tell me?”

“How much do you know about Drake Matthews and the Night Stalker case?”

“I read the reports from The Boston Globe and The Boston Herald, and talked with Michael Daugherty of the Boston Police.”

“I’m sure Daugherty had some nice things to say about me.” Reese’s tone dripped with sarcasm.

“Daugherty said you were a self-proclaimed expert in the supernatural.”

“I expected as much. The police never took Drake or me seriously.” Reese shook his head. “The truth is, the police screwed up that case. They had all the evidence in front of them and couldn’t recognize it. Or refused to. Only Drake had the courage to accept reality and to act accordingly.”

“And what was the reality?”

“That the police were not dealing with a serial killer but with a vampire.”

Jessica suppressed a sigh. A part of her had hoped that Reese would offer a more valid explanation. Something she could reasonably grasp on to. Nothing she had been told up to now made any sense, unless she was willing to believe that vampires existed. She had not reached that point yet.

“As a historian, you should know there are no such things as vampires.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, for one thing, no one has ever seen a vampire.”

“No one has ever seen God. Does that mean he doesn’t exist?” Reese raised an eyebrow, pleased at his logic. He gestured toward the books lining the shelves. “Besides, the historical records are filled with references to vampires. If you look at the folklore of almost every major culture, they contain stories about the undead living off of human blood. Such legends begin in Asia and the Middle East, and track with the spread of vampires into Europe. The contemporary vampire legends from the Balkans were brought into Europe by the Mongol invasions.”

“Hold on.” Jessica tried to control her frustration. “You don’t honestly expect me to buy all this, do you?”

“Drake said pretty much the same thing. Even told me I was crazy. And I’m sure you agree.”

“I don’t mean to imply…”

“Yes, you do. And I don’t blame you.” Reese spoke with patience and understanding. “I began reading vampire legends as a morbid sidebar to my regular studies. It took years of research, but eventually the evidence became too much for me to ignore. I finally accepted that vampires exist. You don’t have to believe what I tell you. But like I told Drake, believe the evidence.”

Jessica thought about the evidence she had accumulated. An intelligent young boy who adamantly claimed he had been attacked by a monster. Three-hundred-year-old bone fragments from a corpse that had led police on a high-speed chase through Washington. If she listened to Reese’s advice, the evidence led her to a conclusion she still could not accept.

Reese sensed her trepidation. “I know it’s difficult to grasp. But that doesn’t negate the fact that vampires have lived among us for centuries. They use wars, invasions, and pandemics to migrate undetected. They feed off of the homeless, criminals, prostitutes, anyone whose absence would go unnoticed and who the police would not waste resources trying to find. God knows how many missing persons were actually a midnight snack for the undead.”

Jessica shook her head, still unconvinced. “This sounds so fantastic.”

“It’s never easy to imagine the unimaginable. You have to suspend your disbelief, accept the facts, and tell yourself vampires do exist.”

“When I think of vampires, I think of Bram Stoker and Dracula.”

Reese leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Stoker was the best thing to happen to vampires. He romanticized them, made them respectable. Thanks to him, the true horror of these creatures has been forgotten.”

“Hollywood has done a pretty good job…”

“Hollywood has aided vampires more than anyone else.” Reese spat out the sentence, showing an uncharacteristic anger. His tone, however, quickly lost its edge. “They’ve made vampires culturally acceptable. In truth, there are no vampires with souls battling evil. No underground organization of the undead controlling corporate America. No good-natured creatures of the night looking for human sympathy or a way to fit into society. Vampires are pure evil.

“Even worse, Hollywood has generated so many falsehoods about vampires that it’s almost impossible to separate myth from reality.”

“How so?”

“For one thing, vampires don’t sleep in coffins filled with soil from their homeland. They only need to stay out of the sunlight. They can’t turn into bats, wolves, or mist. They’re not repelled by religious symbols, and can enter hallowed ground like a church or cemetery. And they cast reflections in mirrors. Holy water won’t kill them, but it’ll hurt like hell and slow them down a bit. A lot of amateur vampire hunters went into battle without knowing the facts and didn’t live long enough to make it into the pros.”

“How do you know all this?”

“From the memoirs.” Reese said matter-of-factly.

“Now you’re kidding.”

“Thousands of vampires have existed over the centuries. You don’t think it’s conceivable that some of them kept diaries? There’s even rumors of a Vampyrnomicon, a Book of the Undead. Although no one has ever been able to prove its existence.”

“You have a copy of one of these diaries?”

“I wish.” Reese exhaled quickly, part chuckle, part snort. He spoke rapidly, his pace increasing as he became more excited. “I read one several years ago while visiting a monastery in France. They belonged to Andre Augustine, a minor nobleman from Avignon who was turned when vampires ravaged their way across southern France during the Black Death. It dealt with how he had been turned, how he turned others, the realities and myths surrounding vampires, everything. It’s the Bible for vampirologists.”

“Is he still alive?”

“No. Over the centuries Andre went from being a minor nobleman to a member of the aristocracy. During the French Revolution he stayed behind in Paris, hoping to use the chaos to hide his feasting. Instead, Robespierre sent him to the guillotine. Kind of ironic, though. Frances’s vampire community suffered heavily during the Reign of Terror because the Revolution developed the only form of execution that proved effective in killing vampires. Beheading. At least a dozen masters were killed during the 1790s. Almost completely eradicated the Paris coven.”

Reese’s enthusiasm was contagious. Jessica found herself growing fond of him despite his idiosyncrasies. “You enjoy this way too much.”

“I know.” Reese’s enthusiasm drained away. He became sullen and serious. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and fixed his gaze on Jessica. “I really do enjoy this. I’m enthralled by the history and the research. But my involvement has been purely theoretical. I’ve never hunted a vampire. Hell, I’ve never even seen one. Hunting them is Drake’s job, and he’s a natural at it. He and Alison.”

“You make it sound like a calling. Like the priesthood.”

“In a way it is. Most of the original hunters were holy men. Priests. Monks. Rabbis. Mullahs. Though most of them never lasted more than a few years before being killed. Some were turned themselves and had to be killed by other hunters. I’d hate to see either of those fates befall Drake.”

“I don’t want to see him get hurt either.” Jessica meant it.

“I’m not saying you do. I just want to stress upon you how dangerous Drake’s position is. If you publish any of this, at best you’ll make his job more difficult. At worse, you’ll get him killed.”

“So what should I do?”

“That’s your decision.” Reese sat upright in his chair. “Did you have anything else you wanted to ask?”

“You gave me more than enough information.” Jessica stood and offered her hand. “Thank you for your time.”

“My pleasure.” Reese stood and took her hand, pumping it nervously. Cupping her elbow, he escorted Jessica to the door. “If you have any other questions, just give me a call.”

Once in the basement corridor, Jessica made her way back upstairs and exited the building. As she headed back to the car, her mind tried to grasp everything she had just heard. As crazy as it sounded, what Reese told her had made sense. Which meant she must face the reality that vampires existed, or that she was as crazy as Drake and Reese. Regardless, she needed to talk with one more person. When she got back to Washington, she would confront Drake Matthews one more time.

ION TRUDGED THROUGH one of the Washington sewer’s sanitation lines, keeping to the left-side walkway that paralleled the two-foot-deep trough containing raw sewerage. Rats scurried away, shrieking in fear as they darted from the evil that walked their lair. Only the cockroaches did not run. Several of the larger ones flew toward Ion and landed on his chest. Ion scooped one onto his index finger and raised it to eye level. Like vampires, these creatures fed off of humans, though these creatures fed off of human waste while his kind fed off of their life. And both would be around long after the humans were gone. Two nearly indestructible life forms, one created by God, the other by Satan. Lifting his finger, Ion gently blew on the cockroach, sending it fluttering down the sewer. He watched the insect until it disappeared into the darkness.

A thin shaft of sunlight cut through the dark, coming from a manhole cover atop a nearby access shaft. This was as good a place as any. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Ion withdrew a cellular phone and flipped it open. Less than half its power remained. Not that it mattered, for he only had to make one call. Having taken it from a young woman who he fed on last night, Ion knew that once the police discovered her shriveled corpse they would trace her missing cell phone. Once he made his call, he would discard the phone in the sewer miles from their row house so the police could not locate the coven.

Ion dialed the phone number for The Washington Standard. When the receptionist answered, he asked to be put through to Jessica Reynolds. The phone rang several times, then after a series of clicks began ringing again. Finally, a woman answered.

“News desk. How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Jessica Reynolds.”

“She’s not here at the moment. Do you want to leave a message?”

“Not really. I need to talk to her directly. It’s about Drake Matthews.”

“Hang on a minute.” Classical music came over the line. It lasted approximately thirty seconds before the woman came back on. “Bill Carter is working that story with Jessica. He’s at his desk. Would you like me to patch you through?”

“Thank you.”

Another series of clicks, then the phone began ringing again. This time a man answered.

“Bill Carter here.”

“Bill, I’m trying to reach Jessica.”

“Is this Dekker?”

Ion had no idea who Dekker was, but decided to play along. “No. But he asked me to call.”

“I don’t remember seeing you at the morgue.”

“I work the graveyard shift.” At least Ion now knew Dekker’s identity. “Dekker needs to talk to Jessica as soon as possible.”

“What about?”

“He didn’t say. When does Jessica get back?”

“Not until late this afternoon. Hang on a second.” A rustling of paper came across the line. “She’s free tonight. Wanna meet at the morgue at eight o’clock? Same as last time?”

“That’ll be great. Thanks.”

“See you then.” A moment’s pause, then Bill asked excitedly, “Wait a minute. I didn’t get your…”

Ion disconnected the call, hit the power button, and, as the cell phone shut down, whipped it down the darkened sewer. He heard the splash as it landed in the sewerage. Everything was arranged. Tonight the coven would deal with that annoying reporter. Once she was taken care of, then they would kill the hunters.

Turning around, Ion headed back to the row house to make the final preparations.

9

DRAKE SAVORED THESE rare moments of downtime. Seated at an outdoor table at the Dunkin’ Donuts in Dupont Circle, he had everything he needed for a late afternoon of relaxation: a Macanudo cigar, a cup of iced coffee, and a folded-over issue of Fangoria. There were too many passersby, however, for him to concentrate on reading. Tossing the magazine onto the metal table, Drake took a long draw on his cigar and sat back to people watch. The sun already had begun to set, cooling the spring evening even further.

All things considered, Drake felt pretty positive about how events were panning out. Alison had been released from the hospital Saturday afternoon with a clean bill of health, and was recuperating faster than anticipated. In fact, she was already itching to get back into the fray. Jim had shown himself to be a ball of fire, creating an impressive arsenal designed specifically to fight vampires. Had it not been for his holy water bullets, Alison probably would have become one of them. Granted, Friday night’s fiasco definitely would not rank as their finest moment. Next time, though, the outcome would be different.

Drake took a long draw on his cigar.

“Those are bad for your health.”

Looking over his shoulder, Drake saw Jessica standing behind him.

“These? They’re the least of my problems.” He sat up, then gestured toward the chair opposite him. “Will you join me?”

“I was hoping you’d ask.” Jessica crossed to the chair and sat down. Drake noticed that tonight she wore a black business suit and pink blouse. He could easily get used to seeing her more often.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked.

“No, thanks.”

“Are you sure? My treat. That’s a rare event.”

“I’m fine.” Jessica smiled. Drake wondered if the smile indicated professional courtesy or flirtation. Jessica withdrew her notepad from her pocket. “I’m curious, though. Are you just being polite? Or does this mean you’ve agreed to talk to me?”

“Both. I’m going to have to give you an interview sooner or later. You don’t seem like the type who’ll take no for an answer.”

“Damn straight.”

“Then go ahead. I’m yours.”

Again the smile. “Okay. Let’s cut right to the chase. What is it you do here in Washington?”

Drake took a long puff on his cigar, purposefully drawing out his answer. He blew the smoke into the air, picked up his iced coffee, and answered the question before drinking. “I hunt vampires.”

No response. Jessica stared at him. Her face showed no emotion. She did not even blink. After a few seconds she quietly said, “I can’t believe you admitted to that.”

“So you don’t believe me?”

“Actually, I do.” Jessica exhaled heavily. “A part of me was hoping you’d tell me something different. Something more easily explainable.”

“Sorry.” Drake drank another sip of coffee. “It’s not an easy reality to grasp.”

“How long did it take you to grasp it?”

“Too long.” Drake took another puff on the cigar. As he exhaled, he shifted in his chair to lean closer to Jessica. “Like you, I talked with Reese before my first run-in with the undead. I didn’t believe him either until we encountered our first vampire.”

“Bad?”

“Nearly fatal. The only reason Alison and I survived was because of what Reese had told me. It made me a believer.”

“How did you wind up hunting vampires down here in Washington?”

“Bad luck.”

“Seriously.”

Drake took another drink of coffee, using the time to formulate his thoughts. “Shortly after being fired from the Boston Police, I received a phone call from a man I know only as Smith. Over dinner one night, he told me that a nest had been discovered here in Washington, and said someone powerful wanted me to exterminate them.”

“And of course you said yes.”

“I had nothing on my calendar for the next few months, so I figured why not.” Drake leaned back in his chair. “That was three months ago. I’ve been hunting them ever since.”

“Who’s your anonymous benefactor?”

“No idea.”

Jessica scrunched up her face, obviously not buying his answer.

“I’m serious. The only person I ever deal with is Smith. Whoever Mister X is, I’m guessing he is very powerful.”

“Why?”

“Because whatever we need gets taken care of in no time. Office space. Apartments. Vehicles. Supplies. He even bails us out no matter how much trouble we get into.”

“Which is more often than not?” Again the flirtatious smile.

“Sometimes it seems that way. I hope Mister X never loses his power and prestige, otherwise I’m going to be spending a lot of time in jail.”

“If that happens, I want dibs on your prison interview.”

“Deal.”

Jessica became serious again. “How many vampires have you killed since moving to Washington?”

“About a dozen. But nowhere near enough to clean out the nest.”

Jessica stared at him incredulous. “You’re joking?”

“Nope.”

“How many vampires are there to a nest?”

“The numbers vary.” Drake practically sighed the answer, for he knew better than anyone else the seeming futility of his endeavor. “Whenever a vampire feeds, its victim becomes one of the undead. Their numbers increase exponentially. Killing one a week barely makes a dent in a nest.”

“So then conceivably, if not cleaned out, a nest could eventually overrun a city?”

Drake nodded.

For the first time, Jessica seemed stunned by what she heard. An uneasy silence lapsed as Jessica processed Drake’s story.

“One thing I don’t understand,” she finally said. “You can’t want any of this revealed to the public, so why are you telling it to me?”

“You know the answer to that.” Drake took a long draw on his cigar, all the time watching Jessica for her reaction. She thought about Drake’s response, her brow furrowed in thought. Suddenly her eyes opened wide as the realization struck her.

“You bastard,” she said quietly. “You told me all this because you know damn well I’ll never be allowed to go public with it. If I go to my editor with this story, I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t transfer me to the paper’s Kiddie Korner.”

Drake smiled. Jessica looked away and out into the street. She folded her arms across her chest and crossed her legs. “Damn you.”

“I didn’t tell you this to taunt you.”

“Then why did you tell me?”

“Because you deserve to hear the truth. Of everyone I’ve known since I first began hunting vampires, you’re the first one who ever came close to discovering the truth.”

“Thanks.” Jessica softened her tone. “Don’t you think the public deserves to know, too?”

“They’re not ready for it. Look how long it took you to accept the truth.”

“And I still have doubts.”

“Exactly.” Drake nodded. “It’s better to let the public think that the worse that could happen to them is a mugging or a random shooting.”

Jessica did not respond because she had nothing more to say. Drake was right, and she knew it.

“What time is it?” she asked.

Drake looked at his watch. “About twenty to eight.”

“Shit.”

“What’s up?”

Jessica stood and looked around, making certain she had not left anything behind. “I have to meet Dekker at eight o’clock.”

“Robert Dekker? The chief medical examiner?”

“You know him?”

“Not personally.” Drake suppressed a grin. “But I hear he’s a fan of my work.”

Jessica did not even notice the joke. “I’m sorry to be rude.”

“No problem. Call me if you want to talk some more.”

Jessica paused, then smiled. “Thanks. I think I will.”

Rushing into the street, she raised a hand to flag down a taxi.

“THERE SHE IS,” the thing in the back seat hissed.

In the SUV’s passenger seat, Toni leaned closer to the windshield, which had been painted over black from the inside, and stared at Jessica through the small portion of glass that remained exposed.

“And she’s with the hunter,” added the driver.

“I can see that.” Toni spat out the words. Her hand went to her chest and fingered the scars beneath her blouse.

The vampire in the back seat leaned forward. “Let’s take down the hunter now while we have the chance. We outnumber him.”

Toni shook her head. “We’d still have to deal with the huntress. Besides, Ion wants us to kidnap the reporter. I’m not going to defy him again.”

“There she goes.” The driver pointed to Jessica getting into a taxi. “Should we head her off at the morgue?”

“No. Follow her, but keep your distance.”

DRAKE WATCHED JESSICA as she climbed into the taxi. He empathized with her, for he remembered his own disbelief when first told about the existence of vampires. He became a believer only after he had encountered one himself. Hopefully, Jessica would never need such proof. If she had an ounce of common sense she would drop this assignment. Yet he felt reasonably certain that Jessica had more determination than common sense. A quality that reminded Drake of himself.

In either case, Drake hoped he would see her again.

Taking a puff on his cigar, Drake realized it had gone out. He placed the cigar between his lips, pulled a lighter out of his pocket, and flicked it on. While lighting his cigar, he spotted a gray SUV drive by and follow Jessica’s taxi. He would never have noticed it had it not been for the black-painted windows. As unusual as they appeared, he had seen something similar before, but could not remember…

Drake suddenly realized where he had seen car windows painted black. Four months ago. In Boston. In the garage of the house where the Night Stalker lived. The vampire had painted over the windows to block out sunlight so he could travel during the day.

Bolting out of his chair, Drake ran to the street and hailed a taxi. As he did, he flipped open his cellular phone and dialed the office. Alison answered on the second ring.

“Drake Matthew’s Consulting Agency. How can…?”

“Alison, it’s me. Is Jim with you?”

“He’s home. Resting up for tomorrow night.”

“Shit!”

“What’s up?” Concern entered Alison’s voice.

“Get down to the morgue as fast as you can. Jessica’s on her way there now with an SUV full of snuffies right behind her.”

“How many are we dealing with?”

“I don’t know. Prepare for the worst. Just get down there before Jessica walks into a trap.”

“Gotcha, boss.”

Flipping the cell phone shut, Drake concentrated on finding a taxi. All the ones within sight were occupied, except for one yellow cab half a block away. Rushing through the throngs of pedestrians, Drake made his way to the taxi and jumped in back.

The driver spun around to face him. “Sorry, buddy. I’m off duty.”

“I need to get to the city morgue right away. It’s literally a matter of life and death.”

“Wish I could help, but I’m on my way home.”

Drake reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out three $20 bills, then handed them over to the driver. “Please help me out. I don’t have time to find another taxi.”

The driver stared at the bills for several seconds, then shrugged. Taking the money, he folded the bills over and slid them into his shirt pocket. “What the hell. It’s on my way home anyway.”

THIS PLACE IS unusually quiet tonight, Bill thought as he walked the morgue’s corridors. It is as quiet as…. well, as a morgue. The only sounds were his footsteps echoing along the poorly-lit corridor and the background hum of the building’s ventilation system. No sounds of others working late. Even the night security guard was not around, his wooden chair folded and resting against the wall.

Bill eventually came to the autopsy room. He looked at his watch. A few minutes after eight o’clock. Jessica might already be here. He knocked. No answer. He knocked again, only louder this time. Still no answer. Trying the knob, he found it unlocked. Rather than stand in the hall and draw attention to himself, Bill stepped inside.

The autopsy room was empty, which surprised Bill because two bodies waited for examination. One lay on the main autopsy table, the other on a gurney parallel to it, both covered with sheets. A tray of instruments rested by the main table. The only light came from a floor-mounted lamp at the head of the main table.

Bill checked his camera to make certain the settings were correct, then switched on the flash. He wanted to snap a few photos of the room while no one was around, hopefully to be used in Jessica’s feature. Moving to one corner, Bill lined up the shot, adjusted the focus, and snapped the first photograph. Blinding light momentarily lit up the room, followed by a high-pitched whine as the flash recharged. Bill took two more photos from different angles.

While taking the third photograph, Bill noticed something unusual through the camera’s viewfinder—a reflection on the sheet covering the body on the autopsy table just as the flash went off. Bill moved closer to check it out. A large, dark wet spot caused the reflection. He touched the spot with his fingers. The liquid soaked the sheet. Rubbing some of it onto his finger, he raised it to his eyes to examine it. It was thick and red. Jesus, thought Bill. It’s blood.

Looking around for a weapon, Bill took a scalpel off of the tray, brandishing it in his right hand like a switchblade. With his left, Bill reached out for the end of the sheet. His hand shook. He took a deep breath to steady himself. Clutching the end of the sheet, he yanked it off with a massive pull, letting it flutter to the floor.

Dekker lay sprawled out on the autopsy table. Someone had worked him over with a psychotic vengeance. Dekker’s chest was sliced open from neck to pelvis, his skin torn back to reveal the body cavity. His intestines hung out of the exposed abdomen and lay entangled on the table, fluid and feces leaking from the open end. Every other organ had scalpel slices running down its length, with the instrument of torture still buried to its hilt in Dekker’s stomach. Bill could not even begin to imagine the torment Dekker must have endured before death released him.

Dekker’s eyes opened. His head jerkily turned to Bill. He breathed deep, his sliced-open lungs whistling with the effort. Exhaling shakily, Dekker pleaded, “Kill me.”

Bill dropped the scalpel and stumbled backward, trying to escape the horror before him. He stopped only when he backed into the gurney. Suddenly, the corpse on the gurney sat up. Two pallid arms shot out from under the sheet and grabbed Bill around the throat, its claws digging into his skin. With a violent shake of its head, the corpse threw off the sheet, revealing a pair of blood-red eyes set into sunken sockets and a mouth filled with razor-sharp fangs. Bill felt a stream of urine flow down his leg.

The vampire motioned with its head toward Dekker. “Do you like my handiwork? I tried to get him to tell me what he knew about your boss, but he wouldn’t talk. He screamed a lot, though.”

The creature plunged its mouth toward Bill’s throat. Bill had to get away, but could not break the thing’s grip without ripping out half his throat in the process. Raising the camera to the vampire’s face and placing the flash in front of its eyes, Bill snapped a photo.

The flash went off, blinding the creature. Crying out in pain, it released its grip. Bill took advantage of the opportunity. Taking the camera from around his neck, he smashed it into the vampire’s face. The camera shattered, but the force of the blow knocked the vampire backward off the gurney.

Bill ran to the door, shoving it open and escaping into the corridor.

TEN MINUTES LATE, Jessica cursed under her breath. Traffic had been unusually heavy coming across town. Not that it mattered, for Dekker often worked nights and would not be going anywhere. She just hated being rude.

Rushing along the basement corridor while rummaging through her pocketbook for a notebook, Jessica failed to notice anything unusual. The deathly silence. The empty chair where the security guard should be. She did not even hear the corridor door open in front of her. Only when the tall figure with raven black hair stepped into her path did Jessica become aware of her surroundings. She stopped, barely missing running into him.

“Excuse me,” she said politely.

“You must be Miss Reynolds.” Ion said it as a statement rather than a question.

Jessica became wary. “Do I know you?”

“You know of me. I’m Ion Zielenska. I’m the master Drake Matthews has been hunting.”

Keeping her eyes fixed on Ion, Jessica began to back down the corridor. She had taken only two steps when a door behind her opened. Jessica spun around and gasped.

Two vampires stepped out of a storage room. One was an overweight black woman in a blood-stained nurse’s uniform. The other, over six feet tall with the build of a football linebacker, wore the security guard’s jacket, though it barely fit over its massive chest. Fresh blood covered its mouth and dripped onto the uniform. It kept one hand behind its back.

“Where are you going?” The large vampire grinned sardonically, exposing its yellow fangs. “We’ve only just met.”

Jessica stared at the uniformed creature. She finally had the proof she needed that vampires existed. She would give anything to be ignorant again.

“You’re wearing the guard’s uniform.”

“He won’t need it. He won’t need his hat, either.” The vampire held up the security guard’s severed head. Mangled flesh, tissue, and muscles dangled from what used to be its neck. Blood and bodily fluid dripped onto the floor. The bulging eyes and frozen scream of terror on the guard’s dead lips testified to the horrible death he had endured.

“Oh, dear God.”

“I assure you, Miss Reynolds. God has nothing to do with this.” Ion stepped up behind Jessica and placed his hands on her shoulders.

Jessica spun around, swinging her left forearm up and knocking Ion’s hands off her shoulders. “Get your hands off of me.”

Ion morphed into a vampire. He growled at Jessica and stepped forward, fangs bared. Jessica closed her eyes and braced for the end.

A commotion farther down the hall attracted everyone’s attention. The door to the morgue swung open and Bill stumbled out. He slammed the door after him with such force that he slipped backward, banging into the wall. Regaining his composure, he raced toward Jessica and the others.

“Jessica, we’ve gotta get out here! This place is swarming with vampires!”

Ion spun around to face Bill. “We know.”

Before Bill could respond, Ion grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. Ion’s cracked lips receded over his fangs. Bill tried to scream, but in his fear could barely squeak. Ion bent over and plunged his fangs into the front of Bill’s throat. Bill’s muffled scream became a gurgle as the master fed. When finished, Ion yanked his head away, tearing out most of Bill’s throat. Ion let go of Bill, whose body fell to the floor, the fatal wound pouring out his life blood. Ion derisively spit the chunk of flesh onto the dying man.

The vampire from the morgue raced up and stopped short, then looked down at Bill. “I’m sorry, master. He blinded me with his camera then escaped.”

“No harm done.” With his hand, Ion wiped the blood from his mouth and licked his fingers. “This time.”

“What should we do with him?”

“Nothing. He’ll bleed out in a few minutes. Then he’ll be one of us.”

“And the woman?”

“Take her away.”

The vampire nurse and the one from the morgue each grabbed one of Jessica’s arms.

Suddenly, another voice came from the opposite end of the corridor. “How pathetic are you?”

All eyes turned toward the exit. Alison stood by the security guard’s wooden chair.

“It takes a master and three snuffies to take on one woman.” Alison pushed the folds of her leather coat back, draping them behind her hands which rested on her hips. “Maybe you’d like to take a shot at me instead?”

The three vampires turned to Ion. He looked at the vampire in the security guard’s outfit and snarled. “Tear her heart out.”

With a guttural growl, the vampire spun around and charged. Alison stood her ground until the thing approached to within ten feet. Bending over, she grabbed the wooden chair by its legs and swung it with all her strength. The chair slammed against the vampire’s chest and face, shattering with a loud crack. The vampire shook its head, throwing off the shards. Reaching out, it grabbed Alison by the throat and shoved her back against the wall. She could not break free.

“Stupid bitch. Did you think hitting me with a chair would stop me?”

“No. I just needed this.” Alison held up the jagged edge of the broken leg.

The vampire’s eyes widened. Alison drove the jagged edge into its chest, and with a sharp twist plunged it into the vampire’s heart. It bellowed in agony. Releasing its grip on Alison, the vampire stumbled back, pulling on the makeshift stake. Blood gushed from the wound, some of it splattering Alison. Knowing it had only seconds to live, the vampire bared its talons and swung at Alison’s face. She braced herself for the blow, but only got gently slapped by a wisp of ash.

Alison picked up the chair leg and turned to face the others. “Next.”

None of the remaining vampires moved. Ion finally bellowed a command, his voice shaking in fury. “What are you waiting for? Kill her!”

The vampire from the morgue issued an inhuman sound, part snarl and part hiss. It let go of Jessica’s arm and lunged down the corridor. Alison moved forward to confront it.

Which was when Jessica made her move. Now that only one vampire had a grip on her, Jessica threw all of her weight into the vampire nurse, pushing it against the wall with enough force to break its grip. With no one constraining her, Jessica ran down the corridor toward Alison. The vampire from the morgue turned to stop Jessica, a fatal mistake. Coming up from behind, Alison plunged the chair leg into the vampire’s back. She felt the wood ricochet off of a rib, and for a moment she feared she might have missed its heart. Then it howled. The vampire clawed at its back, attempting to remove the stake. It continued tearing at its back until the flailed skin disintegrated into ash, and it crumbled to the floor.

“Are you okay?” Alison asked Jessica as she picked up the makeshift stake from the vampire’s remains.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Save it. Get out of here while you can.”

Jessica ran for the exit. Alison walked toward the remaining vampires. Ion and the vampire nurse moved to meet her. As they closed on each other, Alison brought her hand to chest level, the stake horizontal and aimed at the approaching menace. Before she could use it, however, Ion grabbed the vampire nurse by the shoulders and pushed it forward, driving it onto the stake. The vampire nurse gave out a startled cry, especially when Ion shoved it farther onto the stake. Ion continued to push the vampire nurse forward, knocking Alison off balance. As she tried to regain her footing, Ion threw the disintegrating remains of the vampire nurse aside, ripping the chair leg out of Alison’s hand. The vampire nurse hit the wall, exploding into a cloud of ash. Ion grabbed Alison by the neck and, in a move that seemed effortless, lifted Alison off her feet and drove her into the door jam.

“You’ve been a pain in my ass for far too long, bitch. Now I’ll send you to hell.”

“Not if I can help it.”

Alison plunged her thumbs into Ion’s eyes and pushed, driving them deep into the orbs. Ion screamed in agony. He slammed Alison against the wall hard, then flung her to the side. She landed fifteen feet down the corridor. Unconscious.

Placing one hand on the wall for guidance, Ion made his way along the corridor to the exit.

“HERE YOU GO.” The taxi driver pulled to a stop in front of the morgue.

“Thanks,” said Drake. “I won’t ask you to wait.”

“I wouldn’t. No offense, but this place gives me the creeps. Maybe you want to be caught dead in a place like this, but not me.”

“Trust me, buddy. That’s the last thing I want.” Drake climbed out onto the sidewalk and closed the car door. The driver pulled his taxi into a U-turn and raced off down the street before Drake had a chance to move.

Drake quickly assessed the situation. The only vehicle on the street was the SUV with the black-painted windows parked one hundred feet away. He could not see in, so he could not determine if or how many vampires were inside. He assumed the worst, which with his luck meant that when the doors opened the undead would pour out of the SUV like a clown car from hell. And all he had for weapons were two stakes and the garrote he kept in his pocket. Taking one of the stakes from its pouch under his jacket, Drake held the weapon so it was concealed by his arm and slowly approached the vehicle.

The banging of a door to his right startled him. He turned to see Jessica race out of the morgue and onto the sidewalk. By the look of fear on her face, he could tell that things had gone FUBAR inside. He rushed up to her. At first, Jessica pulled back until she realized it was Drake approaching. She raced into his arms.

Jessica sobbed. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Are you all right?”

Jessica nodded. “They murdered Bill. One of them tore his throat out. I’d be dead, too, if Alison hadn’t shown up.”

“Is Alison okay?”

“I think so. She’s already killed two of them. Two more are inside.”

Drake stepped back and placed his hand under Jessica’s chin, gently lifting her head. “I have to help Alison. I want you to…”

Jessica’s scream cut off Drake. He turned around. Three vampires got out of the SUV and stalked toward them. Two snuffies and the red-headed master from the Metro.

“Nice to see you again, hunter.” Toni morphed into a vampire. “We have a score to settle.”

ALISON CAME AROUND slowly, still disoriented from being thrown into the door jam. The aches from the other night had returned, this time with a vengeance. She raised herself into a sitting position, vaguely aware of the cold tile floor beneath her.

She suddenly remembered her battle with the master, and realized that she had not killed him. She scanned the corridor, expecting to see him closing in for the kill. Thankfully, she was alone.

“He doesn’t pay me enough for this shit.”

Struggling to her feet, Alison looked around for the broken chair leg, picking it up from where Ion had thrown it. While heading outside, she came across a fire fighting station recessed into the wall, complete with coiled hose and an axe. The glass door was locked. Using the end of the chair leg, she shattered the glass, then stuck the makeshift stake between the waistline of her pants and the small of her back. Alison removed the axe from its hooks. Brandishing it in both hands, she took off after the master.

DRAKE STOOD IN front of Jessica. He felt her hands on his shoulders. They were trembling.

“How cute. The hunter is protecting his whore.” Toni’s voice became cold and menacing as she commanded the vampires. “You two get the bitch. The hunter is mine.”

The three vampires spread out as they drew closer. Drake could handle a pair of vampires or a master, but not all three at once. He reached under his jacket, grabbing a stake with the other hand. Thinking Drake was reaching for another pistol loaded with holy water bullets, Toni stopped short and growled. The other two vampires stopped and looked to her for guidance.

The door to the morgue banged open. Ion staggered out, feeling around with his hands as he stumbled his way onto the sidewalk. Blood and fluid flowed from his eye sockets. When the master raised his lids, Drake could see the ruptured eyeballs. Ion looked around through sightless eyes.

“Toni, are you there?”

“I’m here.”

Ion looked in the direction of the voice. “Do you have the reporter?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s get out of here.”

Toni and the other two vampires turned to Jessica. Under her breath, Jessica muttered, “Shit.”

“We’re in a world of it,” said Drake.

“What do we do now?”

“Run.”

The two vampires lunged. Drake darted forward, aiming the stake in his right hand at the nearest vampire’s heart. The vampire blocked Drake’s thrust with a swing of its left arm, and in the process left itself wide open. Drake plunged the stake in his left hand into the vampire’s chest. It bled out and crumbled to ash. Drake turned to the other vampire, but it had already drawn too close. It smacked Drake across the face with such force that he spun around, sprawling to the sidewalk. The stakes flew out of his hands and rolled into the gutter.

Jessica used the vampires’ attack to make a break for safety. She did not get far. Toni blocked her path. Jessica threw a punch, but Toni grabbed her fist and twisted Jessica’s arm until she faced the opposite direction. Clutching Jessica by the hair, Toni slammed the woman’s head into a nearby telephone pole with enough force to knock her out. Still clutching Jessica’s hair, Toni dragged the unconscious woman back to the SUV and tossed her in back.

The second vampire continued its attack on Drake. As Drake struggled to his feet, the vampire reached down and grabbed him by the front of the throat, lifted him off the pavement, and shoved him against the wall. Drake clutched at the hand around his throat but could not break the grip. Its fingers tightened, cutting off the supply of oxygen.

Something approached from the right. Drake expected to see the red-headed master closing in to deliver the fatal blow. But out of the corner of his eye he saw her helping Ion, one arm around his waist and the other holding his hand, as she escorted him back to the SUV and helped him into the passenger’s seat. Drake tried to turn his head to get a better view of what approached, but the vampire’s grip was too strong. His vision started to blur.

Drake heard the whoosh of an object slicing through the air and the dull thud of metal against skin, followed by a bone-chilling howl. The grip around his neck loosened enough to allow in air. Drake fell to his knees, gasping for breath, then raised his head.

Alison stood beside him, an axe gripped in both hands. Blood and gore covered the blade. She had cut off the vampire’s arm above the elbow. Holding the bloody stump with its good hand, it turned to Alison and snarled. Alison raised the axe and brought it down hard on the vampire’s head, cleaving it down to its upper jaw. The blow made a sickening sound as the vampire’s skull cracked and its brain was rendered. A howl came from its lips that sounded as if hell itself had screamed. Alison tried to dislodge the axe, but the vampire’s thrashing around only imbedded it deeper. Placing one foot on its chest, she used the extra leverage and yanked. The axe slid out with a squish, splattering her with blood and gore. Brandishing the axe like a baseball bat, Alison gave one final swing, slicing through the vampire’s neck. Its head separated from its body. Both the torso and head fell to the ground, each disintegrating into a cloud of ash.

“Are you okay?” Alison asked as she helped Drake to his feet.

“I’ve been worse.” The severed hand and forearm still clung to Drake’s neck. He pulled it off. The limb crumbled to dust in his hand. “Where’s Jessica?”

“She’s with the masters.” Alison motioned toward the SUV that raced down the street. “I couldn’t save both of you. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.”

“What do you think they want with her?”

“I don’t know.” Drake took a step and faltered, still shaky from his near strangulation. “Whatever it is, they want her alive, otherwise why go through the trouble of kidnapping her?”

“Come on. My car’s parked around the corner.” Alison took Drake by the hand and led him away. “We better get out of here before the police show up.”

10

CONSCIOUSNESS CAME BACK to Jessica slowly. She entered that transitional state when the mind is uncertain whether or not it’s awake. Her short-term memory tried to sort out reality from nightmare, though in this instance they blended with a horrifying familiarity. She remembered the attack in the morgue. Alison and Drake coming to her rescue. That third-rate Vampira slamming her against the lamp post and knocking her out. She still had the headache to remind her of that. The throbbing in her temple grew worse when she tried to open her eyes, so she kept them shut.

Jessica sniffed. She detected the lingering odor of sewage, yet felt no dampness or heard no dripping water. In fact, she was vaguely aware of lying on something soft. She flattened her hand and glided it along the surface. Silk. Silk sheets, to be exact.

Despite the pain in her temple, Jessica sat up and opened her eyes. The room began spinning. She swallowed hard to prevent herself from vomiting, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. After a moment, the dizziness stopped. This time, Jessica tried opening her eyes slowly. Her vision wobbled, and it took a few seconds for the blurred corners of the room to come into focus.

“Finally.”

Jessica turned her head to the left. The red-headed master who had knocked her unconscious sat in a wing-backed chair beside the bed. Jessica lay in a weathered four-poster bed, the only other piece of furniture in the bedroom. The three windows off to her right were all painted black on the inside, just as in the SUV. She noticed two doors, a smaller one directly behind the master, and a larger one opposite the foot of the bed. She assumed that one probably led to safety. In her condition, she would never be able to beat the vampire to the door. Better to die on her feet, though, than to stay in bed and wait for these things to subject her to God knows what.

Rolling to the side of the bed, Jessica swung her feet onto the floor and stood, using one of the bedposts for support. The room began to spin. Pushing her legs forward, Jessica staggered across the room until she fell into the door. As she turned the knob, she looked back at the master. The vampire just sat there, staring at her with disdain. Jessica opened the door and ran out.

And collided with a pair of snuffies guarding the hallway. One of the vampires hissed at Jessica, its mouth open so wide it could have bitten off her entire face. Decayed flesh odored its breath. The second vampire shoved Jessica back into the room and toward the bed. Jessica tumbled backward onto the mattress, exhausted.

Toni stood up and looked over at the hissing vampire. “Go get Ion.”

It scurried off to obey. The second vampire stood near the foot of the bed, its eyes fixed on Jessica.

“Why do I smell like a sewer?” asked Jessica.

“Because that’s how we brought you here.”

“Where’s here?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Jessica did not like the ominous implications of that answer. “What are you going to do to me?”

“If I had my way, you’d be our next meal.” Toni stood and joined the second snuffy, leering at Jessica. “Fortunately for you, Ion has other plans.”

“What plans?”

“Why don’t you ask me yourself.”

Jessica turned to the door. She recognized that master that had been blinded in the morgue. Except now its eyes were intact. “You can see?”

“Of course.”

“But your eyes were gouged out.”

“Didn’t Professor Reese tell you? Masters can regenerate their wounds.”

Toni huffed.

“Most of their wounds,” Ion corrected himself. “It’s one of the reasons we live as long as we do. But I’m being rude. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Ion Zielenska, master of this coven. This is Antoinette Varela, my bride.”

“What do you intend to do to me?”

Ion strolled over to the bed and sat down beside Jessica. “First, we’re going to use you as bait to entrap the hunters.”

“What makes you think they’ll come after me?”

Ion laughed. “They will.”

Jessica knew they would. Drake already had put his life on the line numerous times for people he did not even know. He even tried to save her once. She felt certain he would try again.

“You said ‘first’,” asked Jessica. “What’ll happen second?”

“Then you’ll become a master, like us.”

“You mean I’ll become your bride?”

“You’re quite beautiful, but I already have a bride.” Ion reached out a hand and used the back of his fingers to gently stroke Jessica’s cheek. His skin felt cold and clammy against hers. She drew back in revulsion. Ion did not let the gesture offend him. “Once you’re a master, I plan to send you back to Boston to resurrect the coven that Drake destroyed. It’ll be my final insult to him.”

Jessica remembered what Reese told her about a person having to feed off a master to become one themselves, and thus could only be turned of their own free will. “It won’t work. I don’t want to become one of the undead, and you can’t force me.”

“True.” Ion’s charm gave way to a subdued menace. “But I can think of ways to inflict such pain, ways to torture the flesh and crush the spirit, so that in time you will beg me to make you a master and put you out of your mortal torment.”

Jessica did not fool herself about this being an idle threat.

“Don’t worry about the future.” Ion cupped Jessica’s cheek in his right hand. “Right now, get some rest while I make the final arrangements for tonight.”

Standing, Ion went to leave the bedroom, with Toni right behind. He stopped in the doorway and turned back to Jessica. “And don’t try to escape. The guards have their orders to stop you, but not to keep you safe. They won’t kill you, but you’ll wish they had.”

As Ion closed the door, Jessica crawled backwards onto the pillows. She knew she could not get away. She loathed the idea of waiting around for someone to rescue her, but in this situation she had little choice. To try and fight her way out would get her killed, at best. At worst…. She tried not to think about it. Her best course of action was to sit tight and bide time. When Drake came to her rescue, then she would fight back. She probably would do little to help out the hunters in the coming battle. She probably would not come out of it alive. But that did not matter.

Jessica intended to go down fighting.

DRAKE PACED NERVOUSLY between the window in his office and his desk. Alison sat behind the latter, the telephone receiver cradled between her ear and shoulder. Drake stared at Alison, as if that would expedite her conversation, then strolled back to the window to stare out at the back alley. Alison had turned her back on Drake, ignoring him. Jim sat on the sofa underneath the picture of Nosferatu, absent-mindedly thumbing through a gun supply catalogue.

Jessica had been kidnapped nearly twenty-four hours earlier. Since then, nothing had happened. No message from the vampires telling him what to do next. No clues as to where to find and rescue Jessica. Not even a body to provide finality. He hated being helpless.

When Alison finally completed her call, Drake barely gave her time to hang up the receiver. “What did Smith say? Who does the SUV belong to? Where can we find them?”

“Slow down.” Alison raised her palms and motioned for Drake to calm himself. “Smith ran a check on the SUV’s license plate. It belongs to a middle-aged couple from Fairfax who are on vacation in Aruba. The police contacted them at their hotel. They said they had parked their SUV at Reagan National three days ago.”

“So the vampires stole the SUV?”

“Looks that way.”

“Damn.” Drake walked back to the window and stared out. “Then why haven’t we heard from them?”

“Maybe they don’t intend to contact us,” Jim answered hesitantly. “Maybe she’s already… already….”

“Dead?”

Jim nodded, then dropped his head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Drake leaned against the sill. “Normally you’d be right. But if they wanted to kill her, they could have done that at the morgue. The master was willing to sacrifice five snuffies to kidnap Jessica. Why?”

“I can answer that.” The words were spoken through a gurgle, as if coming from under water. They all turned to the door to the outer office.

Bill stood in the doorway, or what remained of him. The pallid face, furrowed forehead, and blood-red eyes told them that the photographer had joined the ranks of the undead. What shocked them was the means of his conversion. Bill’s throat had been ripped out, leaving a fist-sized hole surrounded by tattered flesh and muscle. Blood stained the front of his shirt, spotted with chunks of decaying gore.

Jim jumped off the sofa. He pulled a stake from under his jacket and started to lunge at the vampire. It turned and hissed. Jim hesitated, not out of fear but revulsion because, when it hissed, its vocal chords could be seen vibrating in the back of its throat.

Drake raced forward and stepped in front of Jim.

“That’s right, hunter,” Bill gurgled. “Heel your puppy before I neuter it.”

Jim tried to lunge at the creature, but Drake held him back. Still keeping a hand firmly gripped on Jim’s arm, Drake turned to the monstrous intruder. “What do you want?”

“I’m here to relay a message from my master.” Bill entered the room, taunting them with his very presence. “We have your precious Jessica.”

“Is she alive?”

Bill responded in a slow, threatening voice that produced an air bubble of blood. “For now.” He stepped close to Drake, putting his face directly into the hunter’s. “Whether she stays that way depends on you.”

“Go on.”

“My master plans on turning Jessica tonight at Wolf Trap in Virginia. Do you know it?”

“Yes. At the main theater?”

Bill nodded, his neck squishing as he did so. “It’ll be quite a performance.”

“Why there?” asked Drake.

“Because it’s desolate. There’ll be no one around to get in the way.”

“What time?”

“Midnight.”

“That’s in less than five hours,” said Jim.

“The puppy can tell time,” said Bill. “What other tricks have you taught it?”

Jim tried to go after the vampire, but Drake held him back again.

“You’ll get your chance, puppy. My master is giving you the opportunity to save Jessica. The hunters against the coven. If you win, you save Jessica. If you lose, the bitch joins us as a master. Who knows. You might even live long enough to have her turn one of you.”

“And if we don’t walk into your trap?”

A nauseating laugh spurt through the remnants of Bill’s throat. “You’ll be there. You’re not smart enough to stay away.”

Bill started to leave, then stopped at the office door. “And if anyone but the three of you show up, all they’ll find is Jessica’s corpse drained of blood. See you at midnight.”

Bill turned and left the building, the three hunters watching him depart. When the monstrosity had left, the others turned to Drake.

“What do we do now?” asked Alison.

“We don’t do a thing,” said Drake. “This is a suicide mission. I’m going alone.”

Alison shook her head. “We’re a team. And don’t argue. We don’t have the time.”

Drake knew better than to argue. Deep down, he was happy to have Alison by his side. It meant his chances would go from none to a million to one.

“Jim, prepare four magazines of holy water rounds and a supply of stakes. I’m going home for an hour to take care of a few things.”

Alison knew Drake wanted to say goodbye to a friend.

“Alison, pick me up at my apartment at 10:30. We’ll meet back here at 11:00, load up, and then take care of this nest once and for all.”

Alison and Jim both nodded. Drake appreciated the confidence, but knew that neither of them bought the bravado.

THE LARGE BROWN eyes looked up at Drake, as if pleading with him not to go. Drake massaged Van Helsing’s ears between his fingers, trying to reassure him. They both knew better.

Van Helsing had greeted Drake’s return home with his usual happy dance, jumping from one side of the cage to the other. The minute Drake walked into the room, however, Van Helsing sensed something was wrong and thumped his hind legs. When Drake opened the cage door to put three-day’s worth of hay in his box, Van Helsing wrapped his front paws around Drake’s arm as if trying to prevent him from leaving. It could have been Van Helsing’s natural prescience for danger, like those animals that evacuate an area prior to a natural disaster. More than likely, Van Helsing merely reflected Drake’s own apprehensions, for Drake felt certain this would be the last time he petted his companion.

Drake told himself not to be so pessimistic, but reality intervened. He had no idea whether they would be facing a nest of eight or eighty vampires. Not that it mattered. They would be facing at least two masters, which in and of itself boded ill. Even with Jim’s specialized weapons, he and Alison were unable to take down the master in the Metro, only hurt her badly. It had taken twenty minutes to kill the Night Stalker. Tonight, in addition to going up against at least two masters, they would be facing God knows how many snuffies. The odds definitely were not in their favor.

They wouldn’t even have the home court advantage. The more Drake thought about the location the master had chosen for the confrontation, the more he respected his opponent’s cunning. Drake had attended a few concerts out at Wolf Trap. The performing arts center, located in the Northern Virginia countryside just outside of Washington, was isolated so that the concerts did not disturb nearby neighborhoods. Which meant that local residents would not hear the death struggle and call the police. The facility itself consisted of acres of woods and meadows, small theatres and pavilions, restaurants and offices, and the Filene Center, the massive outdoor theatre that rivaled any of the major theatres in the District. With a giant, multi-story pavilion containing classrooms, dressing rooms, staging areas, and scores of other spaces, it was the ideal location for an ambush. He and Alison would be walking into a well-laid trap.

“Like a pair of rabbits entering a wolf’s lair,” Drake said aloud.

Van Helsing lifted his head. Drake stopped petting him. It was time to go. Leaning into the cage, Drake gave Van Helsing a kiss on the forehead, then closed the door and secured the latch. On the way out, he stopped for one final look at his companion. Van Helsing stood on his hind legs, his front paws on the cage door, leaning to the side to watch Drake.

“Goodbye, buddy.”

Drake left his apartment and made his way downstairs. Alison waited out front in the Ram. Drake climbed into the passenger’s side. Alison sensed he was upset.

“Everything okay, boss?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s Van Helsing?”

“Fine.”

Alison shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb. Drake looked into the rearview mirror and watched as his apartment building receded into the distance.

“Alison, do me favor.”

“What?”

“I left an envelope on my dining room table with instructions on how to take care of Van Helsing. If anything happens to me, make sure he’s taken care of.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you as long as I’m around.”

Neither of them spoke until they reached the office. Jim had laid out their gear on the workbench. As they pulled into the garage, Jim forced a smile and walked over to greet them.

“We’re all set to go, boss.”

“Good. What do you have for me?”

Jim fell in beside the hunters. “You have two pairs of Glocks, each with two magazines of holy water bullets. A dozen stakes. I made some adjustments to the crossbow, so it should work now. I also checked the radios, and they’re working fine. Unfortunately, we only have one set of infrared goggles. And I have a special surprise.”

Jim stepped over to the corner of the table where two burlap bags sat. Opening the flap to one bag, he removed a wine bottle that had been stripped of its label. A large cap covered the opening, secured with black electrical tape wrapped around the neck. He handed the bottle to Drake.

“What’s this?”

“I call it Heaven’s Fire,” said Jim. “It’s the only thing I could whip together in an hour. It’s a mixture of two parts gasoline and one part laundry detergent.”

“Home-made napalm,” said Alison.

Jim nodded. “The tops are blasting caps with a three-second delay. Just press down hard on the top and throw. It’ll slow down anything long enough for you to kill it.”

Drake held up the bottle to the light. “What are those chunks floating around inside?”

“Crystallized holy water. I planned to use them on another project, but adapted them for this. As they melt, it’ll add to the vampires’ torment.”

“You outdid yourself.”

“Thanks.”

Drake handed the bottle back to Jim. “Load everything into the back of the Ram. Except the crossbow. No offense, but I still don’t trust it.”

“The crossbow is for me.” Jim put the bottle back into the bag and closed the flap. “I’m going with you.”

“You don’t have to do this, kid. This is a suicide mission. We’re going to be fighting an entire nest.”

“I know,” Jim said solemnly. “But I need to fight my own personal demons.”

Both hunters looked at Jim, waiting for an explanation. Jim sighed. “You asked me earlier what I did to wind up working for you. No surprise, I wasn’t popular in high school, except with the jocks and bullies who enjoyed making my life hell. I still have the scars from those days. Literally.” Jim fought back the urge to touch his chest. “I put up with it, telling myself things would be different in college. They weren’t. The swim team took a disliking to me, probably because I asked out the captain’s girlfriend. One night, five of them ran across me in the gym and beat the shit out of me. Campus security caught them doing it. But the dean refused to discipline them because that would mean ruining his prospects for a winning season.”

“So you’re here because you got your ass kicked?”

“I wanted to get those assholes back, but wasn’t going to go up against them one-on-one. So I made some flash bombs and put them in their lockers during practice. I never intended to hurt anyone. They were supposed to produce nothing more than a flash and a big bang. I just wanted to scare them. But I miscalculated the effects of setting off a flash bomb inside metal lockers.” Jim paused, not wanting to relive the experience.

“What happened?” prodded Alison.

“Three sets of first-degree burns. One case of second-degree burns. The captain suffered third-degree burns on his face that disfigured him and lost an eye. As you can guess, the dean was far less lenient to me. Not that I didn’t deserve to be expelled. But he called each of the injured kids’ parents and personally offered them his assistance in prosecuting me. I faced five assault charges as well as civil suits.

“That’s when Smith invited me to lunch and made me an offer. If I put my talents to work helping you guys, he’d square things with the college, make sure all charges were dropped, and settle any lawsuits out of court. I’d even get an apartment and a stipend. How could I refuse?

“All my life I’ve run away and never stood up for myself. When I did fight back, I always did so in such a way that I could never get hurt. The last time it almost cost me dearly. I’ve been given a second chance, and I don’t intend to screw it up. No more running.

“Besides, I figure if I can face off against the undead, standing up to some brain dead jocks will be a cinch.”

Drake admired Jim’s determination. It took a lot for him to face his fears and overcome them, and to open a new chapter is his life. Sadly, this would probably be the last chapter Jim opened.

“Have it your way, kid. It’s your funeral.” Drake patted Jim on the shoulder, then turned to Alison. “Saddle up. It’s time to head out.”

11

NO ONE SPOKE on the drive out of Washington. There was nothing to say. Each of the hunters contemplated what they would face in the next hour and wrestled with their own fears. Fortunately, at this hour the drive out to Wolf Trap passed quickly, limiting the time available to dwell on their fates.

Alison drove the SUV along Route 66 West until she picked up Route 267 North, following the latter to the Wolf Trap exit. The exit was a right-only turn, forcing the Ram onto an unlit two-lane road. They drove through the darkness until they came upon Wolf Trap’s east and west parking lots, each devoid of vehicles. Alison turned right just before the parking lots and followed the driveway to the main gate. Pulling off the road and stopping near a grove of trees, she shifted into park and shut down the engine. Each of them sat in silence, staring at the gates that led into the facility.

Alison spoke first. “Are we ready?”

“As much as we’ll ever be,” said Drake.

Each of them climbed out of the SUV and loaded up. Drake carried his usual pair of stakes in a pouch under his jacket as well as the dual Glocks in shoulder holsters. Jim shoved a stake into the rear pocket of his trousers. He pulled the crossbow out of the cargo bay, switched on the laser scope, pulled back on the string to its full cock position, and attached it to his belt by a hook in the stock. He slid the bolts into a pouch that he strapped to his left leg. Both men slung a bag containing two bottles of Heaven’s Fire over their shoulders. Alison took the infrared goggles, which she switched on and strapped to her head, the eyesight resting on her forehead. The only weapons she loaded up with were a pair of stakes. Reaching into the cab of the Ram, she opened the glove compartment and pulled out a bottle of holy water. Unscrewing the top, Jessica poured some into her right hand, then splashed it across her neck.

“What are you doing?” asked Drake.

“Precaution against being bitten.”

“Do you really think that’ll stop them?”

“Probably not.” A forced grin. “But it’ll leave a bad taste in their mouth.”

“Can we get this over with?” Jim asked irritably.

Drake forced into his voice a bravado he did not feel. “Let’s rock.”

The three walked over to the front gate where the box office was located, all the while scanning the area for undead. Since the only light came from a handful of streetlamps on the road by the parking area, providing barely enough light to see by, Alison led the way with the infrared goggles. They only covered two hundred yards, but the time it took to do so seemed like an eternity. Once the hunters reached the entrance, they spread out, each with his or her back against the gate. Alison used the goggles to look around.

“See anything?” asked Drake.

“Nothing.”

“Not surprising.” Drake gestured over his shoulder to inside the facility. “They’re probably waiting inside.”

Drake walked the length of the entryway, pushing against each of the gates. The second gate from the right swung open when he touched it.

“Maybe the last one out forgot to lock up?” Jim asked hopefully.

“Doubt it.” Drake bent down and picked up a hunk of metal that had been the padlock. The shackle had been snapped off as if it was paper, and the case had been crushed by an extremely powerful hand.

Pushing the gate open, Drake led the way inside. Alison followed, still wearing the infrared goggles. Jim brought up the rear and closed the gate behind him. Taking a few steps away from the entrance, they paused to survey the area.

Two buildings housing concession stands and restrooms extended at an angle from the main gate. Ahead of them, a wide cement sidewalk stretched in a crescent around the theater. Opposite the sidewalk began the lawn seating, which sloped down for a hundred feet before leveling off in front of the main pavilion. The pavilion stood three stories in height, with ground-level orchestra seating, second-level box seating, and third-level loge seating. Behind the stage, the classrooms and staging area towered two hundred feet into the night like some modern wooden cathedral. Except for the moonlight, the entire area lay shrouded in darkness. Wolf Trap provided acres of hiding places, giving the vampires the advantage. Drake found irony in the facility’s name.

He kept his eyes fixed on the pavilion while asking Alison, “See anything?”

She slowly scanned the exterior of the pavilion with the infrared goggles. “Nothing. But from here I can’t see much more than the outer wall.”

“Maybe they’re not here after all,” offered Jim. “Maybe this is a wild goose chase.”

“They’re here.”

“How can you tell?”

“Listen.”

Jim did, but heard only a deathly silence. “I don’t hear a thing.”

“Exactly. No crickets. No bats. Nothing. Animals always run away from the undead.”

“I always said animals were smarter than humans.” Jim sighed. “What now?”

“You two head down into the orchestra section.”

“What about you?” asked Alison.

Drake pointed to the left of the sidewalk. An elevated walkway extended from the sidewalk over the lawn section, connecting with the second-level box seating. “I’m going to get a bird’s eye view of the situation.”

“Shouldn’t we stick together?” asked Jim. “You know, strength in numbers.”

“No.”

“I agree with Jim,” said Alison. “You can’t see a thing without the goggles.”

“I’ll make do. Besides, if the three of us get ambushed while together, they could take us all down in one shot. This way we better the odds of survival.”

“Or delay the slaughter.” Alison did not mean it as a joke.

Drake started toward the walkway when Alison reached out and grabbed his hand. “Be careful.”

Drake detected a tone other than concern in Alison’s warning. One of endearment. He gently squeezed back. “I will. Just take care of yourself and the kid.”

Releasing his grip, Drake turned and headed for the walkway. Alison and Jim proceeded down the embankment and into the rear orchestra section.

DRAKE CIRCLED AROUND a golf cart and wood chipper parked near the entrance to the walkway. A couple of rakes, a shovel, and a three-foot-long pair of pruning shears lay strewn on the ground. He stopped to see if there was blood or any signs of a struggle. Thankfully, he found none. The tools must have been left by the groundskeepers when they knocked off for the day. He wondered what the crew would find when they showed up in the morning.

Drake turned to the pavilion. He hesitated. Standing out here was relatively safe because anything that attacked him would have to cover a lot of open space, giving him time to respond. Once inside the pavilion, he lost that advantage. His only advantage. Reaching under his jacket, he removed a stake. How pathetic. Stakes, pistols, and two bottles of Heaven’s Fire to battle an entire nest of vampires. He had never felt so ill-prepared for battle.

Taking a deep breath, Drake proceeded along the walkway into the pavilion.

ALISON AND JIM paused at the entrance to the orchestra section. Alison slowly scanned the seating with the infrared goggles.

“See anything?” Jim asked.

“Nothing.”

The two walked down the center aisle. They stopped where the cross aisle separated the front and rear sections. The upper boxes no longer hung over the seating, giving Alison a clear view of the entire pavilion. She raised her head to scan the upper levels.

Alison could think of only one thing to say. “Fuck.”

DRAKE WAS HALFWAY along the portion of the walkway that overlooked the orchestra section when a deep, ominous voice shattered the silence.

“Good evening, hunter.”

Before Drake could react, the lights inside the pavilion switched on. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the temporary blindness. When Drake looked around, his spirits sank.

Two snuffies stood on the second-level walkway on the opposite side of the pavilion. On the stage below, the red-headed master and two more snuffies exited from the backstage wings and stared up at him. To Drake’s left, a snuffy emerged from its hiding place behind a support beam, where it was joined by another snuffy that crossed the catwalk directly above the stage that connected the two walkways. Off to his right, a pair of snuffies emerged from the loge seating and stood in the center of the walkway, blocking his escape.

Yet none of this concerned Drake as much as the sight directly in front of him. A large metal platform comprised of supports and rigging for the stage lighting hung fifty feet above the orchestra section, suspended by four chains attached to each corner and one chain supporting the center. The master they had encountered last night at the morgue stood near the rim of the platform closest to Drake, one hand clutching a chain. It glared at Drake with blood-red eyes that burned with fury. Behind the master, Jessica desperately clutched the central support chain to prevent herself from falling. Her hands were tied in front of her at the wrists. She looked relatively sound, as long as one did not take into account the terrified expression on her face.

Drake and his team had walked into a first-class cluster fuck.

“I knew you’d show,” said Ion. “You have an affinity for these creatures.”

“Let her go,” demanded Drake.

“What? No wise cracks? No banter? I’m disappointed.”

“I said, ‘Let her go’.”

Ion dropped the banality, his voice trembling with anger. “You are in no position to demand anything. You’ve been a thorn in the coven’s side since you arrived in Washington. Now it’s your turn to suffer.”

“Fine. But leave Jessica out of this. It’s me you want, not her.”

“What makes you think I don’t want her?” Ion glided along the supports to Jessica. He slid the back of his hand across her cheek. Jessica cringed. “She’s so young and beautiful. Once I’ve killed you and the rest of your pathetic little team, I intend to turn her into a master. She’ll make a fine mistress of a coven.”

“It’ll be hard to turn her if I rip off your head.”

Ion laughed heartily. “Such bravado. It almost pains me to kill you. Almost.

“And now, hunter. It’s time to die.” Ion walked back to the end of the platform. His voice bellowed throughout the pavilion. “My children. Kill the hunters and…”

Ion never completed his sentence.

HAVING MADE UP her mind not to die without a fight, and summoning every ounce of courage she could muster, Jessica released her grip on the center support chain and lunged at Ion. She slammed into his back, knocking him off the platform. Ion grabbed the outermost support chain. The shift in weight of both Ion and Jessica, plus the force of his fall, proved too much for the chains to handle. The two corner and central chains snapped. Ion plummeted into the orchestra section, smashing several seats.

Jessica reached out to grab onto something, but could not because her hands were tied together. As she slid off the platform, the rope binding her hands caught on a klieg light attached to the outermost support beam. The light bent a few inches then stopped. The jolt nearly yanked Jessica’s arms out of their sockets, but it saved her from falling to her death. Small comfort, she thought, as she hung fifty feet in the air like a human piñata.

“NOW WHAT DO we do?” asked Jim.

Alison quickly assessed the situation. “The switches to operate the platform are probably in the control box in the loge. You go and lower the platform. I’m going to make my way up top and see if I can rescue Jessica from there. And be careful. Whoever turned on the lights may still be in the control box.”

“What about Drake?”

“Don’t worry. He can handle himself.” Alison spoke the words without meaning them. She knew Drake was in big trouble, and desperately needed help. But she also knew Drake would want her to rescue Jessica first. She had a sinking feeling she would be honoring his last request.

EACH OF THE vampires stared at Ion, distraught that their leader had been taken down. For a few seconds, an unnatural silence fell over the pavilion. Then Ion opened his eyes. He morphed into a vampire, his face contorted in rage.

“Kill them!”

Toni gasped as Ion crashed into the seats, fearing the worst. She was about to run to his side when she spotted the huntress and the child across from her in the orchestra section. The huntress spoke to the child, then the two separated. She watched the huntress race back up the orchestra section, heading for the walkway that ran along the right side of the pavilion.

Toni turned to the vampires on stage with her. “You two, go after the child.”

Both creatures jumped off of the stage and ran after Jim.

Toni raced to the corner of the stage, climbed the speaker system that towered up its side, and jumped onto the walkway. The two vampires standing there looked confused.

“What do we do now, mistress?”

“Hide and wait for the huntress.” Toni pushed the vampires behind one of the support columns.

DRAKE TOOK ADVANTAGE of the precious seconds granted to him following Ion’s fall. Reaching into the bag, he withdrew the two bottles of Heaven’s Fire. Taking one in each hand, he pressed down on the detonator caps with his thumbs. He had only a few seconds before they ignited.

“Kill them!” Ion bellowed.

Drake had less time than he thought. Holding the first bottle by its neck, he lobbed it overhand at the pair of vampires blocking his escape. The glass shattered as the detonator cap ignited. Homemade napalm doused both creatures. The flaming detergent clung to their skin and clothes, charring flesh and searing through muscle, while the crystallized holy water melted and seeped into the wounds, causing unbearable agony. The vampires emitted an unearthly howl. Thrashing around, the female vampire tumbled over the railing, crashing into the seats below where it erupted into a cloud of ash. The remaining vampire gave out a final anguished cry and collapsed onto the walkway, its body dissolving into a pile of cinders that still burned from the napalm.

Drake saw none of this. The first bottle barely left his hand when he tossed the second at the pair of vampires at the other end of the walkway, both of which were already racing forward. It shattered against the first creature, covering it in flames. Tumbling to the ground, it writhed in pain as the fire consumed it. The second vampire escaped the brunt of the attack, though some of the Heaven’s Fire splattered into its face and eyes. It howled yet continued to charge. Drake pulled out a stake. When the vampire drew near, Drake stepped aside and plunged the stake into its heart as it passed by. The vampire disintegrated in a geyser of blood and a shower of dust.

Drake had taken out the four vampires surrounding him, but in the process traded the frying pan for the fire. Literally. Because of the Heaven’s Fire, both ends of the walkway were awash in flames, with Drake trapped in the middle.

THE DEATH WAILS of the four vampires incinerated by Drake ripped through the pavilion, slicing through the rest of the coven like daggers. And intensifying their bloodlust for revenge.

Of the two vampires Toni sent after Jim, the larger of them noticed Drake trapped between the burning remains of vampires. It stopped and grabbed the other one by its arm.

“What’s wrong?”

“Up there.” The larger vampire pointed to Drake. “The hunter has boxed himself in.”

“So?”

“You go after the child. I’m going to kill the hunter.” Without waiting for a response, the larger vampire lumbered off in the direction of the walkway.

RUNNING BACK UP the lawn seating section, Jim stopped to examine the pavilion. The stairs leading to the control room started halfway down the left walkway and ran along the pavilion’s outer wall. He bolted for the walkway entrance and raced down its length, then turned right and rushed up the stairs. An elevated catwalk thirty feet long extended at a ninety-degree angle from the top of the stairs and over the loge seating, connecting with the control room. Jim started down the walkway when the door to the control room opened. Bill stepped out, blocking Jim’s path.

“Look what we have here.” The words gurgled through Bill’s gaping throat. “The hunter sent a boy to do a man’s job.”

Jim’s first instinct told him to run, but he fought back the urge. He needed to rescue Jessica. If Drake and Alison could take on the rest of the nest, he could take on a single vampire his own age and size. Besides, Jim was tired of cowering, and would be damned if running would be the last thing he did in his life.

“Get out of my way,” Jim ordered. “Jessica’s going to die if I don’t save her.”

“Like I give a fuck. The bitch never even gave me the right time of day when I was alive.” Bill bared his fangs and growled. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

“That was my plan.”

Jim reached his right hand behind him and removed the crossbow from his belt. With his left, he pulled a bolt from his leg holster. He raised the crossbow into firing position, dropped the bolt into its grove, and aimed. Bill’s dead eyes focused on the pinpoint glare of the laser scope, and looked down to see the recticle centered directly over his heart. His face contorted with the realization of what was about to happen.

Jim squeezed the trigger. Thanks to the adjustments he had made, the bolt found its mark, punching through Bill’s chest and into his heart. Blood gushed from the wound. Bill looked up and began to mouth “Fuck” when his body disintegrated. Jim raced forward and entered the control room, kicking the pile of ash off the catwalk as he passed.

Inside the control room, Jim found himself completely outside of his element. He could build weapons to combat the undead, but had no clue as to how to operate the various systems inside the pavilion. Reading the controls did no good, for few of them were marked. With nothing else to guide him, Jim picked a switch and flipped it on.

The banks of speakers on either side of the stage emitted a deafening squelch.

Jim flipped a second switch. A kaleidoscope of projected images danced across the stage.

He flipped a third switch. One of the klieg lights on the platform came on. At least he was getting closer.

Jim tried the remaining switches until he found one that lit up a small green light just above a large black knob. Jim turned the knob to the left. A loud metallic clang echoed through the pavilion. Looking through the control room window, Jim saw the platform begin a slow descent to the floor.

Jim heard the clanging of feet on metal. He looked up in time to see through the reflection in the window a vampire running along the catwalk toward him.

JESSICA HUNG FROM the platform, the rope binding her hands hooked precariously over one of the klieg lights. She looked over her shoulder to see what caused the twin fires burning behind her. Twisting her body caused the klieg light to bend even further, threatening to drop her into the orchestra section. What an inglorious way to die.

Suddenly, one of the klieg lights on the opposite side of the platform clicked on for a few seconds, then went out. Two more off to her right and one off to her left did the same. Then the one she hung from. The glare blinded her, hurting her eyes. Thankfully, the light shut off after a second, though it would take some time before she could see again.

A jolt from the platform frightened Jessica. At first, she thought the remaining chains had given way. Rather than plummeting to her death, she felt herself being gently lowered. Thank God, she thought.

Using the backs of the seats that were not damaged, Ion pulled himself into a standing position. His spine was fractured, restricting his movements. It would take a few minutes to heal. Ion could already feel his legs beginning to respond to his commands.

Ion watched with growing fury as, one by one, the coven succumbed to the hunter. Four of them in as many seconds. Undoubtedly, more of his children would fall before the night was over. No matter, for in the end the hunter would die. The human had trapped himself on the walkway, like prey in a cage. His death would be simple. Extraordinarily painful, but simple. This time, Ion would not waste time on melodramatics and give the hunter a chance to escape.

A rhythmic clanging above his head drew Ion’s attention. He looked up to see the platform descend with Jessica dangling helplessly. Before he killed the hunter, he would first feed off of his woman.

ALISON RACED UP the lawn to the entrance to the right-hand walkway. She discarded the goggles, but still clutched the stake in her right hand. By the time she arrived at the portion of the walkway overlooking the pavilion, Jim began to lower the platform. Right into Ion’s clutches.

Alison paused and keyed the talk button on her radio. “Jim, can you hear me?”

No response.

“Jim, this is Alison. If you can hear me, stop lowering the platform.”

Still no response.

“What’s wrong?” asked Drake from his radio.

“Jim’s lowering Jessica right into a master. I can’t get in touch with him. Can you?”

“I’m burning the candle at both ends here.”

“And I’m too far away…”

A powerful set of arms wrapped themselves around Alison from behind, pinning her arms. She dropped the stake. The attacker spun Alison to the right, away from the railing. A second vampire stood nearby, grinning maliciously. Toni stepped in front of Alison. “We have some unfinished business.”

Alison began to call for help, but Toni covered the huntress’ mouth with her hand. “First, a few rules. No talking during the performance.”

Toni ripped the radio off of Alison’s belt. She crumbled it in her hand, then tossed the fragments over the railing. “The use of cell phones and other electronic devices is prohibited.”

Alison tried to break free, but the vampire that held her was too strong. The harder she struggled, the tighter its grip became. She tried to move her arms, but could not. She tried to scream, but Toni’s hand remained clamped tightly over her mouth. Panic welled up inside Alison. Her nightmare was becoming reality.

Toni leaned over, putting her face close to Alison’s. “Now sit back and enjoy the show.”

Morphing into a vampire, Toni turned her head to one side and plunged her fangs into Alison’s neck.

FROM THE OPPOSITE walkway, Drake watched the attack on Alison. He wanted to help but could not because he had problems of his own. A large vampire jumped onto the walkway on the opposite side of the flames, then darted forward. Its snarl became a shriek.

Drake saw his opportunity and took it. He stood in the center of the walkway ten feet from the burning corpses, faced the oncoming creature, and waited. When the vampire leapt to clear the flames, Drake pulled the twin Glocks from their shoulder holsters. He fired four rounds from each pistol into the vampire’s chest. Each of the rounds tore into the vampire’s chest, not only stopping its forward momentum but propelling it backwards so that it crashed into the flames. Rushing forward, Drake jumped onto the vampire’s chest, almost losing his footing as it thrashed around in agony, then emerged onto the other side of the flames. Spinning around, he emptied the remaining twelve rounds into the vampire’s head. Each round ripped a chunk out of its skull, effectively decapitating it. As the vampire disintegrated with a soulless wail, Drake popped out the empty magazines, inserted two new ones, and reholstered the Glocks. He raced off down the walkway to help Jessica.

ION HEARD THE multiple gunshots above him. Spinning around, he watched yet another of his children being slaughtered by the hunter. At least five of the coven taken down, and as yet not a single human had been banished to hell.

Even worse, the hunter was now free and posed a danger to them all.

Ion looked up. The platform had been lowered just over halfway to the floor. He would deal with Jessica later. Because of the aggravation she had caused him, she would suffer accordingly.

Spinning around, Ion set off to confront Drake.

WITHOUT REVEALING THAT he was aware of the danger, Jim carefully watched the approaching vampire in the reflection from the control room window. He had seconds to react. Reaching into his canvas bag for the bottles of Heaven’s Fire, he pressed down on the detonator caps with his right thumb, then gently slid the bag to the floor. Jim finished just as the vampire reached the door to the control room and leapt, hoping to surprise its prey.

Instead, Jim flattened himself against the side wall. The vampire slammed chest first into the control panel, momentarily dazed. Jim ran for the exit, slamming the door shut behind him. He heard the vampire snarl after him, followed immediately by the detonator caps igniting.

A massive fireball consumed the control room, blowing out the windows and flinging the door from its hinge, knocking Jim to the catwalk. He rolled over in time to see the vampire, in flames, jump out of the control room and pounce. Jim held up his arms in front of his face to ward off the attack, but instead was showered with embers.

Jim got to his feet and brushed himself off. As he coughed up the cinders lodged in his throat, he began to empathize with Alison’s complaint about the inadequate pay. He felt in his back pocket for the stake which, miraculously, had not fallen out during the melee. Brandishing it in his right hand, he set out to help Jessica.

TONI’S FANGS HAD barely sunk into Alison’s neck when the vampire howled in anguish. Releasing her bite, Toni fell back against the guardrail, her hand covering her mouth. The holy water Alison had splattered on her neck seared Toni’s lips and gums. Wisps of white smoke rose from the burnt tissue. She panted heavily.

“You bitch.” Toni slurred the words.

“Damn right.”

A sudden rush of adrenalin overrode Alison’s initial panic. She felt the grip around her arms weaken ever so slightly. Lifting her legs, Alison slid out of the vampire’s grasp and fell to the deck. She reached out, grabbed the stake, and rolled over as the vampire bent over for the kill. Alison shoved the stake up, plunging it into the vampire’s heart. Blood erupted onto her as its death throes began. Alison did not wait for the vampire to die. Jumping to her feet, she prepared for the inevitable attack.

The second vampire hesitated, uncertain whether to kill the hunter or help its master.

Toni leaned against the guardrail, tears streaming down her face. She removed her hand from in front of her mouth, revealing lips and gums horribly scarred and disfigured, and teeth burnt black by the holy water.

“Kill her!” Toni slurred.

The second vampire started toward Alison when the fireball tore apart the control room and shook the pavilion. The vampire hesitated, knocked unsteady by the explosion. Alison lunged forward, aiming the stake at its heart. The tip broke skin, but the vampire grabbed Alison’s wrist and prevented her from completing penetration. It bared its fangs and sneered. Alison placed her free hand on the hilt of the stake, then pushed with all her strength. The vampire stumbled back for several feet until it slammed into a vertical support beam. Alison shoved hard one final time, driving the stake through its heart. Ignoring its death throes, she quickly backed away and turned to confront Toni.

Toni, however, had had enough. She raced down the walkway to the far end. Jumping onto the outer guardrail, she propelled herself through the air, sailing one hundred yards and landing on the pavilion’s far wall. She scrambled up the wooden wall and disappeared over the top. Spinning around, she knelt down, staying out of sight as she watched the battle play out. Toni desperately hoped Ion would be all right.

AFTER A MINUTE that seemed like an eternity, Jessica felt her feet hit cement. When the edge of the platform connected with the tops of the seats, she swung her hands over the klieg lights and stepped back so as not to be crushed. After scanning the area to make certain she was not in any immediate danger, Jessica used her teeth to untie the knot around her hands.

Above her, an explosion rocked the pavilion. Jessica ducked seconds before being showered with shards of broken glass. She stood up to examine herself, relieved to find only a few minor cuts and scrapes. Nothing to worry about.

Jessica looked up to the walkway where she last saw Drake, but he had escaped. She scanned the loge and balcony sections, but saw no sign of him. She spotted Alison running along the opposite walkway toward the lawn. Not wanting to be alone, Jessica set off after her.

REACHING THE END of the walkway, Drake raced around the corner abutment and started down the lawn.

And ran directly into Ion.

The master grabbed Drake by the throat and squeezed tightly, cutting off Drake’s supply of air. Drake struggled in vain to break the iron-hard grip. “You’re not so tough without the bitch to help you, are you?”

Ion’s hand clasped Drake’s throat tighter, stopping the flow of blood to the brain. Drake felt himself becoming disoriented. He clawed at the vampire’s hand and arm, digging his nails into the skin and tearing out chunks of dead flesh.

Ion brought his arm close, pulling Drake’s face into his own. “Don’t worry, hunter. I don’t plan on killing you that easily.”

With a mighty thrust, Ion threw Drake twenty feet across the lawn. Drake landed on his back, knocking out of him what little wind he had left. He gasped frantically for air. Too weak to stand, Drake rolled onto his stomach and tried to crawl away.

Ion stepped up beside Drake. Grabbing him by the hair, Ion lifted the hunter off the ground. Morphing into a vampire, he shoved his face into Drake’s. “I need to pay you back for all the aggravation you’ve put me through. This is for my children you’ve hunted down and butchered.”

Ion threw Drake another twenty feet. Drake hit his head on the cement pathway. His vision blurred. Only vaguely aware of his surroundings, he rolled onto his stomach and raised himself onto his hands and knees. When Drake opened his eyes, the ground spun beneath him. He swayed, nearly passing out.

“This is for your bitch blinding me in the morgue.”

Ion kicked Drake in the ribcage. The hunter left the ground, spun twice, and landed ten feet away on his stomach. He tried to breath, but pain shot through his ribcage, and his lungs ached as he drew in air. Drake could not tell if he was lying on his chest or back. A hand grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him off the ground.

“This is for disfiguring Antoinette.”

Ion tossed the hunter into the gardener’s cart. Drake bounced off, falling onto the tools that were on the ground. His chest erupted in spasms of agony. The blades of the three-foot-long shears cut into his face.

Ion walked up behind Drake. He twisted his neck right and left, removing the kinks in preparation for feeding, then snarled in hatred.

“And this is for being foolish enough to challenge me.”

JESSICA RUSHED OUT of the orchestra section in time to see Ion ambush Drake. Ducking down behind the small cement retaining wall that ran along the edge of the lawn, she ran hunched over. She passed underneath the left-hand walkway, jumped up onto the lawn and, using the cement abutment as cover, ran up to the walkway entrance. She found Jim crouching behind the abutment.

Jim spun around, falling backwards against the cement. He lifted the stake to stab her, but lowered it when he saw who it was.

“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Why are you hiding while Drake is getting his ass kicked?”

“I’m not hiding,” Jim said defensively. “I just got here myself.”

“Then do something?”

“What? Charge a master across an open lawn. With his sense of smell? He’d take me down before I could get near.”

“So then we just sit?”

“No. We have to sneak up on it.”

The wood chipper sat fifty feet away, providing them with cover.

“You stay here,” ordered Jim.

“Screw that. I’m going with you.”

Jim sighed. “Okay. But stay low.”

ALISON REACHED THE entrance to the right-hand walkway in time to see Ion throw Drake into the gardener’s cart. She broke into a run. Ion got to Drake first, hovering over him, taunting him.

Oh God, pleaded Alison. Don’t let him die like this…

“AND THIS IS for being foolish enough to challenge me.”

If Drake did not act now, he would die. He could not see very well, but he could feel. In particular, the pruning shears beneath him that cut into his skin. Grabbing the handles, Drake waited until he saw Ion’s knees bending, then used what little strength remained to roll onto his back and raise the shears. He hoped to catch the master’s neck and decapitate, but only partially raised the shears. Instead, the V-shaped prongs plunged into Ion’s chest on either side of his heart. Drake tried to close them, but did not have the strength. Ion grabbed the handles and yanked the shears out of Drake’s hands. Pulling gently so as not to damage his heart, Ion removed the shears from his chest, then tossed them as far away as possible. The wound was damaging, but not fatal. Ion needed to get away as quickly as possible in order to regenerate.

Alison slammed into Ion, knocking them both to the ground. She quickly rolled over into a standing position, the stake still in her right hand, and charged Ion again. Ion got to his knees and blocked her. Grabbing her by the wrist, Ion twisted roughly, forcing open Alison’s palm. She dropped the stake. Still clutching Alison’s wrist, Ion rose to his feet and flung her by the arm against the wood chipper. She cracked her head on the debris chute, momentarily dazed.

With difficulty, Drake struggled to his feet, using the gardener’s cart as support. He watched as Ion tossed Alison against the wood chipper. His mind told him to go to her aid, but his body would not respond.

Ion walked over to the chipper. Bending over, he clutched Alison by the leg and dragged her from under the chute. Alison clawed at the ground to get away, but succeeded only in grabbing a handful of dirt and grass. When Ion stopped pulling, she rolled onto her back and gazed into the master’s face.

“I’ve had enough of you two.” Ion spat the words. “This ends right now.”

“Sounds good to me.” Alison threw the dirt and grass into Ion’s eyes, blinding him. Bringing her left leg up to her chest, she kicked out and slammed the heel of her boot into Ion’s wound. He cried out, half a bellow of pain and half a howl of fury. Ion bent over, gasping.

Drake summoned his strength and rushed forward, aiming at the blurred image that he hoped was Ion. Colliding with the master, Drake shoved its head down the debris chute. Holding it in place, Drake turned to Jim.

“Turn it on!”

Jim scanned the chipper until he found a green button labeled START, then pressed it. The machine thundered to life. The blades made a sickening thud as they dug into Ion’s head. Ion bellowed, an agonizing cry that shook Drake to his marrow. Ion tried to pull himself free, but the blades dug in too deeply. He howled and thrashed about until his skull shattered, spilling brain and tissue that was instantly chewed into pulp. Bits of fractured skull and brain matter shot out the exit chute, followed by a stream of blood. Jim did not hit the STOP button until the chipper started spitting out ash.

As the chipper ground to a halt, an eerie silence fell over Wolf Trap. Only the sounds of approaching sirens broke the silence.

Jessica raced over to Drake and hugged him. He returned the gesture, but only for a few seconds before dropping to his knees. Jessica cupped his face in her hands. “Are you all right?”

“Just exhausted. How about you?”

“I’ll live.”

“That’s why we’re here.” Drake gave her hand a squeeze.

Drake looked around to see how the others had faired. He watched Alison sit up, steadying herself on the gore-stained debris chute. She saw him and smiled. “Looks like I owe you again for saving my life.”

“It’s easier than training a replacement. How are you doing?”

“I could use a few days off.”

Drake smiled. “We all could.”

The sirens drew closer. Flashing red and blue lights reflected off the trees outside the main entrance. Jim stepped over and crouched in front of Drake. “Do you think we should get out of here?”

“No.” It was the only response he could muster.

The four of them sat in silence, waiting for the police and emergency vehicles to arrive. And thankful to be alive.

FROM HER PERCH on top of the pavilion, Toni had a bird’s eye view of the battle between Ion and the hunters. She hoped to watch Ion kill them, but instead witnessed his death. The only emotion she could muster for Ion was a single tear. She wiped her eye and stood. Running across the roof of the pavilion, Toni dove off of the top and disappeared into the surrounding night.

12

TONI CLIMBED THE entryway from the sewer into the basement of the row house, and then paused to rest. She was exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. The events of the last eight hours had drained her more than she originally thought.

After escaping from Wolf Trap, Toni walked for several miles along the deserted road that led back to the urban areas, looking for a means of transportation back to Washington. Eventually she found her ride at a small rest area, nothing more than a dirt road that branched off the main street and doglegged behind a copse of trees before reconnecting with the main road. A young man sat behind the wheel, unbeknownst to him his life span now measured in minutes.

As she approached the vehicle, Toni noticed that the man was not alone. A petite blonde sat in the passenger’s seat, leaning over into his lap and pleasing him with her mouth. Toni stealthily waited until she heard him groan. She then opened the door, clasped his head in both hands, and twisted it one hundred and eighty degrees. The blonde looked up, shocked, cum splattered across her mouth and chin. Before the girl could scream, Toni had clasped a taloned hand over her face and squeezed until the little blonde head erupted like a rotten melon. Toni’s only regret had been, after licking her hand clean of the gore and tasting the young man’s cum, that she could not have spent the time to feast on his vitality. But with time running out, Toni disposed of the bodies in a nearby creek and took their car back into Washington.

By the time she reached the District, the rapidly approaching dawn tinted the eastern horizon reddish-orange. Vehicles filled with early commuters began to fill the main roads and side streets, making it difficult for her to move around unnoticed. Toni drove to an abandoned neighborhood a few blocks from the row house before she found an isolated spot near a row of condemned stores to park the car. She disappeared down a nearby manhole just as the first rays of the sun broke over the building tops and washed down the street. Ten minutes later, she arrived at the row house.

An eerily empty row house.

Toni made her way upstairs to the kitchen and into the foyer. Once thriving with activity, the row house now sat silent. She looked into each room as she passed by, as if hoping to find the members of the coven resting after a night of feeding. Instead, she found only empty mattresses soiled with blood. The corpses of humans and small animals in various stages of decay. And piles of clothes and shoes, the detritus of previous victims.

She trudged up the winding staircase and stopped at the landing. Resting her hands on the railing, Toni peered down into the emptiness. She felt guilty at having survived. No. Not guilty, for guilt was a human emotion. Disgust. Or better yet, contempt. Contempt for allowing the hunters to live. Contempt for not dying honorably in battle. Contempt for abandoning the coven to preserve her own existence.

Spinning around, Toni made her way to the master bedroom. She swung open the twin doors and stared, half hoping to find Ion in bed with a young tramp, seducing her, feeding on her. The room was empty except for a rat that scurried across the mattress, feeding off what human remains it could find. Crossing the bedroom, Toni entered the bathroom. The door felt heavy. She shoved, pushing across the tiled floor a decaying corpse left over from an earlier meal. A wave of maggots washed out of the rotten chest cavity while a horde of cockroaches scurried for safety. Toni paid no attention, her interest being drawn to the shards of a shattered mirror whose remnants hung on the wall above the sink.

The image that greeted Toni set off a fury in her. She placed a hand over her mouth and felt the lips. The holy water the huntress had worn had seared Toni’s lips and gums like acid. In this situation, her regenerative powers would be useless. While the rawness of the wounds would heal, the scarring would be permanent. Just like her chest. Thanks to that bitch, Toni’s once stunningly-attractive body had been turned into a walking deformity, a monstrosity. She would no longer be able to entice young men to her bed, sucking them of their energy before draining them of their life blood. Thanks to her hideousness, she could no longer enjoy the thrill of the seduction, but would have to hunt her meals like a predator. For all eternity.

For that, the huntress would pay dearly.

Bunching her fingers into a fist, Toni punched the mirror shards, shattering them even further and holing the wall. The crunch of bone mixed with breaking tile. A rush of pain excited Toni’s senses as her knuckles and wrists fractured under the stress. No matter. These wounds would regenerate. Until they did, they would help focus her mind and fuel her lust for revenge.

The huntress would pay.

They all would.

Toni would rebuild the coven. It would take time, but time was the one thing the undead had in abundance. She would quickly produce a few vampires to serve as bodyguards and hunter-gatherers, and would lay low until fully regenerated. Then she would reconstitute the coven. This time, however, it would be larger and stronger. She would not make the same mistakes as Ion. Her vampires would prowl throughout the city, pulling in victims from all corners of the District, overwhelming the hunters’ ability to fight back. She would choose the members of the coven carefully, selecting only the strongest, the most cunning, and the most cruel. All others who passed through this row house would serve as little more than cattle off of which the coven would feed.

Once the coven became too powerful for the hunters to stop, Toni would take care of them once and for all. The child was irrelevant, a mere nuisance. She would give him to the coven to do with as they pleased. Alison, however, would suffer indescribable tortures by Toni’s own hands. Toni intended to disfigure her, to tear the beauty from the huntress just as the bitch had done to her. She would put the huntress through physical torments unimaginable by humans. And Drake Matthews would be forced to watch. The huntress’ suffering would stop only when the hunter agreed to join Toni as a master. Once he joined Toni as her servant, his first task would be to turn the huntress into a vampire.

Toni and Drake then would sire more masters, mentor them, and dispatch them throughout the States to establish covens in other cities, each beholden to her.

But all that lay in the future. Right now, Toni needed to rest. She crawled into bed and fell asleep, her lust for revenge deforming her mind as surely as the holy water had deformed her body.

THE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR hours held no surprises for Drake and Alison, though it did open a whole new realm of experiences for Jim and Jessica.

A horde of police cars, fire engines, and emergency vehicles descended upon Wolf Trap, responding to numerous phone calls from nearby residents who reported hearing explosions or witnessing flames coming from the pavilion. What they found were three fuel-induced fires burning out of control, significant destruction to the pavilion, and four exhausted and battered trespassers. Within hours, the small group of suspects was behind bars in the Vienna Police Station charged with breaking and entering, trespassing, arson, willful destruction of property, numerous firearms violations, and a host of other indictments that surely would grow with time.

When allowed to make their obligatory phone calls, Drake contacted Smith and requested bail. With his usual unemotional professionalism, tinted with a slight tone of frustration, Smith told him to sit tight and give him a few hours. Jessica placed her call to Dan, whose response was highly emotional and less professional. Once through with the initial round of ranting and profanity, Dan agreed to come down and get her out, and asked what bail had been set at. After the second round of ranting and profanity, Dan promised to be there as soon as he could raise the money.

The interrogation process did not veer from the usual. Alison refused to answer any questions despite all manner of intimidation. Her interrogators even tried the bad cop/worse cop routine, which amused her. Drake agreed to cooperate if he could have an iced coffee and a cigar, then proceeded to answer each question with a variation of “I don’t know” until his interrogators brought him back to his cell.

Jim was the only one who talked, and no one at the police station believed him. Never having been briefed on how to handle this type of situation, Jim told his interrogators everything. About the existence of vampires. About what he had witnessed since joining the hunters. He even provided a detailed, blow-by-blow description of the battle at Wolf Trap. Jim never expected to be believed, and as such felt that he was not betraying Drake’s confidence. He figured his interrogators would consider him delusional at best, or more than likely completely divorced from reality. It would not have surprised Jim to know that the police had called in a psychiatrist to give him a mental evaluation.

The psychiatrist never got the chance to talk with Jim.

Shortly before seven the next morning, a female officer came down to the holding cells and took away Jessica, telling the reporter that her editor had posted bail. Twenty minutes later, a second officer came down for the hunters. They went through the by-now-familiar routine of checking out their belongings and signing forms.

As the hunters exited the police station, Smith stood in the parking lot to greet them. As always, he wore a black Savile Row suit with a pink shirt and red silk tie. He leaned against their Ram, which had been towed here from the impound lot and parked in front of the station. Smith looked out of place, yet Drake had never been happier to see him. Upon seeing his protégées, Smith pushed himself off of the pick-up and walked across the parking lot to greet them. His face did not bear his usual pleasant professionalism.

Drake grasped Smith’s hand with his right, giving it a hearty shake. “You don’t know how glad we are to see you.”

“I bet.”

Alison stepped forward and gave Smith a quick, friendly hug. “What would we do without you?”

“Probably ten to twenty, with time off for good behavior.” Not knowing how to respond to the hug, Smith gave Alison a gentle pat on the back with his right hand, then stepped back.

“Consider us job security,” said Drake.

“Then I can’t wait until retirement,” Smith said with a grin. He quickly grew serious again. “How many did you take out this time?”

“Eight snuffies and a master,” said Drake. “A second master got away, but she’s banged up pretty bad.”

“But she’ll regenerate, right?”

“Not fully. A lot of the damage was caused by holy water. She’s going to carry quite a few scars around with her.”

“Good. If she’s marked up, she won’t be able to travel around so easily. With luck, you can track her down before she rebuilds the nest.”

Drake agreed, but knew the team would need a few days off before they could go out again. “Do you know where Jessica is?”

Smith gestured over his shoulder to the other end of the parking lot. Jessica stood beside a dark green Saturn ten spaces down from the Ram, talking to a man.

“Who’s that?” asked Drake.

“Dan Philips, her editor. He had already bailed her out when I arrived, otherwise I would have. I assume in the future I’ll be looking out for her, too?”

Drake looked over at Jessica, admiring how good she looked in her business suit despite it being covered with dust and dirt, and despite having spent the last two days on the edge of hell. “I hope so.”

“As if you don’t get into enough trouble already.” Smith adjusted his suit jacket and pulled on the sleeves. “If you’re all set, I’ll be going.”

Smith left the parking lot and walked down the street, presumably to his car that was parked away from prying eyes. At the same time, Jessica and Dan finished their conversation. Dan moved to the door of the Saturn, giving Drake a suspicious look before getting in. As Dan started the engine and pulled out of the parking space, Jessica walked over to Drake.

Jessica threw her arms around Drake and gave him a hug. “I’m glad to see you’re all right.”

Drake’s cracked ribs burned with pain, but he was not about to complain. Placing his arms around Jessica’s waist, he hugged back. He could not help but notice how warm she felt against him. “You knew I survived.”

“I was referring to you spending another night in casa de copland.”

“I’m practically a Gold Card member.” Drake broke the hug, but kept his hands on her hips. He motioned to where she had been talking to Dan a few minutes earlier. “How did you make out with your editor?”

“He took it much better than I thought.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I fed him the biggest line of bullshit in my career.”

“Which is?”

“That you’re really one of the good guys.”

“Thanks. I think.”

Jessica smiled embarrassingly. “Because of the three-hundred-year-old bone fragments ashes found at the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, he thought you were involved with grave robbing. I told him you’re a private investigator working to crack open an organ harvesting ring.”

“And he believed you?”

“Not fully. But when you’re dealing with old bone fragments, unexplained murders, disappearing bodies, and a morgue massacre, it’s the best I could come up with. Besides, it’s a lot easier than accepting the existence if vampires. So he’ll believe it.” Jessica grinned. “For now.”

“So Dan likes me?” Drake joked.

“I wouldn’t go that far. But there’ll be no expose of you on the front page of The Standard.”

Drake smiled. It was nice to see that Jessica could maintain a sense of humor despite last night. You needed one to maintain your sanity in this job. But he knew his next question would break that mood.

“How did you explain Bill’s death?”

Jessica dropped her head, momentarily avoiding eye contact. “I told him Bill called me two nights ago saying he had knocked up his girlfriend and needed a while to straighten things out. If Bill never shows up again, Dan will just assume he ran out on her.” A tear rolled down Jessica’s cheek.

“How are you doing?” Drake asked.

Jessica sniffed. “I’m alive.”

“In my line of work, that’s a major accomplishment.”

“As I’ve learned. The hard way.” Jessica wiped her eyes. “So what’s next?”

“The female master escaped. As long as she’s alive, she can rebuild the nest. We need to kill her quickly if we want to close down this nest once and for all.”

“That’ll make one hell of a story.”

“I think that can be arranged.” Drake liked the idea of having Jessica around more often. “Though you’ll never get Dan to publish it.”

“I’ll use it in my memoirs.” She smiled again, then fidgeted from one foot to the other. “You know, I never said thank you for saving my life.”

“That’s what I get paid for.”

“What you did….” Jessica looked beyond Drake to where Alison and Jim stood by the Ram. “…what you all did was more than just your job. You put your lives on the line for me. Thanks.”

Alison stood with her arms folded across her chest. She nodded and forced a smile. Jim responded with a half-hearted salute.

Jessica looked at her watch. “It’s still early. Why don’t I take you to supper?”

“That’s great,” chimed in Jim. “I’m starving.”

“I’m sorry. I meant the invitation only for….” Jessica became embarrassed.

Drake tried to help her out. “What Jessica meant was that she wants to interview me privately about last night.”

“No,” said Jessica. “I’m asking you out on a date.”

Drake did not expect this turn of events. Not that it was unpleasant. He found Jessica attractive. It would be nice to spend time with her when the topic of conversation did not revolve around vampires. After spending so many months battling the undead, he could stand to do some living for a change. Drake could not think of anything he would rather do right now than spend the next few hours with Jessica.

Except for one thing.

“Can I take a rain check on dinner?”

“Oh. Okay.” Drake’s response took Jessica by surprise. “Don’t feel that you have to…”

“I want to have dinner with you. There’s just something I need to take care of first.”

A taxi pulled into the parking lot and stopped in front of the police station. Drake turned to Alison. “I’m going to catch a ride back into Washington. Would you mind taking Jim and Jessica home?”

Alison nodded. “That you pay me enough to do.”

“Thanks.” And to Jessica, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Drake raced across the parking lot, hailing the taxi. Having dropped off his passenger, the driver had started to pull away, but stopped when he heard Drake. Drake opened the door and jumped into the back. Within seconds, the taxi pulled out of the lot and turned onto the main street.

Jessica watched the taxi depart, then turned to the others. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Nope.” Jim circled behind the Ram and got into the right rear passenger seat. “Drake treats everyone that way.”

“Don’t listen to him,” comforted Alison. “If Drake wasn’t interested, he would have said so. He just has something he needs to take care of first. Come on, let’s go home.”

IT HURT TO open the apartment door. As Drake turned the key, his arm muscles throbbed. After last night, it hurt even to breathe. He really should have gone directly to the hospital, but first needed to take care of something more important. With an effort that seemed Herculean under the circumstances, he turned the knob and stepped inside.

A reassuring sound greeted Drake as he entered—Van Helsing racing around his cage, happy that his human companion had come home. Drake lumbered down the hall, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in greeting. When he entered the dining room, Van Helsing hopped from one side of his cage to the other. Drake stepped over to the table and opened the cage door. Van Helsing hopped out onto the table and, for the first time ever, jumped into Drake’s arms. Even that hurt, but Drake did not mind. Gently wrapping his arms around his companion, Drake hugged Van Helsing. It was difficult to tell who was more appreciative of seeing the other.

Placing Van Helsing on the floor, Drake gave him a loving pat on the rump, sending the rabbit on a happy jaunt through the apartment. Drake made his way into the kitchen. He could use a hot meal, but settled for three shots of Baker’s Bourbon in a tumbler. Taking the tumbler with him into the bathroom, Drake removed two Aleve tablets from their bottle, popped them into his mouth, and rinsed them down with the bourbon.

Though he did not have the energy, Drake forced himself to strip and climb into the shower. The first burst of water hurt when it struck his skin. Once the stream heated and the pulsing action kicked in, he was glad he opted for the shower. His muscles went from a throb to a dull ache. More importantly, the shower relieved some of the tension in his mind.

A major battle against the vampires had been won. Miraculously, each of the hunters had survived. Wiping out a master and an entire nest was a plus. A very gratifying one. None of that negated the fact that a master escaped. Although he hoped the master would be smart enough to leave Washington and reestablish its nest elsewhere, reality warned him that the master would more than likely stay in the area. If it did, it would be pissed off and would be looking for revenge. This war was far from over.

Drake would deal with that later. Right now, he required rest more than anything else.

Drake turned off the faucets. When he opened the shower door, Van Helsing lay sprawled on the mat, patiently waiting. Drake petted him with a wet hand, then chuckled as his friend hopped off into a corner and shook the water off of his head. Grabbing a towel off of the rack, Drake dried himself.

Ten minutes later, he trudged into his living room and collapsed into his reclining chair. Chugging down the last of the bourbon, Drake placed the empty glass on the end table and reclined. Almost immediately, he heard the patter of running feet and a thump as Van Helsing jumped onto his lap. With a single hop, Van Helsing moved onto Drake’s chest and presented himself, his large brown eyes begging for affection. Drake took the floppy ears between his thumb and index finger, and gently massaged.

After a minute, Drake began to doze. Van Helsing flopped over and settled down on Drake’s chest, clicking his teeth, happy to have him home. As for Drake, for the first time in days he dozed off and slept like the dead.

Not the undead, as he had feared.

Acknowledgements

Although writing is one of the loneliest professions, many people are involved in transferring the author’s ideas into print.

This is the fourth time that The Vampire Hunters has gone to print. The first three times were with Shadowfire Press in 2009, Pill Hill Press in 2010, and Emby Press in 2014. Over the years, a lot of people have worked on this novel; sadly, I can’t thank all of them here. However, for this edition I do want to express my deepest gratitude to Judy Knuth who proof read the final draft and helped me perfect this version of the book.

A shout out is necessary to Kim (Criss) Pivac of George Mason University, a forensics expert who reviewed the autopsy scene for accuracy, and Renee Buhr, a Wisconsin native who provided background information for Jessica’s early journalistic career. As with all of my books, I often seek the advice of experts to make it sound like I know what I’m talking about. However, any errors are solely my responsibility.

The biggest thanks goes to my wife, Alison. She is my biggest fan, colleague, and soul mate. We would never have met if it wasn’t for The Vampire Hunters, so this novel has a special place in our lives.

VAMPYRNOMICON

Scott M. Baker

THE VAMPIRE HUNTERS TRILOGY

BOOK II

VAMPYRNOMICON

A Schattenseite Book

Vampyrnomicon
by Scott M. Baker

Copyright © 2016. All Rights Reserved.

No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or transmitted in form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the authors.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Acknowledgements

1

JESSICA REYNOLDS STOOD by the open manhole. The pungent odor of ammonia and human waste wafted out of the sewer, stinging her eyes and churning the bile in her stomach. Holding her breath and squinting against the discomfort, she leaned forward and stared down the access tunnel, but could not see the bottom. Despite the noon sun glaring overhead, its light penetrated only a few feet down the access tunnel, rendering the sewer ominously dark. Jessica did not have to see what was down there to fear it. What lurked below the streets of Washington was deadly, dangerous, and evil.

She stepped back from the manhole and walked over to the midnight-black Dodge Ram. “Tell me again why you’re going down there?”

“To flush out the nest,” said Drake Matthews. He slid on his brown leather jacket.

“I thought we destroyed the nest a few nights ago?”

“We did.” Drake slipped three wooden stakes into the special pouch stitched into the jacket lining. A bolt of pain from the cracked ribs he received in that struggle shot through his chest, a reminder of just how close a call they actually had.

“Why the rush? We haven’t recovered yet from the last battle.”

Alison Monroe stepped around from the open door of the Ram and joined Drake and Jessica. She loaded shells into a shotgun. “Because one master escaped. If we wait too long, she’ll create another nest.”

Jessica looked over at Alison, who wore her usual hunting uniform, black leather pants with a black turtleneck sweater, both of which she filled out quite nicely. Jessica tried unsuccessfully to curtail her jealousy. “How large could the nest get in only five days?”

“Masters have been known to sire up to two vampires a night. And each of those can sire vampires of their own.” Alison finished loading the shotgun. “You do the math.”

“Fifty-one, to be exact.” Jim Delmarco joined the group. “That’s assuming that each vampire sired two more a day every day over the past five days.”

“Why are you so sure the nest is here?”

“It’s more of an educated guess,” said Jim. “This is where the police found the car that the master stole near Wolf Trap the night we destroyed the nest. Assuming the surviving master stole the car to drive home, and assuming she parked it near the nest, then this is as a good a place as any to start looking.”

Jim reached under his jacket, pulled out a folded map, and spread it out on the Ram’s lowered tailgate. Jessica leaned over to look at it. The map showed the sewer system underneath Washington. Superimposed on the map in light blue ink was a street map of the city. Several streets had red ovals hand-drawn around them, with a small red X in between the ovals. Jim placed his finger on the X.

“We’re here, where the police found the stolen car. I drove through the neighborhood two days ago, covering every street within a half-mile radius of this location, and noted all the abandoned buildings. There are more than a dozen closed stores on this and the adjacent street. A boarded up school two blocks to our west. And a whole street of condemned Federalist-style row houses three blocks to the east.”

“We’ll start our search at the row houses and work our way back.” Drake unholstered his pair of Glocks and inserted into each firearm a magazine containing ten .40 caliber hollow-point rounds filled with holy water. He chambered one round into each Glock and slid the weapons into his twin shoulder holsters.

“Why won’t you let me go with you?” asked Jessica. Although relieved that Drake did not expect her to crawl through the sewer, part of her resented that Drake would be down there relying on Alison rather than her. “I can take care of myself.”

Alison rolled her eyes.

Drake was more diplomatic. “I need you up here to make sure no one blocks the manhole in case we need to get out in a hurry.”

Jessica feigned a smile. “I think I can handle that.”

“I know you can.” Drake took Jessica’s hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze, then turned to the others. “We ready?”

Jim finished folding the map and slid it into the pouch beside the two bottles of Heaven’s Fire, homemade napalm laced with chunks of crystallized holy water. He closed and secured the flap. “I guess so.”

Alison switched on the high-powered flashlight she had taped to the shotgun’s barrel, then pulled back the slide to load a round into the chamber. “Let’s kick some undead ass.”

The hunters stepped over to the open manhole. Drake crouched down and lowered his legs into the opening. When he had his footing on the access ladder, he began to climb down.

“Drake,” Jessica called after him. “Be careful.”

Alison stepped directly in front of Jessica. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him.” She followed her boss into the manhole.

Jim entered last.

Jess stood alone in the street, cursing herself for being so useless.

ENTERING INTO THE sewer proved more difficult than Drake anticipated. The ladder was a series of rectangular rungs imbedded into the wall, each rung only an inch in diameter and slippery from moisture. Once clear of the manhole, the walls sloped slightly outward, forcing them to climb down at an awkward angle. After a descent of almost fifteen feet, Drake reached a small landing. Turning around, he shined his flashlight into the bowels of the sewer. It measured ten feet in width and twelve in height, with an arched ceiling comprised of red bricks. A two-foot drop led from the landing to the floor. A trough eighteen inches wide ran down the center of the sewer, carrying a stream of brackish water. From this height, the area on either side of the trough looked slippery. Instead of jumping, Drake sat on the landing and eased himself down. As expected, his feet slid under him when he touched the floor, struggling to get a grip on the coating of raw sewage and human waste.

“Oh, Jesus.” Alison stepped onto the landing. “It smells like shit down here.”

“What did you expect? It’s a sewer.” Drake took Alison’s hand and helped her off the landing. He noticed how soft and warm her touch was, and how she gripped his hand for several seconds after she climbed down.

Jim joined them a moment later.

Once all three were gathered, Drake swung the flashlight to the south. “This is one of the sanitation lines that carries sewage to the waste treatment plant. According to the map, if we follow this line for a hundred feet we should come to a storm drain that runs under the abandoned row houses.

“Lead on,” said Jim with a lack of enthusiasm.

“What exactly are we looking for?” asked Alison.

“I’m not sure,” said Drake. “But I have a feeling we’ll know it when we find it.”

“WHAT’S THE PENALTY for locking your kids up in their room?” asked Ted Marlowe.

Bob Patterson kept his flashlight trained on the sewer walls, looking for damage. “Why’s that?”

“Because it’s the only way I’m gonna keep Susan in line. She didn’t come in until two this morning.”

“Kids will be kids.”

“But she’s only fourteen, for Christ’s sake.”

“Well, you’re the adult. Lay down the rules.”

“That’s easy for you to say. Rebecca ain’t a problem child.”

“She’s not now. But she was a few years ago. I just kept her on a short leash.”

“How so?”

Patterson lowered the flashlight, shining the beam across the floor. “Two years ago, when she was sixteen, one of her boyfriends dropped by the house to pick her up. A real asshole. Pulls up in front of the house in this shitbox of a car, blaring rap music. He’s wearing a leather Harley-Davidson vest, a black T-shirt with a pack of smokes rolled up in one sleeve, and a friggin’ ponytail. To top it off, Rebecca comes downstairs wearing her street slut outfit.”

“And you let him live?”

Patterson chuckled. “I followed them out onto the front porch. As they were getting into the car, I announced so the whole neighborhood could hear that if anything happened to my daughter that I didn’t approve of, the police would never find enough of his body parts to convict me.”

“Jesus, man. Rebecca must have been pissed.”

“She didn’t talk to me for a week. Neither did her mother, for that matter. Which wasn’t a bad thing.”

“I wish my old lady wouldn’t talk to me for a week. Shit. She’s been all over my ass for three days now. Ever since—”

Patterson sighed to himself. He never should have started this conversation because now Marlowe would never shut up. Marlowe was a nice enough guy and a good worker, but he could talk the ears off of a dead man. He drove Patterson crazy on these routine inspections when they walked through the sewers and checked each line for problems that required maintenance, which allowed more than enough time to ramble. This morning they were inspecting the storm drain lines that ran underneath the neighborhood. Since these lines carried rain water out of the area and into the Anacostia River, none of the sanitation troughs ran through here. Patterson preferred the routine checks of these lines. Sure, he and Tom still needed to wear the thick rubber boots and cumbersome overalls, but at least they weren’t traipsing through sewage and smelling shit.

The two men walked for another quarter of a mile while Marlowe yammered on about some reality television show he had watched the night before. Patterson swept the flashlight from one wall to the other. He stopped to illuminate a large opening in the ceiling.

Marlowe saw it at the same time. “Jesus, man. What the hell is it?”

Patterson stepped underneath it and directed his flashlight up. The hole was four feet in diameter and extended up at a forty-five degree angle. He estimated the tunnel’s length at fifteen to twenty feet.

Marlowe stepped beside Patterson and gazed up the tunnel. “What is it? An old lateral dump?”

“Doubt it. This isn’t a sanitation line.” Patterson directed the beam against the tunnel walls. “Besides, the surface is too rough. Something dug this out.”

Marlowe whistled. “Rats?”

“If there’s a rat out there that can chew through six yards of concrete and gravel, I sure as hell never want to meet it.”

Patterson concentrated the flashlight toward the far end of the tunnel. The beam barely illuminated a room. At least it looked like a room. In the dim light, Patterson could just about make out what appeared to be wooden beams running across a ceiling. “What’s above us?”

“A string of abandoned row houses.”

“Must have been a cave in.”

“Then where’s the debris?”

Patterson lowered the beam to the sewer floor and looked around. Nothing there but a few small chunks of cement. “I guess the only way to find out is for you to go up and have a look.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re fifty pounds lighter and ten years younger than me. And I’m your boss.”

Marlowe unclipped his utility belt and slid out of his heavy rubber boots. He took his flashlight and inserted it into the strap around his hardhat. “Why do I always do the grunt work?”

“Someday you’ll be a supervisor and then you can boss other people around.”

“Can you give me a hand?”

Patterson locked his fingers together and crouched. When Marlowe placed his foot in his hands, Patterson stood up and lifted his friend into the tunnel opening. Marlowe lost his footing and nearly fell out, but quickly regained his hold and started climbing. He crawled up a few feet and stopped.

“Jesus, man. It stinks up here.”

“What’s it smell like?” Patterson worried about a gas leak.

“Remember that nest of dead rats we found last year? It smells like that, only a lot worse.”

“No big deal. Something crawled up there and died, that’s all.”

“Maybe we should call the police.”

“Don’t be such a wuss,” chided Patterson. “Go on. The dead can’t hurt you.”

THE HUNTERS STOPPED at an intersection of sewer lines. A sanitation line continued ahead of them. A second one branched off to their left at a ninety-degree angle. A retaining wall one-foot high stretched across it. On the other side of the wall, the sewer was clean, with only a few pools of clear water near the walls.

Drake turned to Jim and motioned toward the branch. “Is this the way to the row houses?”

Jim pulled the map from his pouch and shined his flashlight on it. “According to this, that’s a storm drain line. It runs for about a hundred yards before it passes under the row houses.”

Drake tapped his finger on the graphic representing the string of row houses. “And that’s where we’ll find the nest.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Jim.

“It’s the ideal place for one. Those row houses are large enough to easily hold a nest. And there are no other occupied buildings around, so a nest could thrive there for months and stay undetected.” Drake reached under his jacket and withdrew a stake. “Let’s rock.”

SITTING IN THE driver’s seat of the Ram and fondling the two-way radio, Jessica contemplated for the umpteenth time checking in with Drake. She did not notice the Metro Police squad car pull up behind the truck until the driver switched on the flashing blues and gave her a brief burst from the siren. Jessica looked up into the rearview mirror. Shit. The squad car had parked over the open manhole. She didn’t need this.

The officer opened the door and stepped out. Jessica quickly sized him up. She estimated him at about six feet in height and weighing in at over two hundred pounds, but none of it fat. He had a well-toned physique that, although not intimidating, would certainly make most people think twice before challenging him. As the officer approached, Jessica noticed that he had not taken out his ticket book or placed his hand on his service revolver, which meant he did not view this stop as a potential threat. Maybe she could bluff her way out of this. Reaching up with her right hand, she unfastened the second and third buttons of her blouse.

The officer stopped by the driver’s door of the Ram and leaned forward. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Is everything okay?”

“No problem, officer. I broke down. That’s all.” Jessica shifted slightly in the driver’s seat, trying to display cleavage. His nameplate read Sergeant Wilson. Why did that name sound familiar?

“Do you need me to call a tow truck?”

“No, thanks. Someone’s coming to get me.”

“Good enough, ma’am. Just please turn on your flashers so no one hits you.”

“Sure.” Jessica went to turn on the hazard lights, only to realize she had no idea where to locate the switch. She fumbled around with various switches on the dashboard and steering column before finally finding it. By then, her unfamiliarity with the vehicle had made Wilson suspicious.

“Ma’am, if I could see your driver’s license, please.”

“Certainly.”

This is great, Jessica said to herself. Things can’t get much worse. She rummaged through her purse, took out her wallet and opened it, then pulled out her license and handed it over.

“And your registration, ma’am.”

Okay. Things could get worse. Jessica looked around the cab. She pulled down the visor. Nothing. She searched through the glove compartment. Nothing. She looked in the island between the front seats. Still nothing.

“Is there a problem?”

“No.” Jessica turned back to Wilson. “The truck belongs to my boyfriend, and he went to get a tow. He probably has the registration with him.”

“I see.” Wilson moved back two steps and placed his right hand on his service revolver. “Please step out of the vehicle, ma’am.”

Jessica slid out of the Ram and closed the driver’s door behind her. Wilson motioned for her to move away from the vehicle and into the space between the truck and the squad car. Keeping Jessica in his peripheral vision, he examined her driver’s license. His eyes suddenly lit up. “Your name is Jessica Reynolds, ma’am?”

“That’s me.”

“With The Washington Standard?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The same Jessica Reynolds who wrote that expose on how some Washington cops were getting freebies from the city’s hookers in return for not busting them?”

Jessica sighed. Things could get much, much worse.

“You mentioned me several times in that article.”

“I didn’t think anyone read it.” Jessica sounded more flippant than she wanted to.

“Oh, they did. My supervisor, for one. He suspended me for two weeks without pay. And my fiancée. She broke off our engagement. But not before screwing a couple of my buddies on the force and humiliating me.”

Jessica thought of a dozen responses, all of them smart-ass comebacks that only would get here into more trouble. At a momentary loss for words, all she could say was, “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize, ma’am. You were just doing your job. As I’m doing mine.” Wilson removed his citation book from his back pocket. “By the way, did you know your license expired two months ago? Please turn around and place both hands on the bed of the truck.”

The situation had just gone into full FUBAR mode.

MARLOWE STRUGGLED UP the tunnel, finding it difficult to maintain his footing because of the moisture that covered the walls. It had taken him almost ten minutes, and he was still a few feet from the top. Even worse, the higher he climbed the stronger the stench became. His eyes watered and his stomach threatened to heave from the intensity. He fought back the urge to vomit, not wanting to climb back down through his own puke.

“Everything okay?” Patterson called out from below.

“I’m almost there. But this thing is slippery as hell. Coming down is gonna be a bitch.”

“Forget it, then. We’ll note what we found in the log and check it out later.”

“I came this far. Hang on.”

Reaching the top, Marlowe made certain of his footing and hoisted himself so his upper body extended over the edge. He turned his head to the left, letting the beam from the hard hat’s flashlight fall on the opposite wall.

Several desiccated bodies in various stages of decomposition littered the floor. The corpses swarmed with large, reddish-brown cockroaches. To his right, near the edge of the tunnel, lay a body no more than a couple of days old. Its neck had been torn open, allowing the body to bleed out. Swollen by internal gas, the abdomen had burst, draining a steady stream of fluid that flowed into the tunnel, which explained it being so slippery. Maggots churned through the organs, devouring the decaying remains.

Marlow swallowed back the vomit rising in his throat.

“What do you see?” called Patterson.

“Jesus, man. This place is a charnel house. There’s half a dozen corpses up here. Looks like junkies have been using this place as a drug house, and several of them OD’d. One of them looks like he’s been dead only a few—”

A noise to his rear caught Marlowe’s attention. He spun his head around. The light shined on someone crouched behind him near the edge of the tunnel. The figure kept its head lowered, so Marlowe could not see the face. It had a ghastly pallid color. Probably some junkie on an extended high who hadn’t seen the light of day in weeks.

“Hey, buddy. What the fuck’s going o—”

The thing looked up, glaring at Marlowe with a face that was not human. The eyes glowed at him from sunken sockets, the blood-red irises surrounded by sickeningly yellow pupils. Black matted hair hung over a slightly-protruding and deeply-furrowed forehead. The shriveled lips pulled back to reveal stained, two-inch long fangs. A guttural snarl emanated from its throat.

Marlowe started to scream when the thing lunged, plunging its fangs into his throat.

PATTERSON HEARD MARLOWE talking, followed by a blood-curdling scream. He directed his flashlight up the tunnel.

“Ted, are you all right?”

No answer. In the dim light, Patterson could see his friend thrashing.

“Hang on. I’m coming up.”

He had no idea how, though. Patterson was looking for something to climb onto when he heard the dull thud of a body hitting concrete. He looked up to see Marlowe sliding down the tunnel. Patterson jumped aside a split second before Marlowe tumbled out and crashed onto the sewer floor. Patterson bent over to check on him. Part of Marlowe’s spinal column protruded through a mass of torn flesh and tissue where his head used to be. As Patterson stared in shock and disbelief, something rolled out of the tunnel and dropped beside him. Marlowe’s head stared up at him, its eyes glazed and frozen in terror.

Movement from inside the tunnel caught Patterson’s attention. He looked up to see three things scurrying down toward him, head first. Through the minimal light from the flashlight, all he could make out were fangs and glowing red eyes. Whatever these things were, they were not human. He did not intend to stick around long enough to find out.

Leaving his dead friend behind, Patterson headed back the way he came, running as fast as his two hundred and fifty pound bulk would carry him.

MARLOWE’S SCREAM REACHED the hunters. Drake and Alison had heard that anguished cry before. Too many times. They instantly knew what it meant: someone had found the nest, and paid for that discovery with his life. Without saying a word, the hunters ran toward the scream.

They had covered ten yards when they nearly collided with a large man in a sewer worker’s uniform coming in the other direction.

“Run,” Patterson panted, gasping for breath. “They’re right… behind me.”

The sound of approaching vampires drew close. Drake could tell by the snarls that these things were hungry, which boded ill.

“How many?” Drake asked.

“Fuck that,” said Patterson. “We gotta—”

“How many?” Drake asked again, more forcibly this time.

“Three.”

“Jim, take him back to the pick-up. We’ll hold them off as long as possible.”

“No arguments here.” Jim pushed Patterson in the direction they had just come from. “Move!”

As the other two beat a hasty retreat, Drake unholstered his Glocks and Alison raised the shotgun into firing position.

They did not have long to wait.

The three vampires lunged out of the darkness, their hideous features barely distinguishable in the light from the weapons-mounted flashlights. Drake and Alison waited until they closed to within ten feet before firing.

The first round of buckshot tore a massive hole in the lead vampire’s chest and stopped it in its tracks. Alison chambered a second round and fired again, knocking the vampire into the second one in line. They lay in a writhing heap. Alison pumped two more rounds into the mass of undead.

Drake fired three rounds from each Glock into the third vampire as it jumped over its fallen brethren. Each .40 caliber round punched a large hole into its chest, knocking it to the sewer floor. Then the holy water began to seep into the wounds. The vampire thrashed around in agony. Drake fired four more rounds into it. The vampire arched its body in pain, rolled onto its hands and knees, and scurried back down the sewer. Drake fired at its back until the chambers of both Glocks locked open. He ejected the empty magazines and quickly reloaded.

Untangling itself from its wounded brethren, the second vampire lunged at Alison. She aimed the shotgun at its chest. Before she could fire, it sprang onto the ceiling, crawled over her head, and dropped to the ground behind her. Alison spun around to shoot, but it raced away.

“It’s going after Jim,” she warned.

“Look out!”

Alison turned back just as the first vampire sprang at her. She raised the shotgun and fired. The vampire’s head exploded. Blood gushed from its neck, splattering the hunters and the sewer walls. It disintegrated in mid-lunge, showering Alison in ash and momentarily blinding her.

Drake finished reloading and chambered a round in each Glock. He heard the vampire that had retreated approaching for another attack.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Alison shook her head to clear away the ash. “Roger that.”

“And keep your eyes open in case that other one decides to backtrack on us.”

Alison led the way back down the storm drain line, with Drake glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to check on their pursuer. On his third look, he saw the vampire closing to within ten feet. Drake stopped and spun around, firing eight rounds into its chest. All eight found their mark, ripping chunks out of the vampire’s torso until Drake could see through its abdomen. The vampire faltered. It leaned against the wall, grimacing in pain. Then it came for them again, only much slower.

Alison reached the intersection with the sanitation line and turned right, heading toward the Ram. Drake stopped her and motioned in the other direction. “This way. I want to lead it away from the others.”

“You’re the boss.”

Drake shot a quick look down the branch line and saw the vampire still limping after them.

JIM AND PATTERSON reached the access ladder that led up to Jessica. Patterson fell back against the wall, gasping. His chest heaved as he struggled for air. His shirt clung to his body, drenched in sweat. Jim thought he might have a coronary right there in the sewer.

“Leave me here… kid… and save… yourself.”

“No way. We’re almost there.”

Patterson looked at the ladder, and dejection washed over his face. “There’s no way… I’m making it… up there.”

Jim heard something approaching from down the sewer. “It’s only a fifteen-foot climb to safety. Or would you rather end up like your friend?”

That galvanized Patterson. He climbed up onto the landing and scaled the rungs. Jim followed right behind. Patterson moved excruciatingly slow, the combination of his weight and his fear making the climb more difficult than usual. Jim wanted to yell at him to move his fat ass, but reasoned making him nervous would not help the situation. Instead, every few seconds he checked the landing to see if the vampire had found them.

They had almost reached the top when Patterson stopped.

“Keep going,” ordered Jim. “We’re almost there.”

“I can’t. Some asshole parked their car over the manhole.” Patterson reached up and banged the underside of the car. “Hey, move this fuckin’ thing!”

Jim looked down again just as a vampire stuck its head up the access tunnel. It flashed a sardonic grin. With the deliberate slowness of a hunter stalking its prey, it crawled onto the landing and slowly climbed the ladder. Reaching into the bag, Jim pressed the five-second-delay detonator cap on one of the bottles of Heaven’s Fire. Sliding the bag off of his shoulder, he dangled it over the access tunnel and dropped it.

Realizing what was about to happen, the vampire let go of the rungs, dropped to the landing, and rolled off into the sewer just as the bag crashed onto the cement. The twin bottles burst. A second later, the detonator cap exploded, igniting the home-made napalm. A blast of hot air shot up the tunnel, followed by a mushroom cloud of smoke, forcing Jim to turn away.

When Jim looked down, he saw the landing awash in flames. Beyond the flames, crouching in the sewer and waiting to pounce, sat the vampire.

“Any luck moving that car?”

“No.” Patterson looked down the tunnel at the flames. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Buying us some time.”

But not enough. The gasoline-detergent mixture burned itself out enough that the flames no longer posed a threat. With an animalistic snarl, the vampire jumped from the sewer onto the landing and began climbing.

JESSICA STOOD WITH her hands against the bed of the Ram. She wanted to tell Wilson where he could put his citation book, but knew that doing so would only make things worse. In the past ten minutes he had written her up for illegal parking, driving with an expired license, and failure to have proper registration with the vehicle. She half expected him to smash the headlights with his nightstick then cite her for that. Wilson was in the process of writing her up for some other nonsensical infraction when Jessica heard a commotion from under the squad car. Bending slightly, she saw the top of someone’s head sticking out of the open manhole. The person reached up and banged on the underside of the squad car.

“Hey, move this fuckin’ thing!”

Wilson turned to Jessica, his eyes narrow with anger. “What did you say?”

“That wasn’t me.”

Wilson stared at Jessica, not certain whether to believe her, then looked around the area.

The muffled sound of a small explosion came from underneath the squad car. Seconds later, black smoke poured from underneath the chassis and billowed up the sides. Wilson dropped the citation book and stepped back.

“What the fuck?”

“You have to move your car off the manhole,” said Jessica.

“No way, lady. It’s on fire.”

“No it’s not. The fire’s coming from inside the sewer.”

“How do you know that?” Wilson’s hand moved toward his service revolver as he stared at the smoke coming from underneath his squad car.

Jessica did not have time to argue. She took a step toward Wilson and called his name. When he turned in her direction, she kicked him as hard as she could in the balls. Wilson’s cry of pain degenerated into a tearful gasp. His hands fell to his crotch. He dropped to his knees, muttering something unintelligible through the pain. Not that Jessica listened. She raced past Wilson and slid into the squad car. Thankfully, he had left the engine running. Unable to see because of the smoke, she felt around for the shift, moved it into reverse, and backed up. An overweight man struggled to climb out the manhole, but could not get enough of a grip on the flat pavement to pull himself out. Jessica shifted into park, climbed out of the squad car, and raced over to help.

THE VAMPIRE HAD scurried half-way up the ladder when Patterson called out, “Someone’s moving the car.”

“About time.” Though Jim wondered if he had any left.

The vampire pounced on Jim, its talon-like nails slicing into his flesh as it crawled its way up his back. Jim tried to pull away, but the vampire pinned him to the wall. Its left hand wrapped around Jim’s cheek, pushing his head to one side and exposing his neck. He smelled the thing’s decayed breath and felt the cold exhalation on his skin.

Patterson finally crawled through the manhole and onto the street. The afternoon sun poured into the manhole, bathing the vampire in its rays. It bellowed so loud the noise deafened Jim. The vampire tried to crawl down to escape, but Jim shoved his body back, pinning it against the wall. Its skin began to burn off in small strips that crumbled into ash, the destruction becoming more rapid the longer it stayed in the sunlight. The vampire flailed around, trying to break free, until it eventually disintegrated into a cloud of dust and ash that settled to the landing.

Jim climbed the rest of the way up the ladder. Jessica waited for him and helped him through the manhole. As he stood up, Jessica studied the bloody claw marks on his back. “Oh my God. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Jim looked beyond Jessica. “Is everything okay up here?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I just wondered why that cop had a gun trained on us.”

Jessica turned. Patterson stood three feet away with his arms raised above his head. Wilson had struggled to his feet and stumbled over to the Ram. Steadying himself against the bed with his left hand, he aimed his service revolver at Jessica and Jim with his right. Tears still streamed down his face.

“All three of you. Face down on the pavement. Now!”

DRAKE AND ALISON raced along the sanitation sewer as fast as they could. Accumulated layers of human waste encrusted the walkway, making the footing underneath as slippery as ice. They kept a lead on the pursuing vampire by pausing every fifty feet and firing a few rounds into it. Each time they succeeded in stopping it only for a few seconds, barely long enough for them to gain ground. Despite sustaining a score of wounds that would have been fatal to a human, it continued the pursuit, a little slower after each set of wounds, and a hell of a lot more pissed off. Drake and Alison were rapidly running out of ammunition and stamina.

“I have only one magazine left,” Drake panted. “What about you?”

“Two or three rounds at most.”

“Then we better think of something quick.”

“Way ahead of you.”

Alison stopped running, spun around, and crouched. The vampire was only twenty feet behind them and closing fast. Alison aimed the shotgun, lowered the barrel a few inches, and squeezed the trigger. The first round peppered its right leg with buckshot. The second blew off its leg at the knee. With a guttural howl, it crashed to the walkway only a few feet from Alison. Yet without missing a stride, it came after her, crawling on its arms and single good leg.

Standing up, Alison raced off after Drake.

“This way.” Drake stood by the opening to another branch line blocked by a foot-high retainer wall. Alison jumped over the sanitation trough to the opposite walkway, nearly losing her balance. Drake reached out, grabbed her hand, and yanked her into the storm drain line. She regained her footing on the dry floor. The two raced down the drain. After one hundred feet, they came to another landing and access tunnel adjacent to a construction site. An acetylene tank, a jack hammer, and a portable generator sat on either side of the landing. Across from the tunnel sat a storage area recessed into the wall and covered with a chain link fence. The gate stood open, a metal chain and padlock dangling off the handle.

Alison made for the landing, but Drake directed her into the storage area.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Trust me. I have an idea.”

Once inside, Drake pulled the gate shut and secured the chain around the metal supports. He had just secured the padlock between two links when the vampire slammed into the gate in front of him. Drake jumped back, stumbling into a stack of wooden crates.

Decayed tissue and tendons hung from the vampire’s severed leg. Buckshot wounds peppered its face and body, each oozing blood and gore. Smoke swirled from more than a dozen .40 caliber wounds where holy water burned into its body. It snarled at Drake. Then, realizing its victims were trapped, its expression changed. It ran a blackened tongue over its gums, as if savoring its next meal. Reaching up, the vampire grabbed the corner of the fence and began ripping it away from the support columns.

Drake took Alison by the arm and led her behind the wooden crates.

“Great plan, Einstein,” she said. “Any more brilliant ideas?”

“Yeah. Take cover.”

Alison sprawled face down between the crates and wall. Drake got onto his back and leaned around the corner of the last crate. By now, the vampire had pulled away an entire corner of the chain link fence. Drake aimed his Glock at the acetylene tank and fired off a round.

It ricocheted off of one of the metal supports.

He fired off a second round.

It struck the cement just to the right of the tank.

The vampire hoisted itself up onto the fence and pushed through the opening.

Drake fired off a third round.

It punctured the acetylene tank.

Drake covered his head with his arms and braced himself as the acetylene ignited. An ear shattering explosion rocked the sewer, flinging the jack hammer and generator down the line and ripping the chain links off of their support. Drake felt something heavy hit his back as the shattered remnants of the crates collapsed upon him. A massive fireball tore through the sewer and storage area, incinerating the vampire. Not even ashes remained.

An eerie silence descended over them. For a moment, Drake thought he was dead. After a few seconds he became aware of the crackling of flames and the clump of falling debris, and smelled the charred odor of burnt wood and leather. Crawling out from under the pile of wood, he checked himself. His jacket had been charred, and he had second-degree burns on his hands. Despite that, and a body that ached all over, he appeared to be all right. Tomorrow he would be in agony. But at least he was alive.

Alison! Stumbling over to where she had taken cover, Drake pulled off the wood that covered her. After what seemed like an eternity of digging, he saw the back of her leather coat. She lay motionless. Drake prayed she was just unconscious. He shook her shoulder, but got no response. Becoming increasingly worried, he removed the rest of the debris, then sat beside Alison and rolled her over. Wrapping one arm around her back, he used his free hand to gently slap her face. “Wake up. You can’t die like this.”

Alison moaned and twisted her neck. Her eyes opened, and she focused on his face. “Are you all right? Say something.”

She looked at him and smiled. “You don’t pay me enough for this shit.”

Drake pulled Alison close and hugged her.

2

DRAKE USUALLY ENJOYED his morning walk from his apartment to his office in a three-story Victorian-house-turned-office-building on 13th Street near Franklin Park. Not today, though. After yesterday’s cluster-fuck in the sewers, most of his body ached. Fortunately, the only serious injuries he had suffered were minor burns to his hands and face from the acetylene explosion, plus a score of badly bruised muscles. The Emergency Room had given him ointment for the burns, but not even the pain meds did much against the aches. Even after a double dose of pills washed down with a large shot of Baker’s Bourbon, a steaming hot shower, and a full eight hours of sleep, his body screamed at him when he got out of bed this morning. So, instead of his normal routine, Drake opted to take a taxi to the office.

As the taxi turned off of Pennsylvania Avenue onto 13th Street, Drake took a long sip of his Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee. He had asked the driver to stop and wait for him to pick up one on the way to work. Some routines were too important to break.

The taxi stopped in front of his office. After paying the driver, Drake painfully stepped out onto the sidewalk and laboriously climbed the front steps to the entrance. It even hurt to punch in the access code to the security lock and to push open the front door, the one with the glass panel bearing the words DRAKE MATTHEWS, CONSULTANT.

Inside, he found Alison talking with Mr. Smith. At least that was the name by which they referred to him. Smith was just as mercurial as his boss, their anonymous benefactor. He showed up when necessary to finance their operations, or bail them out of jail when those operations failed to turn out as planned, yet he never once revealed his true name or the slightest hint of personal information. Smith wore his typical black Savile Row suit, neatly-pressed white shirt, and expensive silk tie. Drake could not recall seeing Smith dressed in anything different. He wondered if Smith’s closet contained seven identical suits and sets of shirts, with the only variety being in his collection of power ties. He sat in a leather wing-back chair facing Alison’s desk, the two talking amicably.

Despite having nearly been incinerated the day before, Alison looked beautiful this morning. She cut her raven black hair in a shoulder-length bob that perfectly complemented her sensuous brown eyes. She wore tan slacks and a matching blazer, with a black silk blouse underneath, all of which nicely accentuated a physique well-toned due to months of battling the undead. Alison was one of the few women he had known who could make a traditional business suit look sexy.

Upon seeing Drake, Alison broke into a radiant smile that lit up the room. “Morning, boss. I wasn’t sure you’d make it in today.”

“Never underestimate the power of caffeine.” Drake held up the half-empty cup of iced coffee. “Besides, how would it look if I lounged around all day doing nothing and let you run things here?”

“It’d look like business as usual.”

Drake frowned in mock frustration, then turned to Smith and extended his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise.” Smith stood and gave it a firm pump. “This is a first for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Usually I’m bailing the two of you out of jail, not your colleagues.”

“Alison and I can keep out of trouble.”

Smith allowed himself the barest hint of a smirk. “And I suppose you don’t know a thing about the acetylene tank explosion not too far from where the sewer workers were attacked?”

Drake changed the subject. “I assume you had no trouble getting Jim and Jessica out?”

“Jim wasn’t a problem. The police weren’t too happy about releasing Jessica, though.”

“Why?” Drake took a drink of iced coffee.

“The main charge against her was assault on a police officer.”

Drake choked on his coffee. “Are you serious?”

“He’d parked his squad car over the open manhole, and refused to move it when Jim tried to escape. So Jessica kicked him where it hurts. While the officer lay doubled over in pain, she moved the squad car.”

“Impressive.” Drake looked over at Alison. “Don’t you think?”

“I didn’t know Blondie had it in her,” said Alison with a tinge of begrudging respect.

Drake turned back to Smith. “What about the sewer worker Jim rescued?”

“Patterson? He’s not being charged with anything. Though the police kept him half the night for questioning.” Smith became serious, straightening his stance and adopting a more business-like demeanor. “Which brings me to the reason I dropped by.”

“Come on in.” Drake used the cup to point toward his office, the coffee and ice cubes sloshing around inside the plastic container. Once in his office, Drake slid into the leather executive chair while Smith sat in one of the two leather armchairs opposite him.

“What’s up?” asked Drake.

“Something’s bugging me about yesterday. Everyone involved in the event reported seeing only three vampires.”

“The two Alison and I took down, and the one that nearly got Jim and Patterson.”

“Could more have been hiding inside the row house?”

Drake shrugged. “Possible, I guess. But given the ferocity of the attack, I doubt it. I don’t know if they were in a feeding frenzy or just defending their nest, but if there were any more of them in there, I’m sure they would have come after us, too.”

Smith said nothing as he mulled over Drake’s observation. Drake waited a few seconds before asking, “What’s bothering you?”

“It’s been almost a week since you destroyed the nest out at Wolf Trap and that one master got away.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Assuming the master returned to Washington to rebuild the nest, why were there so few vampires in it?”

“I don’t know.” Drake placed his iced coffee on the desk, suddenly more interested in the conversation than his drink. “Has there been an increase in the number of missing persons or unexplained disappearances?”

“The numbers have dropped since you wiped out the nest.”

“Alison said the master was torn up pretty bad when it escaped. Maybe it’s just laying low until it recovers, which is good news for us.”

“Why’s that?”

Drake ignored the question. He leaned back in his chair and propped his legs on top of the desk. “Do you know which row house they found the nest in?”

“Patterson is a twenty-year employee of the sanitation department. He knows those sewers like his own neighborhood. I’m sure he’ll give the police the exact location.”

“Can you get me a transcript?”

“It’ll take a day or two, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Good. I need all the information about that row house I can get.”

“Why’s that?”

Lifting the iced coffee off of the desk, Drake went to take a drink, pausing just long enough to answer. “Because we’re going to clean out that nest once and for all.”

JESSICA SKULKED INTO the editorial office of The Washington Standard. She had been doing a lot of that lately. Peering around the door jamb, she raised herself on her toes to look over the cubicle farm into the office of Dan Philips, her editor. Unfortunately, a crowd of men gathered around the cubicle of one of the young, buxom interns blocked her line of sight. She could only hope Philips was at his usual late-morning meeting with the senior editors. Slouching, so as to be inconspicuous, Jessica darted into the office and wended her way to her cubicle. Still crouching, she slid off her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair, then plopped down in front of her desk. She switched on the computer and monitor, impatiently swiping the mouse back and forth across the desk until they powered up.

Avoiding Philips had become part of her daily routine. She attributed it to her survival instinct. She had been on thin ice with Philips ever since being assigned by him to investigate Drake Matthews and find out what exactly he was doing in Washington. That ice grew thinner by the day.

She first heard the name Drake Matthews three weeks ago after he rescued an eleven-year-old boy from being attacked in the restroom at Union Station. He earned his notoriety among the local media following a chase through the streets of Washington on the back of a tanker truck, a chase that resulted in a dozen traffic accidents and the burn out of the Woodrow Wilson Bridge. At the time, she accepted the assignment in the hopes of exposing an out-of-control bounty hunter or vigilante. Of writing a series of articles about the consequences when private citizens take the law into their own hands. Of finally receiving the recognition and respect for her writing that she deserved. With luck, she hoped to finally break away from this pseudo-tabloid and hook up with a real newspaper. Instead, she faced a greater evil than anything she could have imagined, nearly got herself killed, and wound up being arrested three times.

The first time occurred when she attempted to interview Jason Clark, the boy Drake had rescued from a vampire attack at Union Station. Jason had tried to tell her what really happened, that he had been attacked by a monster, not a pedophile. Jessica heard him, but did not listen. Like most of the other adults who had talked with Jason, she assumed the story was an embellishment created by the imagination of a young boy trying to reject the horrors of the real world. Instead of being smart enough to realize that she sat on a goldmine of a story, she spent a night in jail for harassing a minor. Philips bailed her out, but made it clear he was not happy about one of his reporters getting arrested.

Jessica’s second arrest took place a week later. The masters of the Washington nest had kidnapped her and taken her to Wolf Trap, the performing arts center in northern Virginia, using her as bait to lure Drake and the hunters into an ambush. Despite a four to one disadvantage, the hunters showed up to rescue her. They wiped out the nest, except for one female master who escaped, but in the process burned out half of Wolf Trap, earning them another night in jail. Even though she had been the proverbial damsel in distress, the police detained Jessica along with the hunters.

Then yesterday’s arrest. By now Drake considered her one of his hunters, even if only honorary, so Smith interceded on her behalf when he got the charges against Jim dropped. That was a good thing, because Jessica doubted if Philips would have bailed her out for the third time in as many weeks. With luck, he would never know about last night.

Copies of The Washington Post and The Washington Times plopped down on her desk. Jessica looked up to see Philips standing at the entrance to her cubicle, arms folded across his chest. She tried to remain collected, but her resolve melted away under his withering glare.

“Sorry,” said Jessica with feigned casualness, hoping Philips directed his anger at her being two hours late. “I overslept this morning.”

“I guess it’s hard getting up on time after you spent the night in jail.”

Shit. So much for keeping a low profile. Jessica’s eyes fell upon The Post and The Times. “I suppose it made the papers?”

“You suppose right.”

Jessica took The Washington Post and pulled out the Metro Section. The bottom right corner held a short, five-paragraph blurb titled “Local Journalist Arrested.” If she harbored any hopes of receiving less of a profile from The Washington Times, they were dashed when she opened the Metropolitan Section. The headline read “Standard Journalist Arrested for Assaulting Police Officer,” accompanied by a feature article that continued on page B5.

“At least it didn’t make the front page.” Seeing the look on Philips’ face, Jessica regretted the feeble attempt at humor.

“The rampage by those crack heads and the murder of that sewer worker made the front pages, a story you would have had an inside angle on if you weren’t playing The Nutcracker with the local police.”

“Inside angle?”

“You were arrested along with James Delmarco, one of Matthews’ cronies. I’ll bet my pension that the two unidentified persons who helped save that sewer worker were Drake Matthews and Alison Monroe.”

“But….” Jessica struggled to find an explanation that did not sound idiotic, but failed. Miserably.

Thankfully Philips gave her an out. “I understand you have a fondness for this Matthews guy. Hell, I admit I might have misjudged him. He did save your life last week when you were kidnapped.”

“So you admit he’s one of the good guys?”

“I’ll concede he’s not one of the bad guys. Good guys usually don’t burn down half the city around them.” Jessica started to speak, but Philips cut her off. “I’ve been in the newspaper business longer than you’ve been alive, and I’ve seen dozens of groups that claimed they supported the common good but turned out to be extremists for whatever cause they espoused. If Matthews fancies himself as Charles Bronson playing Death Wish here in Washington, that’s for the police to worry about. Not me.

“My point is, you have the potential to be a damn good journalist, but you’re blowing that opportunity. You have to report the news, not make it.”

Jessica wanted to explain everything to Philips. Wanted to tell him the truth about what was going on. About the threat that endangered the city, and how Drake worked to stop it. But why bother? Even if she could convince Philips of the truth, which seemed doubtful, what then? Would he go to the senior editors or the publisher and demand they warn the city? Not likely. He’d be lucky if all they did was fire him. Even if they did run with the story, the outcome would be predictable. No one in Washington would believe it, especially coming from The Standard. All they would succeed in doing is making Drake’s job that much harder.

Instead, she offered a half-hearted, “Sorry.”

“I don’t want apologies. I want a story. On my desk. By Friday.”

“Yes, sir.”

Philips went to leave, but stopped. He turned back to face Jessica and spoke in a low voice so no one else could hear. “I admire your loyalty. But you’re going to have to make a decision, and soon, whether your allegiance is to this paper or to Drake Matthews.”

Philips returned to his office.

Jessica logged onto her computer and thumbed through her e-mail, skimming rather than reading each one. As much as she hated to admit it, Philips was right. Her fondness for Drake interfered with her journalistic integrity. Sure, she found it exciting going on hunts with him, and it brought her closer to Drake. But she was a journalist, not a vampire hunter. After yesterday, she doubted if she ever would be a hunter. Yesterday scared the hell out of her, and she did not even come face-to-face with a vampire. She risked throwing away everything she had worked her entire life to achieve for a man who, under ordinary circumstances, would not give her the right time of day.

Jessica had never been the type to accept either-or propositions. She could remain loyal to Drake and maintain her journalistic integrity. All she had to do was write a piece about yesterday’s incident that told the facts, left out the part about the undead, and still passed muster with Philips.

Hell, she might as well add winning a Pulitzer to the list of tasks.

Jessica sighed, relishing the lack of ambiguity of Drake’s job.

MUGGINS EXHALED LOUDLY in exasperation and leaned back in the folding metal chair. “Let’s go over this one more time.”

“Screw that,” said Patterson defiantly. “How many fucking times are you going to make me repeat myself?”

“Until you tell us the truth.”

Patterson reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He withdrew one and placed it between his lips.

Detective Cassidy, who leaned against the door jamb, motioned with his head toward the cigarette. “There’s no smoking in here.”

Patterson ignored him. He struck a match, placed it against the end of the cigarette, and puffed until the tip glowed red.

“Did you hear me?” asked Cassidy.

“Yeah.” Patterson flipped out the match. “I just don’t give a shit.”

Cassidy started to move away from the door, but Muggins raised his hand to stop him. Muggins leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “Go ahead and smoke, if you want.”

“Like I need your permission.”

“I know you’re tired and edgy. We all are.”

“Then cut the shit and let me go home.”

“We will,” Muggins reassured him. “We just need to go over a few things in your statement.”

“Fuck.” Patterson drew out the word in a long, exasperated breath. “What more do you want from me?”

“How about stopping the fucking bullshit?” Cassidy stepped up to the table and bent over, bringing his knuckles down on the surface with a loud crack.

“What bullshit?”

“What bullshit?” Cassidy leaned even farther across the table, getting into Patterson’s face. “For starters, how about these monsters that you claimed ripped off your friend’s head?”

“Claimed?” Patterson bellowed the word. “Didn’t you assholes find Marlowe’s body? Or were you too busy eating donuts and writing parking tickets?”

Cassidy’s right hand clenched into a fist. “Why you—”

“Enough!” Muggins shouted. These two macho assholes were feeding off of each other like fire and propane. You could almost choke on the testosterone. Looking up at Cassidy, Muggins issued a single order. “Back off or get the fuck out of here.”

For a moment, it appeared as though Cassidy might take a swing at Muggins. After a second, he went back to the door jamb while muttering, “Fuck both of you.”

Muggins turned back to Patterson. “We did find Marlowe. He was beheaded.”

“Beheaded? His God damn head had been ripped off by one of those things?”

“That’s where I have the problem. With your description of the attackers.” Muggins looked down at his notes. “You described them as having pale skin, like a corpse. Fangs. Fingers like claws. And you referred to them as inhuman.”

“I said they weren’t human.”

Cassidy scoffed. Muggins ignored him and concentrated on Patterson. “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a bit?”

“I’ve been working in the sewer for decades, back when you two were still jerking off to the girlie mags you found in your dad’s sock drawer. I’ve seen more shit down there than you can ever imagine, including a few beheaded bodies. Fucked-up addicts living like hermits. The homeless. Even some ’tard who had been abandoned down there by his parents and had grown up feral. I’ve seen some bad shit, but nothing like what I saw yesterday. Those things were powerful and vicious.”

“The monsters?”

“You used that word, not me.” Patterson took a long drag on the cigarette, than exhaled a cloud of smoke toward Cassidy. “Can I go now?”

“WHAT ABOUT IT, Chief? Should we let him go?”

Mark Roach, chief of the Metropolitan Police Department in Washington D.C., ignored the sergeant. He stared through the two-way mirror and watched the questioning of Patterson, which had become unproductive. Not that he could expect anything different. Patterson had been undergoing marathon questioning for almost eight hours, five hours last night when they first brought in, and another three hours this morning. Every time the story sounded concocted. Monsters living in an abandoned row house ripped off his friend’s head before chasing him through the sewers. Roach had no reason in the world to believe Patterson. Except that Patterson was not lying. The man tested negative for alcohol or narcotics. His supervisor described him as a model worker, honest and level-headed, someone who could be relied on in a crisis. Not the type of person prone to exaggeration. On top of that, Patterson’s story did not change with each telling, which gave it an air of credibility.

Besides, Roach had seen enough these past few months to believe that something monstrous was threatening his city.

Not the Sy-Fy Channel brand of monsters, but some whacked out serial killer or a gang whose penchant for brutality defied imagination. Washington always had experienced more than its fair share of violence, and even endured a few crime emergencies in its day. This new wave of violence, though, involved something entirely different. It had begun with a sudden and unexplained increase in the number of missing persons, mostly among locals along the Mall. That was disturbing enough. Then the violence began to openly play itself out in the public domain. The first incident involved Jason Clark, the eleven-year-old boy attacked in the restrooms at Union Station. Then the rampage a few days later on the Metro where a gang of… something… nearly twisted the head off of one young man, Gunnery Sergeant Thomas Napier, and tore out the neck of a nurse, Sylvia Jackson. Not to forget the night guard at the morgue, whose mutilated body had been found in the supply closet.

Finally Robert Dekker, the chief medical examiner, and Roach’s friend. Just thinking about what happened to Dekker made him nauseated. The same person who had killed the night guard had also snuck into the morgue and murdered Dekker. Actually, butchered would be a better word. The lunatic cut open Dekker from chest to pelvis, tore back his skin to reveal the body cavity, removed his intestines, and sliced every organ with a scalpel. All while Dekker was alive and conscious.

In every encounter, the few eyewitnesses who survived each gave similar descriptions of the attackers. The words they used varied, but the descriptions were the same: pale; hideously-deformed, with fangs and talon-like finger nails; unnaturally strong; and incredibly savage. Jason referred to his attacker at Union Station as a monster, though granted that came from an eleven-year-old boy with an active imagination. Not that Roach could blame him, not after reading the other eyewitness accounts. He could not be certain what type of psycho, or psychos, his police were dealing with. Whoever these killers were, their violent spree took not only a physical toll on Washingtonians but also on the public’s peace of mind. These killers needed to be stopped, and quickly, before the city slipped into total panic.

Sadly, these psycho-killers weren’t the only threat to the city. Roach also had to deal with Drake Matthews and his friends, Alison Monroe and James Delmarco. They were involved in every instance related to these psycho-killers, though Roach couldn’t figure out exactly how. Drake and Miss Monroe had first arrived in Washington three months ago after being forced to leave Boston following an incident in the Old South Church that involved arson and the unexplained death of a serial killer they were pursuing. Within days of their arrival, they were arrested for a brawl in a biker bar near the Navy Yard that had left the place trashed, with broken pool cues impaled into the walls and floor, each surrounded by a pile of ash, and a dozen bikers strewn around the debris with wounds ranging from bruises and lacerations to broken bones and concussions. Before any formal charges could be brought against them, the mayor interceded, claiming that a powerful and influential person who he was not at liberty to name had ordered Drake Matthews and Miss Monroe to be released and all charges to be dropped. Since then, whenever one of these violent attacks by the psycho-killers occurred, Drake or one of his cronies had usually been arrested for their involvement. Each time, this anonymous benefactor arranged their release. Roach felt certain that they also were involved in most of the other incidents throughout the city, such as the murders at the morgue, but could not prove it.

And yet, each of the eyewitnesses who described the attackers as monsters swore that Matthews and his cronies were the good guys. Jason testified that Matthews had fought off his attacker at Union Station. The survivors of the Metro incident recalled seeing Matthews defending the nurse from the psycho-killers, not harming her. Now Patterson claimed that Matthews and the others fought off the group in the sewer, and that the kid escorted him to safety. Not the type of stuff superheroes are made of, but in the end that didn’t matter. As the mayor had not-so-eloquently pointed out earlier that morning, Matthews and his cronies may be slowly burning out the city battling these psycho-killers, but at least they were doing something to stop the violence.

Roach knew the mayor meant it as a damning accusation against his police force, an accusation he knew all too well to be true. But how the hell do you fight something when you have no idea what you’re fighting?

“Excuse me, Chief?”

Roach snapped himself out of his thoughts and looked at the sergeant. “What?”

“I asked if you wanted us to let Patterson go.”

Looking through the two-way mirror, Roach watched the interrogation play out. Patterson and Cassidy were going at it again, and looked like this time they might exchange blows. Muggins had lost all control. Not that it mattered. Patterson had told them everything he knew, or at least what he thought he knew. Keeping him any longer would not benefit the investigation, and might land Patterson with a charge of assaulting an officer.

“Release him,” said Roach. He thought for a moment. “But tell him not to leave town for a few days in case we need to ask him some more questions.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roach headed back to his office. The city faced a growing threat, one that needed to be dealt with sooner rather than later. He still had to determine how to deal with this crisis, and whether Matthews was part of the problem or a potential ally.

First, however, he needed to determine what type of crisis he faced.

JOEL PRESTON PULLED a pack of cigarettes from his suit jacket pocket. He flipped open the lid, pulled one out, and placed it between his lips. “Tell me what you know about Drake Matthews.”

“What makes you think I’d know more about him than you do?” answered Sergeant Juan Rodriguez.

“I’ve never met Drake, you have.” Preston placed the pack back in his pocket and took out a disposable lighter.

Rodriguez looked away from the road at Preston. “You’re not supposed to be smoking in the squad car.”

Preston ignored him. He flicked on the lighter and placed the flame against the cigarette. “You arrested Drake three times, if I remember correctly.”

“Four, actually. Though I don’t know what that has got to do with it.”

“You’ve talked with him and observed him. That gives you more of an insight into Drake Matthews than I can ever get from the official records.” Preston exhaled. Cigarette smoke billowed across the front seat and formed a cloud against the windshield. “What I want to know is if he’s certifiable.”

“Nuts? Far from it.” Rodriguez pressed the button on his door that lowered the passenger’s window. The wind blew most of the smoke out of the squad car’s interior. “Drake Matthews and Alison Monroe are as sane as you and me. They’re just dedicated to their cause.”

“Fanatical would be a better word.” Preston winced against the wind blowing into his face. He rolled up the passenger-side window and took a drag on his cigarette. As he exhaled, another cloud of smoke formed against the windshield. “I’d like to know what exactly ‘their cause’ is.”

“We all would.” Rodriguez lowered the passenger-side window again, but this time engaged the child-proof button that locked the windows in their current position. “Every time we arrest them, it’s the same routine. The two of them refuse to say anything and just wait it out until they’re released. The only one who ever talked was the kid.”

“Jim Delmonico?

“Delmarco. That’s the one.”

“And he claimed they were vampire hunters.” Preston unsuccessfully tried to roll up the window. He calculated what he wanted more—a cigarette or a wind-free ride. Opting for the latter, he tossed the cigarette out the window. “If you ask me, the kid’s as crazy as the other two.”

“I talked to a friend of mine on the Fairfax County Police Force who questioned the kid after his arrest at Wolf Trap. According to my friend, the kid exhibited none of the signs of being delusional or psychotic. He told the truth.”

“Or what he believed to be the truth.”

“Maybe,” said Rodriguez with a slight hesitation in his voice.

Preston tried to roll up the window again, but it remained locked open. He banged his finger several times on the control button, then looked over at Rodriguez. “Do you mind?”

Rodriguez clicked off the child-proof lock.

Preston raised the window, cutting off the flow of air into his face. “What do you mean, maybe? Don’t tell me you honestly believe that shit about vampire hunters?”

“I don’t know what to believe.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“You got to admit, something strange is going on. Every time Drake is arrested, he leaves a trail of destruction behind him. But never any bodies, just ash.”

“There’s a rational explanation for that,” Preston said dismissively.

“Then I wish somebody would tell me. I arrested Drake after the incident at Union Station. I chased that tanker truck Drake was hanging on, and watched it crash into the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and explode. And I know for a fact they never found the driver’s remains. What about the gunfight on the Metro? We found eighteen .40 caliber shell casings in the Metro car, but no body. What the hell can take eighteen rounds from a Glock and still walk away?”

“Nothing. Which means Drake missed. It’s as simple as that.”

“Really? Then how come we never found any of the rounds, either on the floor or imbedded in the walls?”

Preston ended the conversation with a frustrated huff and turned to look out the window. No one had an answer to Rodriguez’ question, and that bothered the shit out of him. As special assistant to Roach, his primary responsibility was to protect the force and cover the chief’s ass. He could easily do that with a corruption or abuse scandal, or with major embarrassments like the city’s reoccurring crime emergencies. In those instances, he could put a positive spin on the facts and manipulate the media to make the situation look better than it actually was. This time he drew a blank because he had no facts to spin. Or, more accurately, the few facts he had did not easily lend themselves to being spun.

This trip probably would add little to his CYA initiatives. Jack Craig, chief of security at the city morgue, called last night to report that his staff had compiled and reviewed the security camera footage from the night that Robert Dekker had been murdered. Craig would not go into details over the phone, other than to say that he thought the cameras had recorded Dekker’s murderers, and that Alison Monroe may somehow have been involved. Other than that, Craig would only say that Preston needed to see this video to believe it. Since Preston had never met Alison Monroe, he brought along Rodriguez, who had arrested her on several occasions.

Whatever that footage contained, Preston felt certain he would not like it.

When they arrived at the morgue’s security office, Jack Craig came around from behind his desk to greet them. Preston thought he looked like a stereotypical security guard, a burly man with a sizeable paunch that hung over his belt, and close-cut blonde hair that did little to detract from his bald spot. Preston figured Craig for either a retired cop who took this job to try and stay connected with law enforcement, or a cop wannabe.

Craig greeted Rodriguez with a hearty handshake and a slap on the right shoulder. “God, I haven’t seen you for ages. What have you been up to?”

“The same. Still walking a beat and trying to stay out of trouble.”

“I hear ya.” Craig turned to Preston and offered his hand. “You must be the guy I talked with on the phone.”

“Yes. Joel Preston.” He gave the hand a perfunctory shake.

Craig turned back to Rodriguez and leaned against the rim of the desk. “So, how’s the family?”

“Good. Sophie started elementary school this fall. What about Jack Junior? He must be nearing graduation.”

“Next May. He’s already signed up with the Marines. Wants to serve his country for a few years before going to college.”

“What’s Eileen say?”

“She cried and tried to talk him out of it. Did no good, though. He’s as stubborn as his old man.” A slight pause ensued, then Craig asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I asked him to come down,” said Preston, aggravated with the small talk. “If you two are done, can we see the security footage now?”

“Keep your suit on, son.” Craig made no effort to hide his new-found contempt for Preston. He went behind his desk and removed a CD-ROM from the top desk drawer. He crossed the office to where a television and CD player sat on separate levels of a rolling, three-level metal rack. As Preston and Rodriguez joined him, Craig turned on power to both machines and inserted the CD-ROM.

“This is the strangest shit I’ve ever seen, and God knows I saw some pretty strange shit while on the force. I double checked with my tech support people to make sure the original hadn’t been tampered with and replaced. They assured me it wasn’t.”

Craig hit the PLAY button. The snow on the screen changed to a black-and-white paused image of the morgue’s basement corridor. A black man in a security guard uniform sat in a folding metal chair.

“That’s Mark Robson,” Craig explained. “He is… was… our night guard.”

The footage began playing. Four figures entered the screen. A tall man with raven-black hair led the way, followed by a nondescript man, an overweight black woman in a stained nurse’s uniform, and a man with the build of a football linebacker. Robson stood to confront them. The tall man grabbed Robson around the throat. Judging by the fear and pain on Robson’s face, the tall man must have been extremely powerful. He pushed Robson to the nurse and the linebacker, who dragged him into the adjoining room. The nondescript man turned to face the tall one, giving the camera its first look at his face. It was grotesquely deformed.

“Hit pause,” ordered Preston. As Craig responded, Preston stepped up to the screen and studied the image. “What the hell is wrong with that guy’s face?”

“Pretty fucked up, huh?”

“I’ve never seen a deformity like that before.”

“Could be a mask,” said Rodriguez.

“Maybe. Just watch.” Craig pressed the PAUSE button again.

The tall man said something to the deformed man, who set off down the corridor. The tall man entered a room next to the one where Robson had been dragged into. Several seconds later, at the upper level of the screen, the deformed man entered another room.

“He just entered the autopsy room where Dekker was murdered,” explained Craig.

The image jumped and changed slightly. According to the counter in the lower right corner of the screen, thirteen minutes had elapsed. A young man with a camera strapped around his neck and holding what appeared to be a camera equipment bag walked down the corridor. He stopped in front of the door to the autopsy room and knocked twice before entering. Another shift in the image, this one four minutes later. A blonde woman in a black business suit and pink blouse entered the picture.

“Is that Alison Monroe?” asked Preston.

Rodriguez shook his head. “I’ve never seen that woman before.”

“My people weren’t able to identify her or the guy with the camera,” added Craig.

The blonde walked halfway down the corridor when the tall man stepped out of the side room, blocking her path. The nurse and linebacker also exited their room, cutting off her retreat. Words were exchanged, and then the tall man changed into… something. Preston could not identify what. He could see the man’s skin change color, becoming pale. Although difficult to discern, his teeth and fingers appeared to change into fangs and talons.

That was when the man with the camera raced out of the autopsy room, this time no longer holding his bag. Preston could see the terror in his eyes. He ran up to the others, wildly talking and gesturing, closely followed by the deformed man. The tall man/thing spun around to face him, pulled his head back by the hair, and ripped out the front of his throat with his fangs. Even in black-and-white, the gore was nauseating.

“Fuck,” said Rodriguez, stunned.

“More like bullshit.” Preston stepped forward and pressed the PAUSE button. The image stopped on the tall man/thing standing there, a chunk of bloody flesh and tissue in his mouth, with the cameraman’s corpse falling to the floor. “I don’t appreciate being called down here to be the butt of an asinine practical joke.”

“If I could make up shit like this, I’d move to Hollywood and earn a fortune making movies. This shit’s for real.”

Preston looked at Craig and wanted to argue, but decided against it. No amount of arguing could change the facts.

“And you still haven’t seen the weirdest part.” Craig pressed the PLAY button, then stepped back to finish watching the footage.

The nurse and deformed man grabbed the woman by her arms. Something attracted their attention. They all stared down the corridor. Preston saw that the nurse and linebacker had the same hideous features as the deformed man. A brunette woman in a leather coat stood by the wooden folding chair.

“That’s Alison Monroe,” said Rodriguez.

The next few minutes played out like a B-grade horror movie. The linebacker charged at Alison, who grabbed the wooden chair and smashed it over his head as he passed. Undaunted, the linebacker wrapped one hand around her throat and slammed her against the wall. Alison showed him the broken leg of the chair and jammed it into his chest. The linebacker stumbled back, clutching at the piece of wood as blood gushed from the wound, splattering Alison and the wall. The linebacker attacked Alison, but before he could reach her he disintegrated into a cloud of ash.

Barely had the ashes settled when the deformed man lunged at Alison. In the melee, the blonde broke free from the nurse and tried to escape. The deformed man spun around to stop her, and Alison drove the chair leg into his back. He clawed at his wound until, like the linebacker, he turned to ash and crumbled to the floor. As the blonde made her way to the exit, Alison walked toward the others, the chair leg aimed in their direction. The tall man/thing and the nurse moved to meet her when the tall man/thing suddenly grabbed the nurse by the shoulders and pushed her forward, driving her onto the stake and knocking Alison off balance. The nurse disintegrated like the others. The tall man/thing ripped the chair leg out of Alison’s hand, grabbed her by the neck, lifted her off her feet, and drove her into the door jam. Alison plunged her thumbs into his eyes and pushed, driving them deep into the orbs. The tall man/thing screamed, slammed Alison against the wall, and flung her fifteen feet down the corridor. As she lay there unconscious, the tall man/thing stumbled blindly along the corridor toward the exit. A few seconds later, the image cut out and was replaced by snow.

Craig hit the STOP button and turned to the others. “Well?”

Preston still tried to figure out what he had just seen. “I can see why you don’t want this to become widely known.”

“You can imagine what would happen if the news got hold of this.”

That thought scared Preston as much as what he saw on the footage itself. “How many others know about this?”

“Half a dozen of us have watched it, including the tech support guys who compiled it. But the entire staff has heard about what happened here that night.”

“Anyone outside of your security and tech support staff know about this?”

“No.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” Preston ejected the CD-ROM. “If this gets out, it’ll cause a city-wide panic. Tell your men to keep this to themselves.”

“They will,” assured Craig.

“I’m serious. If I hear one word in the media about this CD or what happened that night, I’ll have the whole lot of you thrown into jail until I find out who talked.”

Craig bristled. “Don’t threaten me.”

“I’m not. Threats are idle.” Preston paused a moment to let the words sink in. “Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Preston tried to sound conciliatory. “Thanks. I appreciate this. And I’ll be sure to let Chief Roach know what a good job you did pulling this together.”

Once back at the squad car, Preston silently sat in the front seat, staring at the CD-ROM in his hands. They drove for nearly a mile before Rodriguez finally asked, “So what do we do about that?”

“I don’t know.” Preston meant it. “But the same rule applies to us as to the security staff. We can’t discuss this with anyone.”

“Agreed. But what are you going to tell Roach?”

“I don’t know. He’s not going to like whatever I tell him.”

Unless I don’t tell him the truth, Preston thought.

ALISON ADMINISTERED THREE roundhouse kicks to the abdomen in rapid succession, and then drove a stake into the heart area. She jumped back a few feet, hopped several times from one foot to the other, then moved in for the kill. When close enough, she attempted a tornado kick, spinning around completely before connecting with its head. Not only did she miss and connect with the torso instead, she lost her balance and stumbled backward. Had Alison been fighting a vampire rather than a training dummy, she would be dead by now.

Taking a towel from the back of a nearby chair, she wiped the sweat from her brow and draped it across the back of her neck. Leaning against a small table placed against the wall, she took a long drink from a bottle of cold water before swiping the bottle across her forehead. Her breathing and pulse rate slowly returned to normal. Only then did she become aware of the aches and stiffness in her muscles, remnants of the sewer brawl.

Just thinking about yesterday afternoon left her with a cold feeling because it had been a damned close thing. Too close. Even worse, it was the third time in as many weeks that she had stared death in the face and smelled the stench of its breath. In some instances, literally. The first instance involved the female master who overpowered her in the Metro and would have turned her if Drake hadn’t burst in and pumped it with two magazines of holy water bullets, driving it off. A week later, she came even closer to death when the same female master bit her during the battle at Wolf Trap. Thankfully, the holy water she had dabbed on her neck repelled the master before it could do any harm. Alison could not decide if these near misses resulted from her being tired and careless, or if her luck was running thin. Either way, if things continued along this path, she would be dead within a month. Or worse, would be a vampire herself.

That thought terrified her. Not the dying part. As a former cop and a hunter of the undead, she had no misgivings about facing death. It came with the job. It bothered her to face an enemy with much greater power and cunning than she could ever hope to possess. An enemy with no morals. An enemy with no qualms. An enemy who derived its power and strength from its very lack of humanity. The vampires’ total disregard for anything human gave them a marked advantage. Alison hated not being in control. Not being in control meant the odds were good that at some point she would wind up letting down Drake when he needed her most.

Pushing herself from the table, Alison made her way to the bathroom for a much-needed shower. She turned on the water, set the temperature to hot, and adjusted the faucet to pulsate. As the water heated, she stepped over to the sink and pressed the PLAY button on the CD player. Terri Clark sang about wanting to do it all. As the upbeat tune played out, Alison stared at her reflection.

A strong, confident, smart, and, if she dared say so herself, damn good looking woman stared back at her. She had saved dozens of lives from the undead, including Drake’s on many an occasion, and dispatched scores of the undead back to hell. Thanks to Smith and their anonymous benefactor, she lived comfortably, better than she ever would have while with the Boston Police, and had no financial concerns. Not a bad life.

So why did she feel so unfulfilled?

Alison knew the answer. The lack of fulfillment centered on her relationship with Drake. She cared deeply for him. No, she loved him. So far that affection remained only emotional. As much as she wanted to share Drake’s bed, she never had the courage to act on that desire. Partly because Drake never gave her any indication that he felt the same way. Partly because she knew that sex would irreparably change the nature of their relationship, and not necessarily for the better. Drake saw Alison as a good friend and a partner, and a hell of a vampire hunter. If they added physical intimacy to the equation, that dynamic would change, and Drake would look at her as a lover rather than a partner. She knew damn well that a distraction like that would get them both killed sooner or later.

Besides, Drake was dating Jessica. Just the thought of the two of them together drove her mad with jealousy. Or maybe envy. It really didn’t matter, because it wouldn’t change the hurt she felt seeing the two of them together. She knew Drake the longest. Knew more about him than anyone else. Yet, when he chose a lover, he chose Jessica over her. It wasn’t fair. She deserved to share the intimate parts of his life, not Jessica. It should be Alison making love to Drake. Her name he called out in passion. Her face should be the last one he saw before he went to sleep at night, and the one he woke up to in the morning.

Damn, it hurt.

As Alison stripped out of her exercise clothes, Terri Clark continued to sing about settling down with the love of her life and rocking little babies to sleep at night. Those words struck a chord. She wanted more out of life than an endless war against an evil that could never be defeated; a war in which she, Drake, and Jim needed to win every battle against an undead enemy that grew exponentially. Alison wanted to get married, have babies, raise children, and grow old with the man she loved. Normal aspirations for most women, but ones she knew she would have to forego as long as she remained a hunter. In those moments when Alison was brutally honest with herself, she couldn’t believe she had survived this long.

Alison suddenly found the song aggravating, and jabbed the STOP so hard she knocked the CD player over. She stepped into the shower. Steaming hot water pounded her skin, heating and massaging her muscles, relieving much of the physical tension. It did little good for her emotional stress, though. For that, she would need to make an unpleasant decision.

Alison would never have any semblance of a normal life as long as she remained a hunter. And Drake would not abandon his calling until every vampire had been eliminated, which seemed unlikely. To leave this profession meant leaving Drake. Though not an easy decision to make, she had been contemplating it since the attack on the Metro. She was not quite ready to walk away from her chosen career, from her sense of responsibility, and from the man she loved. When… if… she did, she knew a part of her would always regret that decision.

Yet another part of her knew that if she did not act soon, she would not live long enough to have any regrets.

THE ELEVATOR ANNOUNCED its arrival on the thirteenth floor with a ping. To Drake, it sounded like “Welcome home.” When the doors slid aside, he stepped out into the elegantly-carpeted hallway and made his way to his apartment two doors down. It would be good to get home and relax. It had been a long day. After Smith left, he and Alison had spent the next six hours planning the assault on the nest and making an inventory of what they would need. Then he dropped by Jim’s apartment to check on the kid, followed by dinner at the Italian restaurant the next street over, and home.

As Drake entered his apartment and locked the door behind him, a familiar rustling from the other room greeted his arrival. Drake crossed the foyer into the living room and turned into the den just before the balcony. Van Helsing sat in the corner of his cage, his lop ears lifted in attention, waiting. Upon seeing Drake, Van Helsing binked, the small twisting hop that indicated happiness, and raced back and forth. Drake unlatched the cage door and placed his face near the opening. Van Helsing stuck out his head and affectionately nudged Drake’s nose with his own, then sniffed Drake’s lips.

“You’re looking for a treat, aren’t you, boy?”

Van Helsing’s ears rose at the word “treat.” Drake reached up to the bag on top of the cage and took out three raisins. Van Helsing stood on his hind legs, sniffing the bag through the top of the cage. Drake placed one raisin between his lips and leaned into the cage. Van Helsing stuck out his head, grabbed the raisin between his teeth, and chewed noisily. They performed the same ritual with the other two raisins.

With snack time over, Drake picked up Van Helsing. Supporting the rabbit in his left arm, with his right hand Drake petted his head and massaged his ears. Van Helsing clicked his teeth happily, a rabbit version of a purr. After several seconds of such attention, Van Helsing began to squirm. Drake placed his companion on the floor and gave him a gentle pat on the butt. Van Helsing took a few steps, binked again, and raced off into the living room and down the corridor.

Drake smiled. He always found it amazing how an eight-pound rambunctious bundle of fur could make him forget about his problems. Van Helsing was the one aspect of his life unfettered by complications.

Heading into the kitchen, Drake made Van Helsing dinner from a bag of pre-mixed greens. The simple pleasures of a simple life. A part of him envied Van Helsing. No cares, other than getting fed on time, which could be a hit-or-miss proposition given Drake’s line of work. No life or death struggles with the undead. No living in the shadow of constant danger. No worries about whether he would survive to see another sunrise. And no feelings of guilt about whom he loved. No complications at all.

Unlike his own life. Being a cop in Boston had been complicated enough, and over time it had taken its toll on Drake’s health and morale. He couldn’t have expected anything different considering he faced an endless stream of gang-related violence, pedophiles, junkies, rapists, and every other dreg society could vomit up. Yet all that paled in comparison to the Night Stalker, the investigation that completely changed his life. What he originally considered a particularly vicious serial killer turned out to be a vampire on the prowl. Granted, it took him awhile to accept the reality that vampires existed. When he finally did come to terms with the reality, he and Alison tracked the thing down and eliminated it, but not before they burned down the Old South Church, ruining their careers and reputations in the process. Despite having saved the city from evil incarnate, the mayor and police chief were preparing to hang Drake out as a rogue cop who exceeded his authority. He would have ended up in jail, or a mental institution, had not Smith and the anonymous benefactor he represented intervened on his behalf. Smith arranged for all charges to be dropped, then offered Drake and Alison a job tracking down a nest of the undead in Washington. Smith promised to furnish them with anything they needed in return for eliminating the nest, which at first sounded like a fair enough proposition. At least until Drake realized that the Washington nest was unusually large, almost twenty snuffies at any given time, including two powerful and vicious masters.

The female master was the most vicious and powerful vampire he had ever encountered. Every run-in they had with her nearly proved fatal. Unfortunately, she escaped from Wolf Trap. As long as she remained among the undead, she posed a constant threat. They needed to track her down and destroy her before she could rebuild the nest, which was why the hunters were going back to the row house in two days.

A gentle nudge against his ankle brought Drake back to the task at hand. He looked down to see Van Helsing sitting at his feet. When dinner did not magically appear, Van Helsing gently nudged Drake again with his nose. Drake emptied the bag of greens into a plastic soup bowl and knelt down to feed his companion. Van Helsing stood on his hind legs and wrapped his front paws over the rim of the bowl, trying to speed up the process. He yanked out a chunk of radicchio and began munching before Drake could set the bowl down.

“You must be starving.” Drake tried to massage Van Helsing’s ears, but the rabbit pushed his hand away with his head. Knowing when to take a hint, Drake left him alone. Heading into the living room, he poured himself a tumbler of Baker’s Bourbon and took a Macanudo from the humidor, then strolled out onto the enclosed balcony. A minute later, he sat comfortably sprawled in a lounge chair, sipping on the bourbon and puffing on the cigar.

In the four months they had been battling the undead in Washington, the hunters had earned themselves a respectable tally. Thirty snuffies and one master eliminated, which almost compensated for all the collateral damage his hunters caused and the notoriety they gained with local law enforcement. At last count, at least three jurisdictions in the Washington-Maryland-Virginia area waited for the hunters to screw up big time, to get themselves in so deep even their anonymous benefactor would not be able to help them. That number would grow before they were through. Most important, from Drake’s viewpoint, they had not killed any innocent bystanders. The reason for their success boiled down to one factor—the people around him.

Alison had been a godsend, ever since she had been assigned as his partner back on the Boston Police. Their first assignment had been the Night Stalker case. Alison remained loyal to him throughout, during both the hunting down and killing of the undead, and during the witch hunt that followed. The mayor and police chief offered to drop all charges against Alison and to let her stay on the force if she testified against Drake. Hell, Drake even advised her to take the deal, telling Alison that he would not hold it against her. Rather than take the easy way out, Alison resigned from the force and followed him to Washington to continue the hunt. Since then, she had been his best friend. His business partner. His comrade in arms. Everything, except his lover. He had contemplated the possibility before. There was definitely an attraction there, at least on his part. Alison was beautiful, confident, and could hold her own in battle against scores of undead. If she made love with the same intensity she showed when fighting, the sex would be fantastic. Deep down, Drake realized that acting on those impulses would at best harm that relationship, and more than likely get them killed. As much as Drake would love to spend a night with Alison, he did not need a lover as much as he needed someone he could rely on in battle. Someone whose instincts and combat skills were constantly honed. Sex would complicate everything. Besides, Alison was ten years his junior, which wouldn’t be fair to her. She would still be relatively young and energetic when he began his long descent into old age.

Fortunately, Drake faced none of those concerns with Jim. Jim had been thrust upon them three weeks ago by Smith. The kid had been a college freshman with a knack for engineering, and should have landed himself a good job that did not involve exterminating the undead. But a practical joke involving flash bombs that he played on a pack of college bullies backfired, leaving two of the bullies with first and second-degree burns, and the other disfigured and blind in one eye. The dean was preparing to throw Jim to the wolves when Smith intervened, offering him pretty much the same deal he had offered to Drake and Alison several months earlier—work for him hunting the undead, and all charges against Jim would be dropped. Although a shotgun wedding, this arranged marriage turned out well. Jim was understandably skittish when it came to battling the undead. However, he more than proved himself in the lab, putting his engineering skills to use developing new weapons for the hunt. Infra-red goggles tuned to detect a vampire’s near-ambient temperature. A razor-sharp garrote for quickly beheading the undead. Hollow point .40 caliber rounds filled with holy water. And Heaven’s Fire, homemade napalm made of two parts gasoline and one part laundry detergent mixed with chunks of crystalline holy water. Thanks to Jim, the hunters possessed a technological edge over the vampires that already had saved their lives on several occasions.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Drake saw that he had company. Van Helsing had finished dinner and joined him on the balcony. He sat on his haunches, running his front paws down one of his lop ears, grooming himself. Drake smiled. He patted his stomach and called to Van Helsing. The rabbit stopped cleaning and perked up his ears. Seeing his opportunity, he raced over and hopped up onto Drake. Turning to face his owner, Van Helsing settled down on all four paws and laid his chin on Drake’s chest, begging to be petted. Taking Van Helsing’s ears between the thumb and forefinger of his free hand, Drake began massaging. Within seconds, Van Helsing clicked loudly.

The hell with it, Drake admonished himself. He would worry about the undead later. He had more important things to do at the moment. While continuing to pet his companion, Drake raised the cigar to his lips, took a long drag, and blew smoke into the air.

Besides, with any luck the female master would be dead in a couple of days, along with the remnants of the nest.

THE DARKNESS CLOSED in around Antoinette Varela, engulfing her, masking her deformities. She prowled from one darkened location of Rock Creek Park to the next, moving quickly to avoid the street lights. For centuries the night had been her friend, the faithful confidante that abetted her liaisons and kept her secrets. She had thrived on it. Not anymore. Now she hid in the dark, using it much like a shy child hides behind an older sibling to conceal its embarrassment.

Toni growled. Not as part of the hunt, but out of fury. Fuck the humans. All of them. The hunters in particular. They stole the night from her. They deformed her, tore the beauty from her.

For the thousandth time, she swore by Almighty Satan to make them pay dearly.

Toni always had been beautiful. She had used her sensuality to her advantage, which made the hunt that much easier. Many of her prey willingly sacrificed themselves to be with her. Over the centuries, Toni had taken many a virile young man or woman to her bed, drinking of their sex as well as their life blood, quenching her lust and her thirst. Centuries of war with the humans had left her unscathed, even though these pitiful creatures had tried their hardest to destroy her. A failed burning as a witch. A near beheading during the French Revolution. And more gun, sword, and dagger wounds than she could even remember. She had regenerated after each attack, each time restoring her full beauty and sensuality.

Until she faced off against the hunters.

The anger that welled up inside of Toni at the thought of the hunters caused her to involuntarily morph into a vampire. That same uncontrollable urge she felt since the night at Wolf Trap burned inside of her, an urge to kill. No, not kill. To ravage. To literally tear a human apart. To get revenge and assuage the indignity the hunters had wreaked upon her. Only with the greatest of difficulty did she finally control her emotions, suppressing the rage and returning to her human form.

Toni knew she needed to keep her fury in check. She had survived for centuries on her cunning and instinct, by allowing her predatory nature free reign rather than give in to the pitiful emotional remnants of her human past. Over the centuries, she and Ion had faced scores of humans who had decided to battle the undead. Holy men. Adventurers. Do-gooders. Mercenaries. Some did it for religious reasons. Some for money. Some because they enjoyed a good fight. Many fought valiantly. All died in unspeakable manners. Until she met Drake Mathews and Alison Monroe.

The hunters were a different sort of enemy. She had no idea why they were so effective. Their fighting skills were good, but she had fought tougher and more experienced humans. Granted, they possessed an impressive knowledge of her kind. Even so, it could not explain their advantage. As good as the hunters were, they were still only human, and as such inferior to a vampire.

The humans did excel in their weaponry. Somehow, the hunters had separated reality from mythology, and used that knowledge to their advantage. Vampires did not sleep in coffins filled with their native soil; they only needed to stay out of the sun. They could not turn into bats, wolves, or fog. Crucifixes and religious symbols, garlic, silver, and running water had no effect on them. They could only eliminate her kind by sunlight, incineration, staking, or decapitation. Holy water, which was not fatal to the undead, burned like the fires of Hell itself.

And maimed. For reasons long since forgotten by the undead themselves, holy water had a deformative effect on them. Wounds, burns, lacerations, and all other manner of injuries would regenerate without leaving scars. Holy water disfigured horribly. Toni knew better than anyone else because she bore such scars. The eighteen rounds the hunter had pumped into her on the Metro eventually healed, but the holy water the bullets had been laced with deformed her chest and breasts, leaving hideous scars and leather-like skin. Several nights later at Wolf Trap, when she bit the huntress in an attempt to turn her, she had no idea the bitch had splashed holy water over her neck. The bite charred Toni’s lips and gums. In a matter of weeks, the hunters had stolen her beauty, forever leaving her a hideous monstrosity. For that, they would pay dearly.

Especially the huntress.

Only then did Toni notice the tall black man following her. Tracking her, to be exact. More than likely a mugger or rapist who thought he had found an easy mark. She enjoyed those types, predators who took advantage of the weak. They usually whimpered and pleaded for their lives. Toni enjoyed watching them die. Tonight would be different. Not only would she feed, she would vent her rage on this bastard.

Toni maneuvered deeper into Rock Creek Park, moving away from the main paths and lit areas that might provide her prey vestiges of help. She did nothing to tip off her stalker. Only slightly slowing her pace, Toni braced herself for the attack, her senses honed. She could hear him approaching. Could feel his presence drawing near. Could sense his arrogant confidence.

When the stalker closed to within feet, Toni transformed and spun around, bearing her fangs and snarling.

And froze.

A pallid face stared back at her, with a protruding and deeply furrowed forehead, gleaming blood-red eyes, and fangs.

Before Toni could respond, the other master punched her with its right fist, knocking her unconscious.

3

CONSCIOUSNESS CAME SLOWLY to Toni. She first became aware of an all-too-familiar sensation. Pain. It intruded on her sleep, a constant throbbing that slowly cut into her awareness. As her mind focused, she realized it came from her jaw where the master had struck her earlier that night. Toni moved her chin from side to side. Pain shot up her head and down her neck. The bastard broke her jaw. She could tell by the tingling that the regeneration process was well under way.

As Toni’s mind cleared even further, her thoughts went back to the moments just before the attack. She remembered being on the hunt in Rock Creek Park. The mugger sneaking up behind her. Turning to attack him, only to come face-to-face with another master. Then the blow that knocked her unconscious. She did not recognize the master, although that would have been difficult given the brief glimpse she got of him in the dark. None of it made sense. A master never moved into another master’s territory without first requesting permission. So why was this one here in Washington?

Opening her eyes, Toni raised herself on one elbow to look around. This place was a far cry from her nest. She rested on top of a king-size bed in an elegantly-furnished, well lit, clean bedroom. Most noticeable, it did not reek of death and decay. She and Ion had lived in such luxury decades ago. But that ended in the Ukraine when the near complete extermination of Europe’s largest coven by the Soviets frightened Ion and drove him, and the coven, underground. Since then, they had dwelled in sewers, subways, condemned buildings, and a host of other locations barely fit for vermin. As a vampire, she could easily live without human amenities. However, she preferred comforts such as these.

“I see the whore is finally awake.”

The voice came from Toni’s right. Rolling onto her side, Toni saw a young girl approximately thirteen years old seated in a fabric-covered wingback chair, watching television. She wore a plain, dark-colored, one-piece dress that complemented her shoulder-length blonde hair. Crystal blue eyes and cherubic cheeks gave the young girl an angelic look. It was merely an appearance.

Toni recognized the child as Melinda Stanton, the only child to ever have been turned, and one of the most vicious and sadistic masters. Melinda had come to America in the early seventeenth century on one of the many ships that brought the Puritans to a more aesthetic life in the New World, only to find death and suffering. First, when both her parents and older brother died of pneumonia on the voyage over. Then again when William Castile, a respectable elder in Salem “adopted” her. The village rejoiced, believing her blessed by being taken in by a man of God. Castile could not be described as either a man or of God. He was a master on the run from hunters in England. Melinda became his sexual plaything and blood cattle. Her torment lasted for more than three months, consisting of nightly sodomizing interspersed with occasional feedings, just enough to keep her weak and docile, yet alive. Throughout her ordeal, Melinda maintained her faith in God, refusing to believe that He had forsaken her, until one night when she could not bear the agony any longer. Melinda begged Castile to turn her, to make her a master like himself, to free her from her human inhibitions. Castile agreed, and unleashed in her a capacity for evil he could not have foreseen.

Once freed from her pain and suffering, Melinda turned on Castile, denouncing his sins against her flesh and accusing him of witchcraft. In a brief and scandalous trial, Melinda described in detail every horror he had subjected her to, conveniently omitting the part about his being one of the undead and having turned her. The elders would not allow Castile to testify, his mouth being gagged during the proceedings because of his blasphemies. Predictably, they found him guilty of abominations against God and condemned him to be hanged by his neck until dead. The villagers’ worst fears were confirmed when Castile, who was hanged at dawn, burst into flames and disintegrated, a sure sign that God had cleansed their village of evil. The elders shipped off Melinda to live in Boston with a preacher’s family.

The depravity of those months prior to her being sired manifested itself in her own feedings. For decades she preyed on anything, even wildlife and livestock, showing little concern for discretion or anonymity. On several occasions, she quickly departed her town or village because of the suspicions she brought upon herself. Melinda’s luck eventually would have run out had she not stumbled across Chiang Shih. Chiang Shih transported Melinda back to Europe where she mentored the young master, taught her how to feed without drawing attention, and honed her hunting skills. In time, Melinda developed into a dangerous and cunning vampire, becoming one of a triumvirate of masters around Chiang Shih who served as her consigliores. However, Chiang Shih could never break Melinda of her penchant for feeding on children and pedophiles.

Toni sat up in bed, the sudden movement causing her jaw to throb. Without looking at Melinda, she asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Cleaning up the mess made by you and Ion.”

“Fuck you.”

“Knock it off.” The voice came from the other room. A moment later, two male masters entered the bedroom.

If vampires had circulation, Toni’s blood would have run cold.

The first master stood just under six feet tall, of average build with a swarthy complexion. He sported a goatee and black hair down to his shoulders. His visage appeared attractive, especially for a man more than six hundred years old, until you looked into his eyes. Deep brown, they mirrored the darkness that had replaced his soul. He had been born Santos Treja, but the other masters knew him as Treja the Terrible. He was notorious not only for his skills in outwitting and defeating hunters, but also for his penchant for torturing and raping his prey. Chiang Shih had appointed Treja one of her consigliores because of his former abilities and gave him free reign to indulge the latter.

The second master stood in the doorway, his very presence menacing. He towered over them all, standing at an intimidating six and one half feet. Muscular and lean, his body only hinted at the power and fury it could unleash. Close cropped black hair emphasized the stern African facial features, which made his furrowed brow and scowling lips appear even more threatening. Dark, intense eyes bore into Toni, forcing her to avert her gaze. Toni had never met this master, but she knew of him. She was being judged by Nelson Walker, Chiang Shih’s right hand master.

Walker had an enigmatic history. Toni knew Walker had been taken captive by slave traders in the Sudan and sold into bondage in the Middle East during the Crusades, at which point he was somehow sired. For centuries, Walker used the bloodshed of the religious wars to mask his feeding and turnings, Ion among them. No one ever talked about what Walker did during the Crusades. When relative peace finally settled over the region, Chiang Shih had asked Walker to join her. Together, the two masters unleashed a centuries-long reign of terror across Eurasia, eventually invading Europe with a ferocity that would permanently solidify vampires into Balkan folklore. In time, Walker became Chiang Shih’s enforcer, eliminating masters who had grown out of control and threatened the security of other covens.

“How are you feeling?” asked Walker in a quiet and deep voice.

“Not bad, except for my jaw.”

“I had to defuse the situation before you made a scene.”

“A simple ‘I’m one of you’ would have sufficed.”

“Doubtful.” Melinda nearly spat the word. “You should have known Walker was there. You should have sensed that he was one of us.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“You didn’t because you’ve become weak and ineffectual.” Melinda pushed herself out of the chair and stepped over to the bed, positioning herself between Walker and Treja. “You’ve become a liability. If I had my way, Walker would’ve taken care of you last night.”

Toni bared her fangs and snarled at Melinda, instantly regretting it. The three of them could have ripped her apart as easily as wolves devouring a puppy. Thankfully, instead of ravaging her, Walker spoke in a calm and quiet voice. “This isn’t the time or place.”

“It’s as good a time as any to get rid of the trash,” Melinda replied.

“Enough,” Walker said firmly. Then to Treja, “Take Melinda into the other room.”

“Sure thing.” Treja exited the bedroom, gently nudging Melinda along with him.

When they were gone, Toni asked, “Where are we?”

Walker sat on the end of the bed. “The Grand Hyatt in Washington. It’s where we’ll be staying until we’ve completed our task.”

“Which is?” Toni was apprehensive about hearing the answer.

“Chiang Shih wants to rebuild the Washington coven.”

“Because I failed her?”

“I’ll let her explain when she arrives.” Walker stood to leave. “You get some rest. Tomorrow I’ll rent a room for you.”

“Why can’t I go back to the coven?”

“The humans discovered it, so we have to abandon it. We got you out just in time.”

“Did you save me to help rebuild the coven, or to give Chiang Shih the chance to kill me herself?”

Walker paused. For a second, Toni thought she detected an uncharacteristic sympathy in his eyes. “I honestly don’t know. Chiang Shih is very fond of you. But you and Ion ran this coven poorly. Too much exposure. Too many mistakes. And you allowed the coven to be wiped out. She’s not happy.”

“And when Chiang Shih’s not happy, no one is happy.”

Walker nodded in agreement. “Get some rest. You’ll need it once Chiang Shih gets here.”

“When’s that?”

“In two or three days.” Walker left without saying another word, turning off the lights and closing the door behind him.

Toni leaned back and rested her head on the pillows. It had been a long time since she lived in such comfort. Ion had foresworn to live like humans, condemning the coven to sewers and decrepit buildings. It was part of his mental deterioration, but her affection for him blinded her to that. By the time she had realized Ion had lost grip on reality, she had forgotten about such luxuries.

A bright glow seeped around the outer edges of the room’s black-out curtains. Daylight. She could only stay indoors and sleep, which she desperately needed. Rolling over with her back to the windows, Toni closed her eyes and dozed.

Hopefully, things would look better in the evening.

THE ELEVATOR DOOR to Drake’s apartment building closed. Drake pressed the button marked 13. With a slight jolt, the elevator began its rise. As it passed the third floor, Jessica leaned into Drake and slid her arm around his.

“This is a first,” she said.

“What is?”

“You realize this is the first time we’ve been together when we haven’t either been talking about or fighting vampires?”

“I guess it is.” Drake placed his hand on Jessica’s arm. “You must find it boring.”

“It’s nice.” Jessica wrapped her other arm around Drake’s and leaned her head against his shoulder.

The elevator stopped on the thirteenth floor. As the doors slid open, Drake escorted Jessica down the hall. When they reached his apartment, he reached into his pocket for the keys and unlocked the door. Jessica let go of his arm and leaned back against the door jamb, flashing him a smile, partly seductress.

“So, why did you bring me back to your apartment?”

“I wanted you to meet someone.”

“Who?”

“You’ll see.” Drake pushed open the door and ushered Jessica inside.

Drake had a nice apartment. It looked big, probably a three bedroom, modestly furnished and surprisingly neat for a single guy. Much nicer than my own place, thought Jessica. But then, she could live like this, too, if she had an anonymous benefactor paying the bills.

“You got a nice place here.”

“Thanks. I like it. Much better than the shit hole I used to live in back in Boston.” Drake slid out of his leather jacket and hung it in the hall closet, then helped Jessica off with her coat. “I don’t get as much use out of it as Van Helsing does.”

“Who’s Van Helsing?”

Drake smiled. “Let me introduce you.”

He led Jessica through the living room and into a small den just off of the enclosed balcony. She never expected to see a brown-and-white lop eared rabbit sitting in a two-level cage in the middle of the floor. On seeing Drake, the rabbit excitedly raced back and forth. Drake opened the second-level door. The rabbit leaned out, extending his head and gently nudging Drake’s nose with his own. Reaching into the cage, Drake lifted out Van Helsing and cradled him in his arms, supporting the rabbit in his left arm while he massaged the lop ears between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. The rabbit lay there with his eyes closed, basking in the attention. After several seconds, Drake raised Van Helsing up onto his chest and kissed him on the top of his head. When his hand went for a bag on the top of the cage, Van Helsing’s ears rose up and his nose twitched in anticipation. Drake pulled a raisin from the bag and placed it between his lips. Arching his head upwards, the rabbit took the treat and began chewing.

Jessica had never seen this side of Drake. She had only seen the cynical tough guy who spent weeks dodging her questions and making her life difficult, only later to go charging into a nest to rescue her after her abduction. She had watched him feed the master that had kidnapped her through a wood chipper. Two days ago, he ignited an acetylene tank and blew up a good portion of the Washington sewer, and nearly himself, to take down a single vampire. Though outdated, the word macho fit Drake quite nicely. Yet here stood the fearless vampire hunter, cuddling his rabbit as if he were ten years old again.

Drake came over to Jessica. He turned so the rabbit faced Jessica. “This is Van Helsing.”

She gently patted Van Helsing’s head with her fingertips. The rabbit closed his eyes and started to click. “Is he all right?”

“Uh-huh. That means he’s happy.”

Jessica continued petting. “Is this the rabbit you saved back in Boston?”

“You know about that?”

“When I researched you I talked to one of your colleagues on the Boston Police. He mentioned it when discussing your involvement in the Night Stalker case.”

Drake cuddled Van Helsing a little closer as he recalled that night. “He was the only survivor of that attack. The Night Stalker had butchered the entire family. Both parents and the two kids. They had been tortured and bled dry. When we arrived on the scene, we found this little guy hiding in his cage scared out of his wits. One of the sergeants wanted to take him to the pound, where I knew he’d be put down. I couldn’t do that to him, so I took him.”

“You don’t seem like a pet person.”

“I wasn’t. But I couldn’t let them cart him off and put him to sleep.”

“Compensation for not being able to stop the Night Stalker?” Jessica hoped the question did not rub any raw nerves.

“Partly. And partly because I don’t think anything should die alone.” Drake bent over and kissed Van Helsing on the head. The rabbit looked up and nudged Drake on the nose. Drake placed Van Helsing on the floor and gave him a gentle pat on the butt. The rabbit hopped across the room. When he reached the door to the living room, he looked over his shoulder at Drake and bolted down the hallway.

“Would you like a drink?” asked Drake.

“Watcha got?”

“Not much. Bourbon, diet cola, and tap water.”

“A diet cola will be fine.”

Jessica sat on the living room sofa as Drake prepared the drinks. She crossed her legs at the ankles and pulled the hem of her skirt above her knees. Van Helsing raced through the apartment, stopping occasionally to check out some portion of a room or to scratch an itch with his hind legs. After a minute or two, he hopped over to the sofa and tentatively approached Jessica, his head outstretched, and sniffed her shoes. When she bent over to pet him, Van Helsing ran away and binked into the kitchen.

Drake exited the kitchen holding a can of diet cola and a glass of ice. He placed them on the coffee table in front of Jessica. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted a glass or not.”

“This is fine. Thanks.” Jessica opened the can as Drake went to the bar and poured himself a tumbler of bourbon. “You don’t seem like the squeamish type.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your comment a few minutes ago that nothing should die alone.”

“Oh, that. It doesn’t mean I’m squeamish.” Drake came back to the sofa and sat down beside Jessica. “I’ve seen more than my fair share of death, even before I became a hunter. Unwanted newborns left in garbage cans. Junkies who ODed in back alleys. Homeless people who died of disease or exposure. They had only one thing in common—they died alone, with no one around to comfort them in their final moments. It’s no way to die.” Drake swigged down a shot of bourbon. “It’s the only fear I have.”

“You mean dying alone?”

Drake nodded.

“Well, at the rate you’re going, you’ll die surrounded by a hoard of vampires.”

Drake faked a grimace. “That’s a comforting thought.”

“And I take it back. You’re not squeamish.” Jessica took a drink of her diet cola and flashed him a teasing smile. “You’re just sensitive.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not at all.” That’s perfect, you idiot. Keep teasing him like you’re a schoolgirl with a crush, and you’ll wind up pissing him off.

“I don’t mind.”

Jessica rested her right arm on the back of the sofa and placed her hand over Drake’s. “Honestly, I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what? Hunt the undead?”

“You put your life on the line every day.”

“It’s not too much different from being a cop, except I don’t have to fill out reams of paperwork.”

“I’m serious. I’d go nuts if I knew vampires were out to get me every night.”

Drake shrugged. “It’s not like they have a personal vendetta against me.”

“Really? What do you call that reception for us a week ago at Wolf Trap?”

“I hunt vampires. Vampires try to kill me to stay alive. It’s not personal. If I gave up this profession tomorrow and moved back to Boston, they’d leave me alone.”

“And you believe that?”

“Of course.”

Though Jessica thought Drake was naïve about the undead not having a vendetta against him, he never saw himself as heroic. His humility turned Jessica on.

“Now, is this an interview or a date?” Drake moved his hand out from under Jessica’s, placed it on top of hers, and squeezed gently. She felt a warm flush of anticipation through her skin. Jessica slid closer to Drake. As she did, Van Helsing jumped into Drake’s lap and stood on his hind legs, begging for attention. Drake scooped up Van Helsing in his arms. The rabbit nudged Drake on the nose.

“Sorry, about that. Van Helsing gets jealous.”

Jessica leaned closer and scratched Van Helsing on the back of the head. “You know, two’s company and three’s a crowd.”

Van Helsing leaned toward Jessica and nudged her nose.

“He likes you,” said Drake. “He just kissed you.”

“It’s sad that your rabbit has kissed me more tonight than you have.” Jessica flashed Drake a seductive look that told him exactly what was on her mind.

Drake placed Van Helsing on the floor and gave him a gentle pat on the behind. When he turned back to Jessica, she had moved beside him. Reaching out, she placed a hand on each of Drake’s cheeks and lovingly drew him close. Their lips met. Jessica leaned back on the sofa, still holding Drake’s face, guiding him on top of her.

From the doorway to the den, Van Helsing watched the humans, his head tilted to one side. Realizing he would not be getting any attention for a while, he headed back to his cage.

TONIGHT WAS A fucking waste of time, thought Walker. Six hours driving around western Virginia and not a single prospect. Damn, he hated it when he miscalculated. Things had changed too much in this region since he visited here during the Great Depression. What had once been the Old South, a racist haven where a black man could get into trouble for merely driving down the street, had slowly become more cosmopolitan as Washington expanded. Walker had hoped to find a pliable redneck to add to the coven as a familiar, and had driven out almost to the Blue Ridge Mountains. Instead of finding a familiar, he spent the night among scores of rubes and NASCAR fans, and not surprisingly came up empty handed. Perhaps the coven would be better off not having a familiar after all.

Despite Hollywood and reams of horror fiction, vampires rarely used familiars. As they had learned the hard way centuries ago, legions of subservient humans protecting the coven by day and doing the masters’ bidding proved more of a liability than a convenience. Yes, there were those who would willingly work for the undead, mostly for the promise of power now and immortality in the future. On occasion, they could be useful. However, since familiars were the front men for the covens, by extension they were the first to be taken when hunters discovered a coven. Then their human weaknesses and faults took over. Only a handful of familiars kept their vows of loyalty and silence. Most told the authorities everything they knew about their masters, and often led angry mobs directly to them. The toll against those covens betrayed by familiars was staggering. After the betrayal in Paris in 1792, every master decided to use a familiar only when absolutely necessary.

This, unfortunately, was one of those times.

Walker glanced at the dashboard clock on the SUV he had stolen from long-term parking at Union Station. 2:18. Because he had at least a two-hour ride to Washington, he would need to head back now if he wanted to have enough time to ditch the vehicle and make it to the hotel by dawn. His foot pushed down on the accelerator, and the SUV’s speed inched up to sixty-five miles per hour.

Things worldwide had changed quite a bit since Walker had been turned a millennium ago during the Crusades. Since then, he went by many names, sired scores of masters, and founded more covens than he could recall. He had fed off of Crusaders in the Levant. Had ravaged Europe during the Black Death. Had feasted off of a hundred and fifty years of wars and revolutions in Europe in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. And had cut a swath of destruction across the New World during the influenza pandemic of 1919. Every time a tragedy plagued mankind, Walker could be found exploiting it. Feeding off of it. Enjoying it.

It was an unusual existence for the eldest son of poor Christian farmers from the Sudan. Born over a thousand years ago with the name Shomari, he had lived a normal, mundane existence tilling his parents’ land along the Nile until captured by an Arab raiding party and sold into slavery in Cairo. Years of physical labor had made him strong and muscular, and as such commanded a good price on the auction block. The fat, sleazy Arab who purchased him had intentions other than work. Once back in his new home in Antioch, every night he would be sodomized by that sadistic beast, being forced to perform sexual acts like a woman, or having them performed on him. It was more than just a nightly assault on his body. It was an offense against his religion. An offense against his masculinity. An offense against his dignity. Adding insult to injury, his slave master gave him the name Adham, the black stallion.

The indignity lasted for three years, finally coming to an end during the siege of Antioch. Amidst the carnage and terror, he had sought out one man. Muhammad al Muhammad Abu Bakir. Rumors amongst the slave community intimated that Abu Bakir was some type of wizard, a man capable of bestowing incredible strength to whomever he deemed worthy, albeit at a price the horrors of which no one ever dared ask about. Many a slave fantasized about what he or she would do if they possessed such strength, but none had enough courage to obtain it. Yet as the city crumbled, as panic and despair replaced order, he sought out Abu Bakir and begged to be granted the strength. His got his wish and received so much more than he bargained for. Unfathomable strength. Immortality.

And the lust for revenge, the most powerful emotion.

The lights from a small gas station/convenience store attracted Walker’s attention. The place was run-down, poorly lit, and made of cinderblock walls with panes of glass set high in the structure. At first he thought it was closed because he saw no one around. Then he spotted an old Chevy Impala parked around back and a rusty pick-up truck beyond the twin gas pumps with two men standing around it. The SUV’s fuel gauge read one-quarter full, so Walker decided to fill up.

Pulling in between the pumps and the main station, Walker climbed out and filled up the tank with twenty dollars’ worth of regular. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two men by the pick-up staring at him, whispering back and forth to each other. The taller one wore a baseball cap and a black T-shirt with a faded Union Jack on front. The shorter wore a blue flannel shirt and red parka vest. The finest the South had to offer. Walker wondered if they kept their white sheets and hoods in the pick-up with them.

When he finished pumping the gas, Walker went inside to pay. He had just finished handing his money to the clerk, a fat man with scraggly red hair and beard, when the two rednecks from outside entered. The taller one stood by the counter, with parka boy behind him, blocking his way out. Walker sensed trouble.

The clerk looked over at the two men. “What’s up?”

“Not much, Ned. Jus’ tryin’ to make sure the nigger don’t steal nothin’.”

The clerk leaned over the counter and stared at Walker. “Now, you wouldn’t do anything like that, would you, boy?”

Walker suppressed a grin. Tonight might not be wasted after all.

“Hey,” prompted Ned. “I’m talking to you, boy.”

“Yeah, boy. He’s talking to ya.” The taunt came from the little asshole in the red parka, the pliant one who would follow the others.

Ned stood upright and reached under the counter. He shot a glance to the taller man. “Whaddya think, Tom? He seems awfully guilty to me.”

Tom placed his left hand over his right and cracked the knuckles. “I think we ought to let him know that country folks don’t take kindly to thievin’ niggers.”

“Yeah,” chimed in parka boy.

Walker had found his familiar.

Without looking at his victims, Walker spoke slowly, his deep voice sounding ominous. “Why aren’t you home fucking your mother, Tom? The line too long?”

“Why you fuckin’ son of a bitch.” Tom raced toward Walker, his right hand drawing back for a punch.

Walker spun around to face Tom and morphed into his vampiric form. Tom faltered. Walker reached out and grabbed the back of his head and his chin. With a single, effortless twist, he turned Tom’s head around. The snapping and cracking of the human’s vertebrae muffled his cry of pain. Parka boy stared into Tom’s dying eyes and the lips that mouthed silent words. When Tom dropped lifelessly to the floor, parka boy went white with terror.

A double metallic click sounded from behind Walker. He turned to see Ned standing behind the counter, a pump action shotgun in his hands. “You’re dead now, nigger.”

Buckshot erupted from the shotgun and peppered Walker. It tore through his skin and muscles, and exited out his back, shattering several bottles on the shelf behind him. The clerk pumped another round and fired again, with the same results. He stared at Walker, still not believing what he saw. His hands started to shake. He dropped the shotgun and stumbled back, hitting the wall. Too scared to talk, it took several seconds before he muttered, “Fuck me.”

“I intend to.”

Walker launched himself onto the counter, landing hard on its wooden surface, and snarled at Ned. Having regained some of his composure, the clerk ducked and tried to run for the exit. Walker reached down and grabbed his neck, digging his talons into the muscles. Ned screamed. Fear overwhelmed him when Walker lifted him off of the floor by his neck and dropped him onto the counter, placed both hands on either side of the clerk’s head, and applied pressure. He thrashed around and wailed like a pig on a slaughterhouse conveyor belt. Cracking could be heard over the clerk’s cries.

“Oh, God! No! Don’t! Please!”

Ned’s head caved in with a sickening snap. Brain matter and blood erupted from a large fissure on his left temple, splattering Walker and the countertop. His eyes exploded from their sockets and dangled down his collapsed face. A few teeth from the broken upper jaw dropped onto the counter. With nothing solid for Walker to hold on to, the clerk slipped out of his grip. The body fell to its knees on the counter before toppling over onto the floor.

With a single leap, Walker landed in front of parka boy. He stared at the contemptible little shit and clasped him around the neck.

“P-please don’t k-kill me,” parka boy stammered. “I’ll d-do anything you want.”

Walker transformed back into his human form. “I was hoping you’d say that. What’s your name?”

“Jack Akers.”

“Tell me, Jack. Is your miserable little life worth doing everything I demand of you?”

“Y-yes.”

“No matter what I demand?”

Akers closed his eyes and nodded repeatedly.

“Good. You will serve as my familiar. You will do what I demand of you when I demand it. No questions asked. If you serve me well, you’ll be appropriately rewarded.” Walker squeezed Akers’ neck tight, momentarily cutting off his supply of air. “If you fuck up, you’ll die. If you betray me, when I’m through with you, you will beg me to kill you. Do you understand?”

Akers nodded. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes….” Akers stared at Walker, confused. “Sir?”

“Good.” Walker loosened his grip. Akers leaned against the nearest shelf, massaging his neck and gulping for air.

Walker looked through the gas station’s windows to the rusty pick-up truck. “Is that your truck?”

“It’s Tom’s. He left the keys in it.”

“Load the bodies into the back and cover them with a tarp. We’ll dispose of them on the way home.”

“What about the… the.…” Akers remained transfixed on the blood and gore dripping off the counter and wall.

“We don’t have time to clean it up. Now move.”

As Akers ran outside to pull the pick-up truck around back, Walker stepped behind the counter and shut off all the outside and most of the inside lights to make sure they received no unwanted guests. He made a quick walkthrough of the station to ensure there were no security cameras that recorded the event or witnesses cowering somewhere in a dark corner. As predicted, he found neither. He then cleaned out the cash register to make it look like a robbery gone terribly wrong.

To get to the cash register, Walker had to step over Ned’s corpse. The crushed skull lay in pieces amidst a growing puddle of blood. A few larger chunks remained attached to the torn and bruised flesh. The lower jaw had detached on one side, and now lay at an awkward angle. It served the asshole right. The clerk fucked with him, and died painfully for it. Revenge was one of the strongest emotions in a vampire.

Revenge was the driving force that led Walker to become a master in the first place.

Antioch. 3 June 1098.

A CITY DIED as one man was reborn.

The city was Antioch, the Seljuk bastion located in the northern Levant along the Orontes River at the foot of Mount Silpios. Thirteen years ago it had been one of the jewels in the Byzantine Empire’s necklace that stretched along the Mediterranean until its capture by the Seljuks brought Antioch under Muslim control. Refusing to accept such an indignity, the Christians launched a Crusade to rid the Holy Land of Islam, and retaking Antioch became a primary goal. Antioch found itself in the unenviable position of being an Islamic city abandoned by Muslims. When three Christian armies surrounded the city in October 1097, Governor Yaghi Siyan issued a call to his Muslim brother cities to come to Antioch’s assistance. Only three cities responded, two of which sent troops to break the siege and one of which sent diplomats to negotiate the siege’s end. None of them succeeded in dislodging the infidels. The remaining Muslim cities refused to help, either due to their fear of the Christians or because letting Antioch fall would enhance their own power and influence in the region. By the grace of Allah alone Antioch had survived these past nine months, watching in relative comfort as famine and inclement weather slowly ate away at the besiegers. Antioch might have survived if even Allah himself had not abandoned the city. The end finally came when an Armenian guard sold out his people to the Crusaders for a few pieces of gold and opened the gate in the Tower of the Two Sisters, allowing in the Crusaders who slaughtered everyone in sight.

The man reborn was Adham. He had spent three years in Antioch as the sex slave of a fat, sadistic Arab trader. He had suffered indignity and humiliation, abuse and degradation, all the while praying for death or vengeance. Now he saw an opportunity for both. On the night the Crusaders entered Antioch, as the city entered its death throes and it citizens desperately searched for a means of escape, Adham sought out a single individual. Muhammad al Muhammad Abu Bakir, the wizard who, according to rumor, could grant a person eternal life and unlimited strength.

Adham found Abu Bakir just after dawn in his home within the shadows of Justinian’s Wall. He sat in a darkened room on the first floor, reading. Adham had expected some sort of demon, a physically twisted and repulsive creature. Instead, he stood face-to-face with a kindly-looking elderly man, approximately fifty years of age, well-groomed, with salt-and-pepper colored hair and beard and expensive clothes and sandals. This man easily could have passed for a respectable mullah. Only two aspects of his appearance contradicted Adham’s original assessment. As the city panicked around him, Abu Bakir sat in his chair, thumbing through the pages of his book, at peace with the circumstances. No, more than merely at peace. He reveled in the debacle.

Then there were his eyes, the windows to the soul. Abu Bakir’s eyes were dark, intense, and void of emotion, a portent of the power and inhumanity that lay beneath. Adham had found his wizard.

The creaking of the door warned Abu Bakir of the uninvited guest. Instead of sounding an alarm, he looked up from his book and focused on Adham. An uneasy few seconds passed as neither man moved, one summing up his intruder, the other hoping he had not squandered his opportunity. Finally, Abu Bakir closed his book and placed it on the table.

“How may I help you?”

“Forgive me, habib. I’ve come to request a favor.”

“You do not know me well enough to call me habib, slave.” Abu Bakir motioned for him to enter.

“How did you know I was a slave?”

“No Nubian in Antioch dresses so shoddily unless he’s a slave.”

Adham knelt in front of Abu Bakir. His eyes fell on the book. The words were in Arabic, but he was quite familiar with the text. “You’re reading The New Testament?”

“You know it?”

“I’m a Christian,” he said a bit too eagerly, hoping to forge a bond. “I didn’t know you were one.”

“I’m not.”

“But why…?”

“It’s always good to know one’s enemies.” A loud shriek from a woman penetrated the room. “As for this request you came to ask about. If you’re seeking asylum, I’m afraid my place will offer you little refuge.”

“I don’t seek refuge. I want to become like you.”

“Like me.” Abu Bakir’s voice took on a tone of distrust.

“All the slaves say you can bestow immortality and great strength. I want to be a wizard like you.”

“A wizard?” Abu Bakir laughed heartily. “You’re pitiful. You come here on your knees and beg me for immortality in the hopes you’ll survive this massacre? Get out of my house before I kill you myself.”

Adham jumped to his feet, his hands clenched into fists. “I don’t care about immortality. I just want vengeance on my master.”

Abu Bakir rose from his chair and contemplated Adham for several moments. He spit in Adham’s face. Adham retaliated with a punch to Abu Bakir’s jaw, and instantly regretted it. Not for striking the wizard, but because a punch that should have killed him glanced off like a slap from a little girl. Abu Bakir smiled.

“You have the rage to become one of us. And I can’t think of a better gift to leave behind for our Crusader friends.” Abu Bakir studied him further. “Are you certain you want this?”

“Yes.”

“More than eternal salvation from your Christian God?”

“Yes!” Adham was surprised at how willingly he discarded his faith.

The nail of Abu Bakir’s left forefinger turned into a talon that he used to slice lengthwise along his wrist. Blood flowed from the gash. He held up the wrist to Adham’s mouth. “Drink.”

Adham gulped greedily, for once not minding sharing his body with another man. As he drank, Abu Bakir took Adham’s left hand and bit into the wrist, drinking Adham’s blood. The two men fed off of each other for several minutes before Adham stopped to say, “Thank you, habib.”

“We’re more than that, now. We’re brothers.”

Adham remembered nothing else before passing out. When he woke, he sat in the chair. Abu Bakir had left, but not before he had fulfilled his part of the bargain. Adham felt powerful and invincible, and no longer restrained by such human inhibitions as conscience and guilt. Even more, he burned with a lust for revenge.

Adham set out to prowl the streets of Antioch, looking for the one person who could satiate that lust.

He returned home to face his slave master, only to find that the Crusaders already had swept through the neighborhood, as attested to by the mounds of dead and rivers of blood clogging the streets. Adham rushed into the house and frantically searched each room, fearful not that he would find his master dead, but that the Crusaders would have deprived him of the pleasure or murdering the man himself. Thankfully, there were no signs of blood or violence. Since most of the survivors of the massacre were making for the safety of the Citadel, the sole bastion located along the city’s eastern wall on the slopes of Mount Silpios, Adham decided to seek him out there. He followed the most likely route his master would take, all the while hoping not to find his fat carcass lying butchered on the street.

While crossing a square littered with the corpses of women and children, Adham heard from behind a shout in a language he did not understand. Turning, he saw four men approaching. By their chainmail armor and white tunics bearing Christian symbols, he assumed them to be Crusaders. By the way they fanned out around him with their swords drawn, he knew they were hostile. Rather than fear, he felt a sense of anticipation. No, more than that. A sense of exhilaration that he could only imagine a wild beast must feel when stalking its prey. And that is exactly what he thought of these men. Adham had not realized it before, but he hungered. Not for food, but for their blood.

So be it.

The largest of the four Crusaders, presumably their leader, yelled something incomprehensible and charged, both hands grasping his broadsword and holding the point aimed at Adham’s chest. Adham waited until the Crusader closed to within a few meters then sidestepped the attack. A taloned hand reached out and ripped four horizontal slashes across the Crusader’s throat. Adham did not even notice as the Crusader stopped, his tunic turning crimson, then fell lifeless to the street. Instead, Adham stared at his hand, mesmerized by the transformation. He did not even consciously recall the physical change. However it occurred, it had done so naturally.

A chorus of yells brought him back to reality. The remaining Crusaders charged in unison. Adham felt his body morphing into something wonderfully monstrous. Something powerful. Two of the Crusaders faltered, overcome by terror. One dropped to his knees and began to pray while the other repeatedly crossed himself. The third Crusader charged ahead foolishly. Adham stepped out of the way again, this time swinging his left leg around and knocking the Crusader’s legs out from under him. The man crashed to the stones, momentarily stunned. Grabbing the Crusader by the ankles, Adham swung him around in a half circle and let him go. The Crusader sailed across the square and slammed head first into a wall. The skull made a sickening sound as it caved in.

Adham walked over to the Crusader who knelt and prayed, mumbling something that had the cadence of the Lord’s Prayer. Adham grabbed the Crusader by the front of his tunic and pulled him to his feet. Baring his fangs, with a ferocious snarl he sank his teeth into the Crusader’s neck and began to drink. Never had he tasted anything so satisfying. Thick. Warm. So full of life. He could feel the life and energy being drained from his victim and flowing into himself, making him stronger.

An excruciating pain shot through Adham’s chest. He looked down to see the tip of a broadsword protruding through the skin of his left shoulder. Turning his head, he saw the final Crusader standing behind him, clutching the weapon’s handle. Adham took three steps forward, walking himself off of the broadsword, and spun around to face the coward. The Crusader dropped his sword, fell to his knees, and began crossing himself. Adham picked up the weapon from off of the ground and licked his own blood off the blade. The Crusader closed his eyes and prayed harder. Clutching the broadsword in his right hand and yanking back the Crusader’s head in his left, Adham plunged the blade into the Crusader’s mouth and out the back of his neck. The tip of the blade lodged into the corpse of a young woman, leaving the impaled Crusader to dangle obscenely as Adham continued his search for his ultimate prey.

It took most of the night before Adham finally found his slave master in the Citadel in a small room reserved for the mullahs, cowering in one corner in the fetal position and whimpering like a child. Upon seeing a familiar face, the bastard’s eyes lit up. He struggled to his feet and raced over to Adham, spreading his arms to embrace his servant. “It’s good to see you’re alive. I thought the infidels had killed you. Thankfully Allah, praise be his name, saw fit to—”

The words were cut off when Adham grabbed him around his flabby throat and lifted him off the ground, slamming him against the wall. “Shut up, dog. I’m sick of listening to your voice.”

“How dare you,” the Arab croaked through his restricted larynx. “I’ll have you put to death for this.”

“You’ll be putting no one to death. I, however, am going to enjoy watching you die.”

“Go to hell.”

“You first.”

The fingers on Adham’s left hand transformed into talons. Thrusting them into the Arab’s lower abdomen, he sliced open the body from left to right. The Arab screamed in agony, only to have his cry stifled when Adham tightened his grip and crushed his windpipe. For a moment, the sliced skin strained against the blubber underneath, holding back the bulge. Then the skin tore apart with a disgusting rip. The Arab’s viscera twisted out of his body like some hideous octopus squirming along the ocean bottom, and dropped to the floor with a sickening thud, splattering the area with gore and shit. Though still alive, shock dulled his senses. A shame, really, for Adham had wanted him to suffer longer. Reaching into the Arab’s chest cavity with his left hand, Adham rummaged around until he found the barely beating heart. He clutched it tight, causing the Arab to spasm. Adham increased the pressure. The spasms became convulsions until a muffled pop came from inside the Arab’s chest and his body went limp.

Adham let the corpse drop to the floor, giving it no more thought than he would a discarded garment. As he approached the door, he heard running feet and excited voices from the other side. Racing back to his slave master, Adham dropped to the floor beside the corpse, scooped it up, and cradled it in his arms. Half a dozen men burst into the room. Upon seeing the blood and gore, they gasped. One ran back into the hall to vomit. Regaining their composure, the other five rushed over to Adham.

“What happened?”

Adham looked up at them, tears flowing down his face. “They… they murdered my master.”

“Who did?”

“The Crusaders.”

Words were exchanged amongst the men cursing the infidels. Finally, two of them covered the body with a nearby Persian rug while a third lifted Adham onto his feet and escorted him out.

“You’ll be all right. We’ll take care of everything.”

“Thank you.”

“Everything will be all right.”

Adham suppressed a grin. “It will be now.”

4

ALISON STOOD IN the elevator holding a plastic cup of Dunkin Donuts iced coffee. Not for herself, but for Drake. She knew he enjoyed walking to work and getting his coffee on the way. Today she decided to pick him up. Alison reasoned that, considering their battle royale with the undead in the sewers the other day, he might enjoy being chauffeured, especially since they would be going into the nest in a few hours.

Of course, it would not hurt that Drake got to spend some alone time with her before he became focused on the hunt. She wore her typical battle dress—black leather pants and matching waist-length greatcoat, and stylish boots. Only this time she wore a white blouse with the top three buttons undone. If this did not get Drake’s attention, then she might as well join the ranks of the undead.

When the elevator stopped on the thirteenth floor, Alison stepped out and walked down to Drake’s apartment. She stood in front of the door, straightened her greatcoat, pushed aside her collar, and rang the bell.

Alison heard a commotion inside the apartment, and Drake called out, “Who is it?”

“Room service.”

Drake unlocked the door and opened it. He stood in the doorway completely dressed, except his shirt remained unbuttoned and not yet tucked in. He greeted her with a smile. Alison’s attention was drawn to his chest.

“This is a surprise,” he said. “Come on in.”

“Thanks.” Alison stepped into the apartment as Drake closed the door. “I thought you might like a ride into work seeing as—”

A female voice from the bedroom interrupted Alison. “Who’s at the door?”

Alison’s heart sank. She turned just as Jessica leaned out of the bedroom, drying her hair with a towel. She wore a skirt and bra, but no blouse. If Alison needed any further confirmation of what happened last night, the disheveled bed left little to the imagination.

“It’s just Alison.”

Just Alison? She wished she had not dropped by.

“Finish up and meet us in the kitchen,” Drake yelled to Jessica, and then motioned for Alison to follow him. He noticed the iced coffee. “Is that for me?”

“Yeah.”

Drake took the cup from Alison. Prying off the plastic lid, he took a long drink and sighed. “You’re the best.”

“Thanks,” she said without enthusiasm.

Drake placed his iced coffee on the counter by the sink and began buttoning his shirt. “Has Jim prepped everything for this afternoon?”

Once again her conversation with Drake centered on hunting the undead. “I don’t know. I haven’t been by the office yet.”

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” Drake took another sip of coffee. “I have to finish getting ready. Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine,” she lied. “I’ll say hi to Van Helsing while I wait.”

“He’d like that.”

When Alison entered the den, Van Helsing stood in the closest corner of the upper level, stretching on his hind legs to catch a glimpse of his visitor. Upon seeing Alison, he raced back and forth. Alison opened the door and stuck her head inside. Van Helsing leaned forward and nudged his nose against Alison’s, then lowered his head onto the floor and presented himself to be petted. Taking his ears between the fingers of her left hand, Alison gently massaged. Van Helsing clicked in satisfaction.

“At least you like me,” she said under her breath.

A few minutes later, Alison heard Drake and Jessica talking in the kitchen. She ruffled the fur on Van Helsing’s head as a goodbye gesture and joined them. Drake was finishing his iced coffee and munching on a breakfast bar. Jessica fumbled around in her purse. At least now she wore clothes. When Drake saw Alison, he stopped eating long enough to ask her a question.

“Can we swing Jessica by her place on the way home?”

Jessica looked up from her purse to Alison, embarrassed by the question. At least she had enough sense to realize the awkwardness of the situation. Jessica quickly averted her gaze. “I live in the other direction.”

“It’s no trouble,” said Drake.

“That’s okay. I’d rather walk.”

“Your choice. Will you have time to get home and make it to the office before we head out for the nest?”

“About that.” Another awkward silence. “I won’t be going with you this morning.”

“Why not?” Drake asked, more confused than disappointed.

“Philips told me that if I don’t start spending more time in the office, he’s going to replace me. Besides, I’m a reporter, not a hunter.”

“You’re doing okay.”

“Oh, please. I’ve been on two hunts with you. The first time I nearly got killed. The second time I was arrested.”

“Sounds like our record,” quipped Alison, though no one paid attention.

Jessica took Drake’s hands. “I like you, and want to be with you. But when it comes to our jobs, we live in two different worlds. I don’t belong in yours. And frankly, I don’t want to be. Are you mad?”

“Why should I be mad?”

“Then we’re cool?”

“Of course.”

Jessica beamed. She leaned forward to kiss Drake then, realizing Alison was present, gave him a peck on the cheek instead.

“The offer of a ride is still on.”

“Thanks, but no. I need the exercise.” Taking her purse off the kitchen counter, Jessica made her way to the front door. “I’ll let myself out. Call me later.”

When they heard the front door close, Alison tried to think of something to say to break the silence. She could think of only one thing. “Well, that was awkward.”

“I expected as much,” Drake said with a matter-of-fact tone as he finished off the iced coffee.

“How so?”

“I like Jessica. But she’s more at home hunting down bargains in a mall rather than hunting the undead.”

“That’s mean.” But true, thought Alison.

“It’s not meant to be. Jessica just doesn’t have the hunter instinct.”

“Like me.” A hint of exasperation tainted Alison’s voice.

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re damn good at what you do. But it goes way beyond that. Do you realize how many times I’ve placed my life in your hands? We’ve been to hell and back many times. I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone else in my entire life.” Drake threw out the empty cup. As he passed behind Alison, he stopped long enough to wrap his arms around her, hugging her around the waist. “That’s something I’ll never have with another woman.”

Alison closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his arms and chest against her. How she envied Jessica for spending the night with him. Alison might not have his love, but she had his trust and respect, a better foundation for a relationship. Besides, if things worked out well this afternoon and they destroyed the nest, she would no longer have a reason not to try and win over Drake.

Drake broke his grip and rubbed her left arm. “Come on. We have work to do.”

JIM WAITED FOR them in his work area when they arrived at the office. Alison noted that, as usual, he already had their gear laid out for them. A pair of satchel bags, each containing two bottles of Heaven’s Fire. A bottle of holy water to splash on their necks as protection against vampire bites. Three sets of Midland radios. Plus a bunch of other surprises.

“Morning, Jim,” said Drake in his usual boisterous manner.

Jim looked over his shoulder. “It’s about time. I thought you’d gone ahead without me.”

“Never.” Drake patted him on the shoulder.

Jim smiled at Alison. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” she replied, in no mood to add the “good” part.

Drake stepped past Jim and examined everything spread out on the table. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

“Not really,” Jim said modestly. “Most of this stuff is just upgrades to our usual gear.”

Jim picked up one of the three Midland radios and its accompanying microphone headset. “I got these headsets for the radios so we can talk to each other and keep our hands free.”

“Just like in the movies.”

“Yeah, except I improved on them. Rather than male/female connectors, I replaced them with magnetic connectors.” Jim held up the radio. Rather than having a male prong inserter, the plug-in portion of the microphone headset had been replaced with a disk about the size of a dime. A similar disk had been inserted into the female plug on the radio. “Now, if you get the wire caught on something, rather than rip the radio off your belt or the headset off your ears, you get this.” Jim gave the wire a yank, and the headset’s magnetic connector popped off of the radio’s connector.

“I like it,” said Drake.

“I like this.” Alison lifted a 12-gauge shotgun off of the bench. The standard stock and slide had been replaced with a rear pistol grip and a slide with a fore-end grip, respectively. Jim had also outfitted it with a heat shield around the barrel and a side-mounted combination laser/light.

“I figured you would. It’s a standard Remington 870 with accessories. I can easily strip it down, if you want.”

“Hell, no.” Alison grabbed the fore-end grip in her left hand and pulled back, opening the chamber. “What type of shell does it use?”

“A typical 12-gauge round two-thirds filled with buckshot soaked in holy water and one-third crystallized holy water. It’ll not only inflict some nasty damage but will hurt like a son of a bitch. The same rounds will fit into your sawed-off shotgun.”

“Sweet.” Alison flicked on the laser/light and aimed it at the target dummy across the room, imagining it as the female master.

Jim motioned to a pair of Glocks on the work bench. “I also added laser/lights to your Glocks so you can see what you’re shooting at.”

“Thanks,” said Drake. He pointed to a black canister at the end of the line-up. “What’s that? It looks like pepper spray.”

“It is. Sort of.” Jim picked up the canister, beaming like a young mother showing off her newborn. “I modified a four-ounce canister of pepper spray, replacing the oleoresin capsicum with a twenty percent solution of holy water. This will give the vampires something to cry about. I made it for Jess so she can defend herself.”

“Blondie won’t be joining us on any more hunts,” Alison sneered.

“Really? Why?”

“It’s not her thing.”

“Oh.” The disappointment was evident in Jim’s voice.

Alison took the canister and slipped it into her coat pocket. “I’ll take it. I know just the master I want to use it on.”

“That’s it, boss.” Jim shrugged. “Not too much this time.”

“Don’t apologize.” Drake picked up one of the Glocks, switched on the laser/light, and aimed it across the room. “These should be more than enough to handle anything we run across inside the nest.”

“You hope.” Alison said it absentmindedly and instantly regretted it. The festive mood evaporated as each of them remembered the close calls they recently had.

Drake broke the gloom first. “Is the Ram ready to go?”

“All gassed up and checked out,” said Jim.

“Then let’s load up and rock.”

LATE AGAIN. HELL, Jessica chided herself. She’d be late to her own funeral. Common sense told her to go straight to the office after leaving Drake’s apartment, but instead she went home to change her clothes, fearful of being teased if someone noticed that she wore the same outfit she had on yesterday. She probably would have made it to work on time if an electrical failure on the Metro did not force the Red Line to unload all its passengers at Gallery Place Station and bus them to Judicial Square, which added another eighty minutes to her commute.

Worse still, the lengthened commute gave her more time to think about Drake’s reaction to her decision not to join him on any more hunts. She had expected, maybe deep down had hoped, that he would be disappointed. She would have accepted anger. Instead, he seemed not to care one way or the other. He didn’t seem upset that she opted not to share the major part of his life with him. Sure, she could rationalize several reasons why Drake preferred her not to join the group. The cons of mixing business with pleasure. Her being more of a liability to the group than an asset. Concern that whatever they did against the undead might one day make its way into the newspapers. And many more reasons, all of them legitimate and rational. Still, she hoped for at least a sulk from Drake when she backed out at the last moment.

A part of Jessica wondered how much Drake really liked her, or whether he saw her as a momentary distraction from the harsh realities of his life. She could live with that, as long as she did not get too emotionally involved. For now, she chalked it up to Drake wanting to keep his personal and professional lives separate, which would also be a good idea if she wanted to keep her job at The Standard.

If she kept telling herself that, she might actually believe it one day.

Jessica was half-way through reading her incoming e-mails when she heard Philips’ gruff voice at the entrance to her cubicle.

“Nice of you to join us.”

“Sorry.” She swung her chair around to face him. “The commute was messed up bec—”

“Save it. You don’t have time. You need to get down to that row of abandoned block houses right away.”

“What’s up?”

“The police are raiding it at noon. They want to round up whoever’s in there and charge them with the murder of that sewer worker.”

Shit, thought Jessica. That’s where Drake is heading.

Philips noted the look of concern on her face. He stepped into the cubicle. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, really. It’s just—”

“Don’t worry. I already cleared this with Chief Roach. He wants you there.”

“You’re joking.”

“You of all people should know I have no sense of humor.” Philips sat on the edge of her desk. “You’re one of the few people who ran across whoever is in that old row house, and he thought you might be helpful.”

“But Drake and Alison got a much better look at them than I did.”

“Now you’re joking.” Philips gave her no time to respond. “Roach wants you there as an advisor, which gives you an advantage over the other journalists. Use that advantage. I want a story on my desk for tomorrow’s edition that’ll make The Post and The Times green with envy. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.” Philips pushed himself off the desk and headed out, then turned to face her. “I assigned Stewart to be your photographer. He’s waiting for you down front with a car, and will take the two of you to the row house. You’ll meet Roach there. Good luck.”

Jessica logged off and gathered her purse and jacket. Two minutes later, she exited the lobby onto the street. Two quick beeps of a car horn caught her attention. Stewart sat in a green Monte Carlo two cars off to her left. He stuck his hand out the driver’s side window and waved to attract her attention. Jessica smiled and held up a forefinger, telling him to wait a minute. Pulling out her cell phone from her jacket pocket, she flipped it open and dialed Drake’s office, only to get the answering machine. Breaking the connection, she then dialed Drake’s cell phone, this time getting the automated message notifying her that the cellular customer she tried to reach did not have his phone on. Damn.

Another blast of the horn, this time longer. Stewart pointed to his watch. Jessica nodded in acknowledgment, closed her cell phone, and headed for the Monte Carlo.

She wished she could have warned Drake, but she couldn’t do anything about that now. With luck, the police would get there before Drake and the others entered the nest.

5

NONE OF THE hunters spoke as they stood underneath the tunnel leading from the sewer to the basement of the abandoned row house. For each of them, it brought back memories of their close call three days ago when they tried to investigate this nest. Depending on what waited for them up there, that could turn out to have been a walk in the park.

“Are we ready?” asked Drake as he slid on his leather gloves.

“No,” replied Jim.

“You don’t pay me enough for this shit,” added Alison.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Drake placed the duffel bag with their gear onto the ground, unzipped it, and withdrew the one-hundred-foot length of rope. He draped the coiled rope around his neck and under his left arm. Taking a flashlight from the duffel bag, he switched it on and slid it under the shoulder strap on his leather jacket so the light shone forward. Drake stepped underneath the tunnel. “How about a hand?”

Alison and Jim applauded.

“Great. I’m about to go into battle with Abbott and Costello.” He stood underneath the opening for a few seconds. “Well?”

Alison stepped forward and interlocked her gloved fingers, forming her hands into a makeshift foothold, and crouched. Drake placed his right foot on her hands and lifted himself to the rim of the opening. Alison and Jim each grabbed a leg and lifted him further until he obtained a foothold. Pulling himself up into the tunnel, Drake felt around for a firm grip on the rocks, which was difficult considering they were moist and in many spots covered with moss. Drake eventually got some traction and began the arduous climb, all the while waiting for the anticipated attack from above.

After ten minutes of hard climbing, Drake stopped a few feet from the top rim of the tunnel, propping himself against the wall for support. He removed one of the Glocks from its shoulder holster, switched on the laser/light, and climbed up the last few feet. He peered over the rim, expecting to see a horde of vampires waiting to swarm him. All he saw were several corpses in various states of decomposition.

Reholstering his Glock, Drake crawled into the basement and worked quickly. He looked around until he found a main water pipe not rusted out and sturdy enough to handle a person’s weight, and tied one end of the rope to it. The other end he tossed down the tunnel to the others. Jim climbed up first. Alison tied the end of the rope to the duffel bag before she began her ascent. Five minutes later, all three hunters stood in the darkened basement.

Drake pulled up the duffel bag, placed it on the basement floor, and unzipped it. Each of the hunters took off their gloves and geared up, starting with a Midland Radio with microphone headset. Jim took the crossbow with laser sight and a satchel bag containing two bottles of Heaven’s Fire. Alison took the Remington and a bandolier of 12-gauge rounds. Drake withdrew a pair of stakes, which he inserted into the pouch inside his leather jacket, and took the second satchel bag with two bottles of Heaven’s Fire, which he draped over his shoulder. Checking each Glock and loading a holy water round into each chamber, he slid one Glock back into his right shoulder holster and switched on the laser/light to the other one.

“Jim, you stay here and guard the tunnel while Alison and I check out the nest.”

“I like that plan,” Jim said enthusiastically.

“Kill anything that tries to get in or out.”

“I don’t like that plan.”

“I’m serious. We’re too close to wiping out this nest to let one slip through now.”

Jim grew somber. “Sure thing, boss.”

“And stay alert. You never know when we’ll have to bug out of here in a hurry.”

“Gotcha.”

Drake patted Jim on the shoulder for reassurance. He used the laser/light on his Glock to illuminate the basement, looking for the way out, and for the first time got a good look at his surroundings. Desiccated and decaying corpses lay scattered across the floor, in particular one shriveled corpse of a young girl in the far corner that looked as it had been drained of blood only a few days ago. The nest was still active.

Turning to Alison, Drake asked, “Ready?”

Alison switched on the laser/light to her shotgun and pulled back on the slide to chamber a round. “Let’s rock.”

A POLICE CORDON had been set up blocking both ends of the street on which sat the abandoned row houses. As Stewart slowed the Monte Carlo, Jessica looked around, amazed at how much fire power had been arranged for a single raid. She counted eleven squad cars, a tactical communications vehicle, and between thirty and forty police officers, a dozen or so replete with body armor and M-16 assault rifles. God only knew how many more were located at the other end of the street or stationed in back of the row houses. It looked as though the police were preparing for war.

A pair of sawhorses blocked their path. A policeman in a yellow and orange reflector vest stepped out from behind the sawhorse and motioned for Stewart to roll down his window. He complied.

The policeman leaned over to look into the car. “This area is off limits to the public.”

“I’m Jessica Reynolds and this is Stewart Niles. We’re with The Washington Standard. Captain Roach is expecting us.”

“Do you have identification?”

Jessica and Stewart produced their driver’s licenses and passed them to the policeman, who compared each photograph with its owner. After a few seconds, he ordered, “Wait here.”

The policeman stepped away and turned to one side to speak into the chest-mounted microphone without being overheard. He held up the licenses and read the information off of them. A brief conversation ensued, after which the policeman nodded and came back to the Monte Carlo. He handed back the licenses.

“Captain Roach is waiting for you at the command center, ma’am. Park your vehicle back down the street, then meet him at the tactical communications van.”

Five minutes later, Jessica and Stewart stood outside the tactical command vehicle being used as a command center. Roach chatted with an officer arrayed in full tactical gear. When the officer stepped away, Roach looked over at Jessica. As he came over to greet them, Jessica could tell that he was not happy to see her.

Jessica stepped forward and offered her hand, hoping to disarm him with kindness. “Captain Roach, thank you so much for inviting me.”

Roach did not take the offered hand. “Don’t bother thanking me. The only reason you’re here is because you’ve dealt with these people before. You’re an advisor.”

“That’s unusual,” Stewart said to Jessica. “Usually you’re a suspect.”

Neither Jessica nor Roach appreciated the comment.

“We’ll be moving in when all our units are in place. That should be in a few minutes. So stay close, and stay out of the way.” Roach walked back to the command center.

“You’re well liked,” said Stewart.

“Yeah,” Jessica responded absentmindedly. Right now she cared more about whether or not Drake was all right.

RODRIGUEZ LED THE way down the sewer, trying to maintain a calm demeanor for his men, although inside he was as nervous as hell. As he should be. Patterson had given the police a detailed account of the things that murdered his partner and, as unbelievable as it sounded, Rodriguez believed it. He had seen the security camera footage from the morgue the night Dekker had been butchered. He had read the eyewitness reports of the Metro attack. None of the brass gave these accounts any credence, or at least admitted as much in public. Not that it mattered. Rodriguez knew what they were about to face, and it would be far more dangerous than a pack of vagrants or cokeheads.

He looked over his shoulder at the rest of his team. Team? What a fucking laugh. Himself. Mike Bannon, one of the old time street cops. A good cop with too much time in the force and too much fat around his mid-section to still be walking a beat. And Joe Pantolini, the rookie, a kid with more enthusiasm than common sense. The three of them were more than enough for their nominal assignment, which was to arrest anyone who tried to escape the mansion through the tunnel. But if what came down that tunnel was what Rodriguez expected, than his team would be overwhelmed within seconds.

Turning back to the front, Rodriguez continued until they were approximately one hundred feet from the tunnel. He held up his hand to stop his team. Bannon and Pantolini gathered around.

“Listen up. Our job is simple. When the shit goes down up there, we’re to make sure that anything that tries to escape is detained.”

“You mean anyone, right?” asked Bannon.

“Yeah. Anyone.” Shit, Rodriguez. Watch yourself. “Take up your positions. I’ll let Roach know we’re ready.”

DRAKE LED THE way up the stairs to the kitchen. He clasped a Glock in his right hand. His wrist rested on top of his left hand, which held a stake pointed forward. The barrel-mounted laser/light lit up the doorknob. He turned to Alison, who stood two steps below him.

“Are you ready?”

“No.” Alison raised the shotgun to eye level and aimed it at the door. “But let’s do it.”

Drake grabbed the doorknob in his left hand and turned it until the latch clicked, and pushed it open. The creaking hinges rumbled like thunder through the deserted kitchen. He expected a swarm of the undead to descend upon them. Instead, the only movement came from a rat that scurried across the kitchen floor. Drake followed its path along the baseboard of the counter until it disappeared into a gnawed hole in the floorboards.

Drake climbed the last few steps and peered in, swinging the light from one side to the other. The kitchen seemed like any room of an abandoned residence. No furniture. Chipped and faded paint. Cobwebs and layers of dust. Scattered rat droppings. The familiar stale and musty odor of not having been lived in. Only the windows along the opposite wall that had boards nailed over the wooden frames and the glass underneath painted black provided any indication that someone lived here.

Drake gave the kitchen one final sweep with the light. “Clear.”

Alison climbed the rest of the way up the stairs and joined Drake, standing beside him but facing in the opposite direction. Drake moved across the kitchen to the door leading in to the row house. Alison followed, walking backwards to cover their rear. They paused by the open door to the pantry. Drake shined the light around the pantry. Nothing. Motioning with his head, he led them down the small hallway and into the main section of the row house.

The two hunters stood in the foyer. Their laser/lights danced across the soiled hardwood floor encrusted in years of accumulated dirt and dust. Dozens of candle stubs dotted the floor along the wall. Drake’s light fell on the balustrade of the winding staircase. He ran it up to the second floor, then along the landing and up to the third floor.

Alison backed up until she bumped into Drake and spoke softly. “We could still walk away.”

“I wish. But we have to clean out this nest.”

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Me too.” Drake turned slightly. “Let’s check out this room to my left.”

“You first.”

The two sidestepped across the foyer to a set of double doors, the right ajar. Drake walked through and quickly swung the laser/light from the far left corner to the far right. He saw nothing in this room except for the boarded and painted-over windows, a dust-covered mahogany table in the center of the floor, and more candle stubs.

“Clear,” said Drake.

“Thank God.”

Drake stepped back into the foyer and crossed over to the first of two doors on the opposite wall. He grabbed the doorknob in his left hand and slowly turned it until the tumblers clicked. He turned to Alison. “Ready?”

Alison raised the Remington to chest level and nodded.

Drake pushed open the door and stepped into the room, scanning it with his laser/light. Alison followed him but veered right, placing her back against the wall, ready to provide cover if necessary.

“Oh, Jesus.” Alison shook her head.

Even Drake found the stench overpowering. In addition to the usual covered windows and candle stubs, this room contained a mattress heavily stained in blood and infested with cockroaches. The stench came from a pair of corpses discarded against the far wall. One body appeared mummified, as though it had been there since the founding of the nest. Its skin had turned gray and leathery, tightening around the skull and ribcage and receding around its mouth to expose its teeth. Drake could not even guess at its age or sex.

Not so the other corpse. Drained of all blood, this one was a week old at most. Its eyes, though shriveled, were still intact, and its lips had yet to pull back over its teeth and gums. Although decay already had started to claim the body, the corpse could still be identified as that of a young woman. Maggots swarmed in the decayed bite wound on her neck and in the tear in the body cavity where the abdomen had expanded and burst due to the gases generated during decomposition. A dozen cockroaches swam across a pool of dried bodily fluids.

“This is a good sign,” said Drake.

“You’re joking.”

“No. It looks like the body has been here only a week at most. If the vampires are draining their victims for food rather than turning them, then the nest may not be as large as we thought.”

“Small comfort.”

The hunters continued their search.

STEWART STOOD AGAINST the police barricade, taking photos of the row house. Jessica hung around the command center, hoping to pick up some tidbit of information to flesh out her article. Unfortunately, everyone hustled around too much for her to pick up more than a few fragments of conversation.

Jessica saw someone in a suit exit the tactical communication vehicle and head over to Roach. She had never met him before, but from photographs knew him to be Joel Preston, Roach’s special assistant. Preston stepped up to the chief and whispered something in his ear. Roach nodded and patted Preston on the shoulder, then turned to face the others.

“All right, people. Let’s move out.”

The policemen by the barricades pulled the structures to one side while most of their companions climbed into their squad cars. Roach followed Preston into the back of the tactical communications vehicle. Within seconds, a dozen police vehicles were racing down the street toward the row house. The squad cars pulled into a semi-circle in front of the targeted building, the police inside jumping out and taking up firing positions behind their vehicles. The tactical communications vehicle stopped behind the semi-circle of squad cars. Within a minute, enough fire power was brought to bear on the row house to take down a small army of humans.

It was still not enough to take out a handful of vampires.

Stewart walked up beside Jessica and motioned for them to join the others. “It’s show time.”

THE SEARCH OF the first two floors had turned up nothing but several darkened rooms. Rather than comfort Drake, it served only to further place him on edge in anticipation of an inevitable attack.

Reaching the top of the stairs leading to the third floor, Drake walked down the landing to the first door on the right and swung it open. He and Alison raced into the room. Again, nothing. This room looked like all the others, except that one of the windows along the front of the room was broken, allowing a small shaft of sunlight to filter in. The broken glass also allowed in sound. Drake and Alison heard a commotion outside. Moving over to the window, Alison stood with her back against the wall as Drake looked out onto the street below. A dozen police vehicles sat out front of the row house. As Drake watched, policeman climbed out of the vehicles and took up firing positions.

“This isn’t good.”

“What?”

“The police are launching a raid. There are at least twenty to thirty cops down there.”

At that moment, someone who at this distance looked like Chief Roach raised a bullhorn to his mouth. “This is the police. You have five minutes to come out with your hands over your head.”

Drake stepped away from the window. “I think we better get out of here.”

“That’s the best idea you’ve had all day. Let’s go.”

The two hunters headed out when a figure in a Georgetown University sweatshirt suddenly appeared in the doorway. It crouched in preparation to lunge, snarling. On instinct, Drake raised the Glock and fired three rounds. The vampire ducked back behind the door jamb, causing all three rounds to slam harmlessly into the wall across the stairwell.

“Shit. I miss—” Alison kicked Drake’s legs out from under him, knocking him backwards to the floor.

JESSICA INVOLUNTARILY CROUCHED when she heard the gunshots coming from inside the row house. It told her that Drake was inside, and in the line of fire.

From three cars down, a policeman issued a single command.

“Fire!”

A BARRAGE OF gunfire burst through the front windows of the row house, sending a shower of glass and wood shards across the room. Drake rolled over onto his stomach. He had dropped the Glock when Alison knocked him to the floor. Looking around, he finally found it lying against the wall. He side crawled toward it when another snarl came from the doorway. The vampire in the Georgetown University sweatshirt had returned. This time it pounced, sailing across the room toward Drake.

Drake forgot about the weapon. He rolled onto his back and started to raise the stake to chest level, but it landed with its knees on his abdomen, knocking the wind out of him. Its right hand pinned Drake’s stake hand to the floor. The vampire bent over to bite Drake’s throat. With his free hand, Drake grabbed it around the neck and pushed back. His muscles strained, and his elbow felt as if it would snap. He was not strong enough to hold back the vampire for long.

Alison saw Drake in trouble. She began to get to her feet to go to his assistance when another commotion at the door caught her attention. A vampire in a denim jacket rushed out of the room to the rear of the row house and headed down the stairs, pausing just long enough to stare at the hunters. It jumped from the stairwell to the main floor. Another vampire, a female, followed but stopped when it saw Alison. Bearing its fangs and snarling, it rushed down the landing and burst into the room, lunging at Alison. Alison did not have enough time to bring the shotgun around. Instead, she fell forward and rolled onto her right shoulder, crashing into the vampire’s legs. It sprawled to the floor and slid into the wall.

Finishing her roll, Alison came back onto her feet just as a stray bullet buzzed by her head, missing her by inches. She ignored the near miss, focusing her attention on the battle at hand. Alison turned to face the vampire. It rose to its feet directly in front of the window. Alison raced forward. The vampire arched its back and roared, ready for a fight. Instead, at the last second, Alison shifted her body and used the forward momentum to launch a sidekick to its chest. Caught off balance, the female vampire was propelled backwards, crashing through the boards and shattered glass covering the window.

“JESUS CHRIST!” ONE of the policeman yelled. “Top floor! To the right!”

The gunfire tapered off as everybody watched the body of a young woman come crashing through one of the top floor windows of the row house, presumably jumping to her death to avoid the hail of bullets. Except that she sailed backwards through the window. The instant she hit the sunlight, she let out an inhuman scream that drowned out the din of the raid. The body began to smoke and burn. When she finally hit the sidewalk three stories below, she exploded into a small cloud of ash.

For a moment, the gunfire ceased.

“What the fuck just happened?” asked a policeman standing beside Jessica.

Jessica knew, but was not about to explain. However, she did have a plan for helping out Drake.

“Chief Roach, shoot out all the windows in the row house.”

“What the hell good will that do?”

“Whoever these people are, they’ve spent so much time underground or shut up indoors that they can’t handle sunlight. Shoot out the windows and you’ll drive them to cover.”

Roach pointed to the remains of what had just fallen from the third floor. “But that doesn’t explain—”

Preston ended any further discussion by raising the bullhorn and issuing a new order.

“Concentrate on shooting out the windows. Start with the top floor and work down.”

AFTER A MOMENTARY pause, the gunfire resumed with an increased vigor. It all seemed directed at Drake and Alison.

Alison fell backwards as a pair of bullets whizzed by on either side of her head. One tore through the broken end of a board covering the window, showering her face with wood shards. She winced.

Each of the bullets ripped away more of the covering from the windows. One bullet blew out a pane of painted-over glass, allowing a beam of sunlight to fall across the sweatshirt vampire’s face. It screamed and released Drake’s stake hand to cover its wounds. The vampire tried to run, but Drake grabbed the sweatshirt in his right hand, holding it in place as he plunged the stake into its heart. An animalistic bellow filled the room. Blood gushed from around the stake. The vampire tore at its chest, trying to dislodge the stake, but only succeeded in increasing the rate of destruction. The skin peeled off, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Peeling soon became disintegration. Ash fell on Drake from a growing cavity in the vampire’s chest. The larger the cavity became the greater the rate of disintegration, until its entire body turned to ash and crumbled onto Drake. Drake coughed, spitting up some ash that had fallen into his mouth.

Seeing Alison not too far from him, her eyes shut tight, Drake rolled onto his stomach and crawled over to her.

“Are you all tight?”

“I just have something in my eyes.” Alison rapidly opened and closed them several times. “I’m all right now.”

“Good. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

JIM HAD SPENT nearly fifteen minutes in complete silence. He hated it. Every moment seemed like an hour, giving his imagination way too much time to devise dozens of reasons, most of them unpleasant, to explain why he had not yet heard from Drake or Alison. When the first gunshots rang out inside the row house, Jim narrowed the reasons down to the bad ones.

A minute later, he wished for the silence again.

Not knowing what caused the gun battle that raged upstairs seemed worse than being in it. He checked his crossbow and satchel bag, twice, and settled down to wait for Drake and Alison.

A few minutes later, he heard a noise upstairs in the kitchen.

“Drake? Alison?” Jim whispered. “Is that you?”

No answer.

“Guys,” he said louder. “Are you there?”

The growl from the doorway warned Jim the intruder was not friendly. He swung his flashlight up the stairway. A vampire in a denim jacket inched down the stairs, its fangs exposed in a sneer. It looked alternately between Jim and the tunnel opening, uncertain as to which was more important. Jim raised the crossbow and trained the laser sight on its chest. It snarled threateningly.

Suddenly, all hell broke loose upstairs, the hail of gunfire echoing through the basement. That settled it for the vampire. Giving Jim a desultory snarl, it sprang forward and disappeared down the tunnel before Jim could fire off a bolt.

“HEADS UP,” RODRIGUEZ warned his men. “Someone’s coming.”

More like something. Although he could not distinguish its features at such a distance and in so poor a light, Rodriguez could tell by the way the thing scurried down the tunnel head first that it was not human. Withdrawing his service revolver, he aimed it up the tunnel. “Stop or I’ll shoot! This is your only warning!”

The animalistic growl and the glare of its blood red eyes provided the answer he needed. He fired three rounds up the tunnel, and heard the dull thud of metal impacting against flesh. Instead of falling to the ground wounded or dead, the thing paused and growled its defiance.

“Some help here would be nice,” Rodriguez said on the verge of panic.

Snapped out of their shock, Bannon and Pantolini drew their weapons and fired up the tunnel.

HEARING THE GUNFIRE emanating from the sewer, and the occasional whiz of a stray round as it entered the basement, Jim crawled over to the tunnel and cautiously peered over the rim. He saw three policemen down below firing away uselessly at the vampire. Unless he did something, they had at best a minute left to live.

Jim grabbed his satchel bag and crawled over to a relatively fresh corpse only a yard from the tunnel entrance. He tried to lift one of its arms, but rigor mortis had locked the limb in place. Placing a knee on its shoulder for leverage, Jim yanked up on the arm until it gave way with a loud crack. He ran the strap of the bag under the arm, wrapped it once around its neck, and secured the bag’s flap. Grabbing the corpse by its armpits, he dragged it over to the tunnel, sending a swarm of cockroaches scurrying from underneath the body. Once at the tunnel opening, Jim depressed the detonator caps on the two bottles of Heaven’s Fire, grasped the corpse by its shirt, and tossed it into the tunnel. Before standing back from the opening, Jim yelled, “Fire down below!”

Due to the rigor mortis, the corpse sailed down the tunnel like a bullet. The vampire turned to face this threat, bracing itself for impact. It was caught off guard when the Heaven’s Fire ignited and the corpse erupted into a fireball. Homemade napalm engulfed it, searing flesh and muscles, while the crystallized holy water melted into its tissue, increasing the agony of its death throes. The corpse slammed into the vampire and ripped it off of the tunnel wall, propelling it along until the two vomited out of the tunnel into the sewer.

The vampire struggled to rise, but only made it as far as its knees. Much of the skin and muscles already had burned off, revealing charred bone beneath. It flung its head back, crying out a final time before crumbling into a flaming pile of ash.

“Wh-what the fuck just happened?” asked Pantolini.

“I don’t know,” Rodriguez lied. “But be on alert in case there’s any more of them up there.”

DRAKE GATHERED UP his Glock, then he and Alison crawled along the bedroom floor until they entered the landing. They raced toward the stairwell, using the wall as cover. Looking out into the foyer, they realized that getting out would be a hell of a lot more dangerous than getting in. The suppressing fire being laid down by the police peppered the front of the row house, punching holes in the wall and blowing out the painted-over windows. Sunlight streamed in, clearing the foyer of any undead. But the barrage of bullets made any chance of escaping down the stairs without getting hit virtually impossible.

“What do we do now?”

“Pray there’s a back door,” answered Drake.

A creaking off to their right attracted the hunters’ attention. They turned as a fourth vampire charged from the room at the end of the corridor. It was small and dressed in clothes that a teenager would wear, probably a runaway from the streets who had run afoul of the nest. Drake aimed his Glock, but Alison placed a hand over the barrel and pushed it down. She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out the can of holy water-laced mace, and sprayed its contents into the vampire’s eyes. It howled and thrashed back and forth, its shoulders punching holes in the wall. Sticking its talons into its eye sockets, the vampire dug out its eyes to end the pain.

Alison handed Drake the Remington with her right hand, while with her left she reached under his leather jacket and removed a stake from its pouch. She drove the stake into the vampire’s abdomen, aiming it upward toward the heart, but not driving it in all the way. Clutching its throat in her right hand, Alison spun it toward the stairway.

“Follow me, and stay close.”

“Wait.” Drake unslung the satchel bag from his shoulder. Reaching under the flap, he pressed the detonator cap on each bottle of Heaven’s Fire, and then tossed the bag down the corridor and through the open door of the room at the far end. The bag fell to the floor with the muffled shattering of glass bottles. A few seconds later, the caps detonated, igniting the home-made napalm and engulfing the room in flames.

“Now I’m ready.”

Alison stepped out of the corridor and onto the stairs. As she descended, she maneuvered the vampire into the direction of the gunfire, using it as a shield. It struggled, but between its small stature, its wounds, and the stake imbedded in its chest, it put up only minimal resistance. Every few seconds a bullet would punch into its body, causing it to cry out and spasm. Each bullet absorbed by the vampire meant one less they had to worry about.

Drake stayed close behind Alison, his hands on her hips, helping to guide her. The most dangerous moment came when the staircase crossed by the front windows because here the gunfire was heaviest. Drake and Alison crouched low and raced by as fast as they could, dragging along the undead. One bullet grazed Drake’s left leg, taking a chunk out of the flesh. A second bullet shattered against the vampire’s ribcage, with a fragment of metal ricocheting out of its chest and striking Alison in the forehead.

The hunters finally reached the main level and backed away toward the kitchen. Once in the doorway leading out of the foyer, Alison stopped dragging the vampire. She shoved the stake up into its heart. As it bled out and disintegrated, the hunters disappeared into the kitchen.

A second, less intense barrage of gunfire greeted them from the police stationed behind the row house. Drake placed his hands on Alison’s head and back, bent her over, and rushed her toward the cellar stairs, putting himself between her and the bullets.

JESSICA WATCHED THE attack unfold, all the while worrying about Drake. Stewart stood beside her, taking photographs. He stopped just long enough to point toward the roof. “Looks like the police pulled a Waco.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s black smoke coming from the building. The police must’ve set the place on fire.”

As if on cue, Preston stepped out of the command center and approached Roach, bringing his attention to the smoke.

“Fuck!” Roach watched as the smoke grew in intensity. “Call up the fire units and send them in. Have a SWAT team accompany them inside in case there’s trouble.”

“Yes, sir.” Preston went back to the command center to issue the orders.

AS DRAKE AND Alison rushed down the stairs, Jim spun around to face them, the crossbow aimed and at the ready.

“Hold on, Jim! It’s just us!”

“It’s about time.” Jim lowered the crossbow.

“Any visitors?”

“Just one. He tried to escape, but I fried him.” Jim motioned toward the gunfire. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Looks like the police had the same idea we did.”

“Great. Now what?”

“Now we get out of here.”

Drake headed for the tunnel opening, but Jim stopped him. “Be careful. There are cops down there, too. And they saw the whole thing when I fried the vampire.”

“Thanks.” Drake inched his way up to the edge of the tunnel and yelled down. “Don’t shoot. We’re coming down.”

“Drake?” a voice called out from below. “Is that you?”

“Rodriguez?”

“Why aren’t I surprised to find you involved in this? How many are you?”

“Three.”

“Come on down. We’ll cover you.”

Drake took the one-hundred-foot length of rope and threw the loose end down the opening. He handed it to Jim. “You first.”

Jim dropped his crossbow into the duffel bag and slipped on his gloves. Grabbing the rope, he stepped backward into the tunnel and began his descent.

“You’re next,” Drake said to Alison.

Alison dropped the shotgun into the duffel bag and put on her gloves. “Don’t stay up here too long.”

“I’ll be right on your ass.”

“I wish.” Alison grabbed the rope and lowered herself into the tunnel.

Drake slid on his gloves, zipped up the duffel bag, and slid his left arm through the straps. He waited until Jim reached the sewer and Alison was halfway down before he started his own descent. Three minutes later, he joined the others. He greeted Rodriguez with a nod.

“I suppose we’re under arrest?”

A long pause elapsed as Rodriguez contemplated his answer. Finally, he said, “No.”

Pantolini stepped up behind Rodriguez and spoke in a quiet tone, but not quite enough. “The chief told us to arrest anyone who tried to escape.”

“I know these people. They don’t count.”

“But, sir—”

“But nothing. There’s shit going on here you can’t understand. Now shut up.”

Rodriguez escorted Drake a few yards down the sewer in the opposite direction from which they came in. “Head this way. There’s an access ladder about five hundred yards down that leads to the street. We don’t have any units there, so you’ll have no problem getting out.”

Drake motioned with his head toward the other policemen. “What about them? Won’t they rat you out?”

“Don’t worry. They’ll do what I tell them.”

“Thanks.” Drake offered his hand. “I owe you one.”

“Good.” Rodriguez shook Drake’s hand, but did not release the grip. “Then tell me what the hell attacked us back there.”

“Are you sure you want an answer?”

“Yes.”

“You were attacked by a vampire.”

Drake studied Rodriguez’ face for any indications of disbelief or incredulity. Surprisingly, he saw nothing but acceptance.

“For once, I wish you were lying,” said Rodriguez.

“Me too.”

“Are there any more up there?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Thank God for that.” Rodriguez looked over his shoulders at the other hunters. “Get out of here while you still have a chance.”

Drake snapped his fingers to get Alison’s and Jim’s attention, and waved them over. Without another word, the three hunters disappeared into the darkness of the sewer.

6

ALISON ARRIVED AT the office, physically tired and emotionally drained. The physical exhaustion resulted from yesterday’s foray into the nest. The emotional exhaustion resulted partly from their less than stellar performance, but mostly the result of finding Jessica at Drake’s apartment yesterday morning.

Nor did it help that today’s edition of The Washington Standard carried Blondie’s fluff piece about the police raid on the row house. It described both the attack on the sewer workers two days previous and the police raid, relating in detail the shootout with the “armed squatters” who were described as either junkies or vagrants. After a few self-serving quotes from Roach and some of the policemen who participated, the article finished up with a vapid conclusion about how the squatters had somehow eluded the authorities. All pomp and praise for Washington’s finest. Yet not a word about her, Drake, or Jim. Not a hint about what they really faced in the row house. No indication that while two dozen cops shot up an abandoned building from a safe distance, the three of them confronted and cleaned out the nest by themselves.

Jessica got her story and her fling with Drake, so she no longer needed to pretend to be a member of the team, which was why she opted out of any further action.

Bitch.

Alison chucked the newspaper into the trash can where it belonged. She took off her leather greatcoat, hung it up on the coat rack, and went to check on Drake. He had not arrived yet, which did not surprise her. Drake always came in late after engaging the undead. And while he farted around, good ole Alison manned the fort alone.

Not alone, actually. She could hear Jim rummaging around upstairs. She headed up to say hello, and because she wanted someone to talk with.

Alison found Jim bent over his workbench laboring away on something, so involved in his project he did not hear her enter. She smiled. She had grown fond of Jim these past few weeks. He had come to them as an apprehensive teenager, uncertain what he had gotten himself into and afraid of being killed. Now, less than a month later, Jim possessed more than enough confidence and daring to be a hunter. His fighting skills were getting better with every encounter. Although he still had enough common sense to fear getting killed, he was now willing to battle the undead.

“Good morning.”

Jim looked up and offered a half-hearted wave. “Mornin’.”

“You’re here early.”

“No earlier than usual.”

“What are you working on?”

Jim held up a 12-guage round. “Right now I’m stockpiling holy-water rounds for the Glock and Remington so we don’t run out. Long term, I’m trying to figure out a way to kill more of these things quicker. So far everything I’ve come up with has given us an advantage, but they’re still one-on-one weapons. I hope to develop something that will kill them en masse and even the odds a bit.”

“You mean like an ultraviolet bomb?”

Jim chuckled, though good-naturedly. “You’ve been watching too much television. Hollywood can do anything it wants. I’m limited by the laws of physics.”

“So what have you come up with?”

“Nothing, yet. I’ve been wracking my brain for over a week now, but keep drawing a blank.”

“If anyone can do it, you can.”

Jim went back to filling 12-guage rounds. “What can I do for you?”

“I just came up to say hello and to see what you were working on.”

“No offense, but Drake’s usually the one who shows an interest in what I’m working on.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Pretty much.”

“Sorry. I just wanted someone to talk to.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you feel you could come to me.” Jim stopped working to give Alison his undivided attention. “Let me guess. Jessica?”

“How’d you know?”

“She’s been a distraction for Drake for close to two weeks now. We nearly got killed rescuing her. But I have a feeling your complaint with her is more personal.”

“When I went to pick up Drake yesterday, I found Blondie there. She’d spent the night.”

“You like Drake, don’t you?”

Alison did not answer. “What does Drake see in her?”

“Maybe it’s not what he sees in her, but what he doesn’t see in you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re prettier, smarter, and a lot tougher than Jessica.”

“So then why isn’t Drake interested in me?”

“Let me ask you a question. Have you told Drake how you feel about him?”

Alison shook her head. “I’m afraid it would hurt our friendship.”

“Maybe that’s why he hasn’t asked you out.”

Alison mentally kicked herself for missing the obvious. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“That’s because when it comes to Drake, you’re thinking with your heart and not with your head. The truth is, I think you guys would make a perfect couple. If you weren’t Drake’s partner, you’d probably be his lover.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes. The down side is if you weren’t Drake’s partner, he’d be dead by now.”

“Thanks.” Alison stepped forward and hugged Jim, then gave him a friendly kiss on the forehead. She broke the embrace and started to walk away when she said as an afterthought, “Any idea when Drake’s coming in?”

“I’m not sure. He has to go out to Reagan National later today to pick up his professor friend.”

“You mean Reese?”

“Yeah, that sounds right. Do you know him?”

“I know of him, but I’ve never met him.”

Alison did not like this at all. If Reese was coming to Washington to visit Drake, then that meant their hunts would be taking on a whole new dimension.

ROACH CLOSED HIS eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to work out the migraine spreading behind his eyes. He knew it wouldn’t do any good, though. His migraines had been coming with greater frequency and greater intensity. Lately, they had become a way of life. At this rate, he wouldn’t make it to retirement. On the plus side, at least this migraine did not have Drake Matthews written all over it.

Preston sat in the chair opposite Roach’s desk. He looked up from reading Rodriguez’ report of yesterday’s raid on the row house. “Do you need an aspirin?”

“It won’t do any good. I can tell this is going to be one of those long-term migraines.”

“What caused it?”

“That.” Roach opened his eyes and pointed to the report Preston held in his hands.

“But there’s nothing in it.”

“That’s the problem.” Roach slowly sat upright in his chair so as not to spike the pain. “We bring half our force down there, shoot up the neighborhood, nearly burn out the row house, and found nothing.”

“What’s the big deal?” Preston folded the front pages of the report back into place and dropped it on the chief’s desk. “The squatters may have been junkies, but they weren’t stupid. After they attacked the sewer worker, they figured we’d come after them, so they moved out before we got there.”

“Then who fired on us from inside the row house?”

“We’re assuming those were gunshots. None of our officers reported being shot at.”

“Then what made those sounds?”

“Does it matter? Other than that one junkie who jumped to her death and combusted, no one came out of the row house, and there was no one inside when we went in. Which means no one else could have been inside. Unless they just disappeared.” Preston’s voice trailed off on the last word, as if he suddenly thought of something contradictory.

Roach did not notice. “Something just doesn’t seem right about the whole thing.”

“Then the only explanation is that Rodriguez is lying.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If someone escaped from that row house, they didn’t come out the front or back doors. That leaves the tunnel in the basement.”

Roach considered the possibility, but only for moment. He shook his head. “No. Rodriguez is a good cop. If he says nothing came down that tunnel, I believe him.”

“Then quit complaining. You entered a shithouse and came out smelling like roses. No casualties. No incidents. The local news outlets are praising you for how you handled this situation. Even The Standard had nothing but good things to say about you. This turned out to be a win-win.”

As much as Roach’s pessimistic side hated to admit it, Preston was right. What could easily have been a major fuckup actually worked in their favor. It had been a long time since the local news was unanimous in its opinion of Roach and the Washington police. Unless, of course, it was to slam him for some perceived deficiency in his duties. However, despite the positive outcome, all Roach could muster was, “I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am.” Preston stood and straightened his suit and tie. “Take my advice and bask in the glory while you can. Do you need anything else?”

“Nope. Just go out and make us look good.”

Preston offered a mock salute and left. Roach watched him leave with mixed emotions. Preston could be pompous, arrogant, and self-serving. Yet he was also one of the best public relations men around. Preston could manipulate the media better than anyone he had known in his career. Roach admired and appreciated those skills.

Despite the positive results of yesterday’s raid, Roach felt this high was only temporary, and that things were going to take a turn for the worse sooner rather than later.

THE YOUNG MAN in a three-piece suit paused as he passed Jessica, who was getting onto the elevator. “Good job, Jess.”

“Thanks,” she responded, although she had no idea who had just spoken to her.

It was the third time Jessica had been complimented that morning. She assumed because of her article that ran in the morning edition. So far the comments she received were good. To be honest, she enjoyed basking in the limelight, if even for only a few moments. The opinion she was most concerned about, and the one that mattered most, belonged to Philips.

The elevator stopped on her floor. As the doors slid open, Philips stepped in, nearly colliding with Jessica as she got off. At first she did not recognize him because he smiled. Upon seeing Jessica, he beamed.

“Good morning,” Philips nearly bellowed.

“You’re in a good mood. What happened?” Jessica immediately regretted the way she phrased the question.

Instead of getting mad, Philips laughed. “Walk with me and I’ll tell you.”

Jessica stepped back into the elevator as the doors slid shut. “Where are we going?”

“I’m going see Roberts, our publisher. Seems he got a phone call this morning from Joel Preston.”

“That little toady who works for Roach?”

“That ‘little toady’ called Roberts this morning to thank him for the good coverage.”

Jessica was confused. “Isn’t that unusual?”

“Damn straight.”

The elevator stopped on the top floor. Philips stepped and out and walked down the hall. Jessica sprinted along behind, trying to keep up.

“So then why did Preston call?”

Philips smiled. “The police finally got some good press from us, and Preston is buttering up Roberts to make sure it continues.”

“Will it work?”

“Probably not. If anything, Roberts will dig up something embarrassing just to piss off Preston.” Philips smirked at the thought. “In any case, this is good news for you. You’re getting some good feedback upstairs, which can only help your career.”

Jessica beamed inside. For a moment, she allowed herself to hope that maybe, finally, her career was about to take off. Now that she had proven herself, maybe she would get something substantive for her next assignment.

“So what’s next?”

Philips reached under his business jacket and pulled out a business envelope, which he handed to Jessica. Sticking her little finger under the flap, she ripped open the top of the envelope and removed its contents. She held two pieces of thick paper two inches wide and five inches long. Turning them over, she saw that they were tickets to an exhibit at the Smithsonian titled “The Spanish Inquisition Through the Eyes of Antonio Ferrar.” She looked up at Philips, incredulous, trying to determine if this was a joke.

“You got me doing an art review?”

“Calm down,” said Philips. The two reached the door to Roberts’ suite and stopped. He turned to face Jessica, lowering his voice. “This isn’t just any art exhibit. Roberts’ wife played a huge part in arranging this. It means a lot to him. And he asked that you cover it for the newspaper. You do this for him and you’re pretty much made here.”

All Jessica could think of to say was, “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Roberts. This is another good opportunity for you. Make use of it.” Philips patted her on the shoulder. “We’ll talk later.”

As Philips entered the publisher’s suite, Jessica headed back to her desk. Inside, she soared. Not only had she received kudos from both Philips and the paper’s publisher, she also had been given a second golden opportunity. Not only to cover the exhibit and really impress Roberts, but also, thanks to the second ticket, she had a chance to make a peace offering to Drake, and hopefully get a second date.

DRAKE WATCHED THE sliding glass doors leading out to the pick-up zone at Reagan National Airport, wondering what took Reese so long. He had tried to arrange it so Reese would be ready when he showed up. Despite confirming the arrival time with the airport and timing it so he would pull up to the pick-up zone twenty minutes later, Reese was a no-show. A State Trooper had moved him along, forcing Drake to circle the airport twice. On the third pass, the Statie was not there, so Drake pulled the midnight-black SUV into a space at the far end of the pick-up zone and shifted into PARK.

Five minutes later, Reese stepped out of the terminal, engaged in an epic struggle with his luggage. An oversized carry-on draped precariously over his right shoulder tilted him off balance. His rolling suitcase seemed to have the same problem and leaned to one side. As he pulled it, the suitcase tipped over, dragging Reese to a halt. When he turned to right it, the carry-on slipped off of his shoulder and fell to the pavement. Reese struggled to put everything back in order.

Drake shifted into DRIVE and cruised down the pick-up zone. As he approached Reese, he beeped the horn. Reese looked up and waved, causing the carry-on to slip off of his shoulder again. Reese hunched over to catch it, bumping and knocking over his suitcase. Shifting into PARK, Drake jumped out.

“Need help with those?” Drake asked good-naturedly.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Reese held out his hand. Drake gave it a firm, friendly shake, and then picked up the suitcase. Its weight nearly pulled his arm out of its socket. “What’s in here?”

“Clothes. Toiletries. A bunch of books.”

Drake hauled it to the rear of the SUV, lifted the hatchback, and hefted the suitcase inside. Reese placed his carry-on beside it. The two men crawled into the front seats, and a minute later were on their way out of the airport.

“Thanks for picking me up,” said Reese.

“No problem.” Drake gunned the SUV, merging out of the airport exit and onto the George Washington Parkway. “Where are you staying?”

“The Willard Hotel, right near the White House.”

“Sweet. I didn’t think college professors made that much money.”

Reese laughed. “We don’t. This is a business trip, so all expenses are being paid by Salem State.”

“What’s so special down here in Washington that you couldn’t tell me about over the phone?”

Reese shifted in his seat to face Drake. “Tomorrow the Smithsonian opens a new exhibit. ‘The Spanish Inquisition Through the Eyes of Antonio Ferrar.’”

“Was he a medieval vampire hunter?”

“No. He was an inquisitor with the Spanish Inquisition known as the Butcher of Saragossa. He was a particularly cruel but effective inquisitor, fanatical in his duty to purge Christian Europe of all heresies.”

“So how does he fit in with the undead?”

“I’m getting to that.” Reese began talking more rapidly to match his growing excitement with the subject. “According to vampire lore, Ferrar was the last person to be in possession of the Vampyrnomicon back in the 1480s. After that, no one ever saw the book again.”

“The Vampyrnomicon? That’s the Book of the Undead, right?”

“The same.”

“I thought the Vampyrnomicon was just a legend?” Drake veered off the left-hand exit ramp that would place him on the Arlington Memorial Bridge.

“I always assumed it to be a legend since no one has seen it for more than five hundred years. But now I have a chance to look at Ferrar’s personal papers and see if there’s anything to it.”

“Hasn’t anyone looked at this Ferrar’s personal papers before?”

“That’s the thing.” Reese became so excited Drake thought he might hyperventilate. “Because of the controversy surrounding Ferrar’s methods of forced conversion, the Spanish Government has kept his papers locked up since his death. This is the first time anyone is being allowed to view them. Only a handful of academics are being granted access to the papers, and I’m lucky enough to be one of them.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“I finagled it due to my academic credentials as a medieval scholar.” A large grin appeared within his neatly-trimmed beard. “Of course, I never mentioned my interest in vampires.”

“You’re starting to think like me.”

“I could use a little more excitement in my life.” Reese looked out over the Potomac as they crossed the river into Washington. “So, what’s been happening with you?”

The two men spent the rest of the trip chatting amicably like old friends. Which, Drake admitted, they were. True, they had not spoken in months. None of that mattered. When Drake had first gone to Reese to tap his expertise on the supernatural, Reese immediately recognized Drake as a true believer in the undead, albeit a reluctant one at first. That mutual acceptance created a unique bond between them. The hunter and his mentor. Thank God for that mentoring. Reese had provided Drake with the background and knowledge he needed not only to bring down the Night Stalker, but also to stay alive these past few months. Without Reese’s guidance, he most likely would be one of the undead by now.

Drake pulled the SUV up in front of the Willard Hotel and helped Reese unload his luggage from the back. Reese held out his hand. “Thanks again for picking me up.”

Drake took the hand and gave it a firm pump. “My pleasure.”

“If you can a spare a night from hunting, I’ll take you to dinner. My treat.”

“I think I can handle that. It’s been quiet lately.”

“That’s good to hear.” Reese slung his carry-on over his shoulder.

“Before you go, there’s one thing that still bugs me. What’s so important about this Vampyrnomicon?”

Reese looked around to make certain no one could hear. “If the legends are true, it’s far more than just a book. The Vampyrnomicon contains all the knowledge there is about vampires. Their origins. Their history.”

“You mean it’s like their Bible?”

“In an unholy sense, yes. But it’s much more than that. According to legend, the Vampyrnomicon spells out in detail how the vampires can obtain immortality and dominate the world.”

“Jesus.” Drake began to comprehend the enormity of the war he had joined. “I can see why you want to keep it out of their hands.”

“For that reason, yes. Hunters for centuries have been searching for the Vampyrnomicon for a far more important reason.”

“Why’s that?”

Reese raised an eyebrow. “According to the legend, the Vampyrnomicon also describes the way to destroy the vampires permanently.”

THIS IS JUST fucking great, John Simmons sighed. First, he got called in on his night off to cover for that lazy shit Antonio who had called in sick again. Then he had to contend with the dregs of humanity that flowed past his station like turds through a sewer pipe. It began with the family from Guatemala who showed up at his station with expired passports and no paperwork. Then that Russian dick wipe who berated him for not processing him through Immigration fast enough. Hell, the little Commie fuck even had the audacity to call him a capitalist. And finally, his last customer, that asshole Arab in his white dress and sandals who slipped him a hundred dollar bill inside his passport, hoping to bribe his way into the country since he did not have a visa. Simmons just wished he could be there when his pals did a cavity search on the bastard.

Another glorious day in the life of an Immigration officer. He had been doing this job for close to five years at Dulles International Airport, five years that mixed equal parts frustration and boredom as he tried to stop undesirables from sneaking into the country. Yeah. Right. Like trying to stop a tidal wave with a sponge. But what the fuck. Only eighteen years to retirement. With luck, he would be killed in a terrorist attack at the airport long before that.

Raising a hand and motioning with his fingers to advance, Simmons called out, “Next.”

Simmons looked up as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen approached his station. She was Asian, probably Chinese, and in her early thirties. Silky, raven black hair flowed half-way down her back. She wore a leather mini-skirt that accentuated her tight, round ass, stiletto knee-high boots that high-lighted her legs, a stylish leather jacket, and a sheer white blouse that did little to conceal her breasts. Yet her face attracted Simmons’ attention, for it did not have a single blemish or flaw, almost as if it had been crafted by an artist. And her eyes. He had never seen a pair so stunning. The irises were ruby colored.

She stood before his station and smiled with those inviting lips, a smile both sensual and disarming. “Good afternoon.”

“Afternoon, ma’am. Passport, please.”

“Certainly,” she purred. The woman slid a red-colored passport across the counter with a hand every bit as perfect as the rest of her body. For a moment, Simmons wondered what it would be like to have those hands caress his body.

He flipped open the passport. The People’s Republic of China had issued it for a permanent resident of Hong Kong. There seemed to be nothing unusual about it. Several entry and exit stamps for Thailand and the Philippines. Plus a multiple-entry visa for the United States valid for one year. She must be, or at least knew someone who was, highly influential.

“Is this your first trip to the United States, ma’am?”

“Yes, it is. I’m looking forward to it more than you can imagine.” Her voice was mesmerizing.

“Business or pleasure?”

“Mostly business.”

“I hope you’re successful.”

“Me too.”

Simmons stamped her passport and slid it back across the counter. “Welcome to the United States, Miss…”

The woman took the passport and slid it into her jacket. “Chiang Shih.”

With that one bureaucratic move, the ultimate evil had been allowed into the country.

7

DRAKE STEPPED INTO his office, wishing he would find a vampire lurking in the corner so he could pummel the shit out of it and work off some of his frustration. He had a lot of frustration to work off. It took him an hour to drive the several blocks from the Willard Hotel to his office, a trip that normally would have taken less than ten minutes, thanks to the typical Washington gridlock. He hated the idiots that drove in this city and the traffic they generated more than he hated vampires. At least he could stake the vampires.

Stepping over to a bookcase that also served as a bar, Drake opened the bottle of Baker’s Bourbon and poured himself a shot. Taking the drink to his desk, he dropped into his leather business chair, leaned back, and propped his feet on the surface. The first sip of bourbon burned going down. A good type of burn, though. The kind you only get with the good stuff. A cigar would make this perfect. He had some in his drawer, but never used them. Not for lack of trying, though. He lit one up shortly after they had moved into the office. That lasted all of two minutes before Alison complained about the stink and made him put it out.

But Alison had gone home early.

Swinging his legs off the desk, Drake pulled open the drawer and removed a Macanudo from the humidor, as well as a cutter and a book of matches. He snipped off the end of the cigar, lit it, and propped his feet back up on the desk. The first puff tasted good, especially when washed down with bourbon.

“Alison will have a fit if she finds out you’re smoking in the office.”

Drake looked over to see Jim standing in the doorway. “She won’t find out if no one tells her.”

“Yeah. She’ll never smell the smoke.”

Shit. He hadn’t thought about that. Well, too late now. Drake took another long puff and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “What are you still doing here?”

“Developing new weapons.”

“You know, you don’t have to spend all your time in that workshop.”

“I don’t mind. I like my job.” Jim became a little sullen. “Besides, it’s not like I have a social life.”

Drake raised his cigar. “Want to join me?”

“For a cigar, no. But I’ll take a shot of bourbon.”

“Help yourself.”

Jim stepped over to the bookshelf, poured a tumbler for himself, and sat down on the sofa underneath the painting of Nosferatu. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” Drake held up his glass in a toast. “Death to all vampires.”

“Here, here.” Jim took a quick swig of bourbon and coughed. It took him several seconds to regain his breath. “How do you drink this stuff?”

“The cigars deaden the taste buds.”

Jim looked at the tumbler, shrugged, and took another drink. This time he did not cough. “This stuff will kill you.”

“Not if the cigars get me first.” Drake puffed on the Macanudo. An eddy of smoke coiled upwards, spreading out across the ceiling. “So, what are you working on?”

“Since the holy water-laced mace worked so well, I decided to kick up the technology a notch and incorporate holy water into a tear gas dispenser.”

“How will you do that?”

“I’m making home-made tear gas with glycerin and sodium bisulfate. I heat the two until they turn into a gas, then mix the gas with the holy water and bottle it. If it works, it should incapacitate several vampires at once.”

“If it works?”

“It’s not as easy as I thought.” Jim took another sip of bourbon. “I’m having trouble getting the right mixture of glycerin and sodium bisulfate. Besides, it’s still tear gas. It may incapacitate vampires, but it’ll do a number on us, too, if we’re in the area.”

“A weapon so powerful it’ll bring tears to your eyes.”

Jim either did not get the joke, or did not find it humorous. Probably the latter.

Drake took another swig of bourbon. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve done a great job between the weapons you’ve made for us and the way you’ve jumped into the fight.”

“I’m only trying to do my part.”

“You have. If it wasn’t for Heaven’s Fire, we never would have beaten them at Wolf Trap. And you were the one who saved that sewer worker the other day.”

Jim became self-conscious. “Thanks.”

“Don’t be so modest. Pretty soon—”

The cell phone in Drake’s jacket pocket began to ring. Drake pulled it out and flipped it open. “Hello.”

“Hi, hon. It’s me.” Jessica sounded bubbly but cautious, as if she expected him to be angry.

“What’s up?”

“Just calling to say hi.” Then a little softer, “And to see if you saw my piece in The Standard this morning.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“It was good. But then I always thought you wrote well.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” Drake took another puff on his cigar.

“Because I never mentioned you in the article.”

Drake scrunched his brow in confusion, even though he knew Jessica would not see the gesture. “I didn’t expect you to.”

Jessica’s sense of relief was audible over the phone. “I’m glad. I even have a peace offering.”

“Really?” Drake asked suggestively.

“Not that.” Jessica sighed. “I have a pair of tickets to that new exhibit at the Smithsonian.”

“The one on Antonio Ferrar?”

“How’d you know about that?”

“Reese told me. That’s why he’s in town.”

“Are you interested?”

“Sure. When?”

“Our admission time is tomorrow morning at ten. Can you make it?”

“Where do you want to meet?”

Jessica thought for a moment. “Let’s meet out in front of the Smithsonian at a quarter to ten.”

“Sounds good. See you then.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Bye, hon.”

Drake pressed the END CALL button and placed the cell phone on his desk. He tried to take another puff on his cigar, but it had gone out. Drake pulled out the matches, lit one, held it to the tip of the cigar, and puffed on it until the tip glowed orange-white and smoke wafted from the end.

“You should be mad at her,” said Jim.

“Jessica?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you liked Jessica?”

“I do. But she dissed us with that article she wrote.”

Drake blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Jessica couldn’t have written about vampires. No one would have believed her.”

“I don’t fault her for what she wrote. I fault her for writing it in the first place.”

“Now you lost me.”

“Jessica claims she wants to be one of us, and has even gone on a hunt with us. But when she writes for The Standard, she treats us as if we don’t exist. That’s fine since she’s a reporter. But she can’t have it both ways.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. Jess told me this morning that she doesn’t want to go on any more hunts.”

“So does this mean we have to watch what we say around her again?”

“No. Jess knows what’s going on. Besides, even if she writes about it, who’s going to believe her?” Drake took another drink of bourbon. “But you’re right. She is trying to have it both ways.”

“Of course I’m right.” Jim finished off the last of the bourbon, then stood and crossed over to the bookshelf where he put down the empty glass. “I’ll tell you something else. You’re a good boss. You know how to fight the undead and bring us back alive. You know how to keep us out of trouble with the law. And you know how to keep this set-up running smoothly. But you have a good thing going for you right here, and you don’t realize it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Forget I said anything.” Looking at his watch, Jim headed for the door. “I’m outta here. See you in the morning.”

“Good night.”

Drake watched him leave. He knew Jim referred to Alison. And he agreed with him. Alison was a remarkable woman in every way. Hell, he had been attracted to her almost since the first day they met. What man in his right mind wouldn’t be? He hoped the feelings were mutual, but he never would follow up on it. As much as he desired Alison, he relied on her even more, to fight the undead, keep them alive, and save humanity. If they ever wiped out the nest, maybe then he would work up enough courage to ask her out.

Until then, Alison and he would have to remain just hunters.

PRESTON LOOKED AT his watch. A quarter past seven. Thank God the day was over. It had been a particularly aggravating one, starting with a dozen nagging annoyances that multiplied as each hour passed. Luckily, most of this shit could wait until tomorrow. He had not been able to go home early in a long time, if you call leaving the office after a twelve-hour day early. Logging off his computer, Preston put away the papers on his desk as the computer shut down. He had cleaned off everything and slipped on his suit jacket when a knock sounded at the door. Just his fucking luck.

“Come in,” called Preston with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

The door opened and one of the rookie officers stuck his head inside. Preston recalled seeing his face around the building, but could not remember his name. Not that it mattered. This rookie would not last long. The kid stood timidly in the doorway, looking like a chastised honor student sent to the principal’s office. If the rookie did not grow a pair quickly, this city would chew him up in no time.

“Mr. Preston?”

“What do you want?”

If possible, the rookie grew even more timid. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“I was heading out. Can it wait?”

“Well, maybe.” The rookie hemmed and hawed. “But I kinda hoped…. I really wanted to get something off my chest.”

Preston did not attempt to conceal his displeasure. He had gone through this shit too many times before. A good cop fucks up and gets a freebie from a hooker not to arrest her, or shakes down a drug dealer for some extra cash, then comes to him with pangs of conscience as if he were a fucking priest. Unfortunately, holding their hands was part of the job, so he could not turn the kid away.

“Come inside and have a seat, Officer…. Sorry, what’s your name?”

“Pantolini, sir. Joe Pantolini.” He stepped into the office and slid into a chair in front of Preston’s desk.

Preston dropped into his chair and leaned back, hands resting on his stomach, his fingers interlocked. “All right, Joe. What’s bugging you?”

“Well, sir…. Pantolini hesitated. “I’m concerned that a false action report was filed.”

“You filed an inaccurate report?”

“Not me, sir. Rodriguez did. On yesterday’s raid on the row house.”

Now Preston remembered the rookie’s name. He had accompanied Rodriguez and Bannon to guard the tunnel leading from the row house into the sewer. Now he implied that Rodriguez had lied about the events. Disdain suddenly turned into interest. Preston sat up in his chair and pulled it closer to the desk.

“Go on.”

“It’s just that, well, Rodriguez’ report wasn’t quite accurate.”

“You mean Rodriguez lied?”

“No, sir. He just didn’t mention everything that happened.”

“Then you tell me what happened.”

Pantolini hesitated again, uncertain as to whether he should continue. Too late, though, because he already had committed himself. The rookie sighed and began his confession.

“Rodriguez reported that no one came out of the old house during the raid. That’s not true. Three people got out during the shootout just before you raided the place.”

“Junkies or vagrants?”

“Neither. They looked… Well, they looked normal.”

“Why wouldn’t Rodriguez report that?”

“It sounded like he knew them. He called one of them Jake, or something like that.”

“Do you mean Drake?”

“Yes,” Pantolini said excitedly. “How’d you know?”

Preston ignored the rookie’s question. “Let me guess. The two people with him were an attractive brunette, probably dressed in leather, and a blonde, geeky-looking kid in his early twenties. Right?”

“Yeah. You know them?”

“Not personally.” Preston leaned back again in his chair, feigning indifference. “Most of the cops on the force know them. You met Drake Matthews, Alison Monroe, and Jim Delmarco. They’re local bounty hunters. Pains in the ass. A few scrapes with the law. Rodriguez has arrested them several times himself.”

“So I didn’t get Rodriguez in trouble by telling you this?” Pantolini sounded relieved.

“Not at all,” Preston lied. “Rodriguez let them go because he knew they weren’t the ones we were looking for. He mentioned it to me earlier. I just forgot about it until you brought it up.”

“That’s a relief.” Pantolini physically relaxed, but only for a moment. “I assume Rodriguez also told you about that thing that turned to dust?”

Oh, this gets better every fucking minute. Remembering the footage from the morgue security camera, Preston decided to bluff. “He mentioned it briefly, but didn’t go into details. Who staked it?”

“Staked it? No, the kid set it on fire with some sort of Molotov cocktail as it tried to escape. It came out of that tunnel on fire, hit the ground, and disintegrated. Damnedest thing I ever saw.”

Preston felt the same way when he watched the footage of those things fall apart after getting staked in the morgue.

“What was that thing, sir?”

“I don’t know,” Preston lied again. “We’ve had a couple of prior instances of junkies bursting into flames. Lab seems to think the druggies are using some sort of new, highly-combustible chemical to cut their meth. It gets on their clothes, they get near an open flame, and poof. Kentucky Fried Junkie.”

Pantolini chuckled uncomfortably. “I guess that sounds right. But how do they burn up that quickly?”

“We don’t know.” Preston leaned toward Pantolini to emphasize the point. “Don’t discuss this with anyone. What I told you is confidential.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there anything else?”

Pantolini shook his head. “No.”

“Good.”

Standing up to leave, Pantolini headed for the door. Preston called to him.

“Joe, you did the right thing by coming to me. Good work.”

Preston watched the door close behind the rookie, contemplating what he had just been told. He had learned three important things in the past five minutes that he could use to his advantage. First, the old row house had not been as empty as they previously had thought. It had housed at least two vampires, and was more than likely where the others had been located. With luck, yesterday’s raid had taken care of the problem once and for all. A gut feeling, however, told him not to get his hopes up.

Second, Drake Matthews was mixed up in this mess like in so many others. In this instance, Preston was glad for Drake’s meddling. He assumed the police found nothing in the row house because Drake already had killed whatever had been inside, which suited Preston just fine. Let Drake exterminate these things and take the heat for it, just so long as the force remained clean. Of course, that entailed Preston finding a way to keep the police off of Drake’s back, at least until all the undead were wiped out and he no longer needed him.

Third, he could no longer trust Rodriguez, which was a shame because he was a good cop. Or more accurately, had been a good cop. Preston would not confront Rodriguez. Instead, he would keep a close watch on him and make sure he maneuvered Rodriguez into a position to be the scapegoat in case someone had to take it up the ass on this issue.

Preston stood up, shut off the lights, and exited his office. It turned out not to be a bad day after all.

“WE’RE READY,” SAID Walker.

Chiang Shih stood by the end of the bed, straightening the fit of her black, ankle-length dress. She adjusted the strap around her neck until it settled comfortably. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight.”

“Excellent.” Moving over to the closet, Chiang Shih slipped into a pair of black heels, and pulled back the dress along the hip-length slit to admire them. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful, as always.” Walker stepped away from the door. He slid his hands across her waist and over her ass, pulling her into him.

“Not now.” Chiang Shih kissed him.

“Why not?” He ground himself into her pelvis.

“Because we have work to do.” Chiang Shih cupped her hands over Walker’s balls and squeezed gently. “Business before pleasure.”

Walker bit her upper lip and snarled, then stepped to one side. Chiang Shih strode by him, out of the bedroom, and into the living area where the others waited. Walker fell in line behind her.

Chiang Shih moved with a confidence born from millennia of power. Of fortitude. Of determination. When she entered the living room, the other masters stood in deference. Chiang Shih did not pause. She stepped over to Treja and Melinda, who stood by each other in front of the sofa. Taking one of their hands in each of hers, Chiang Shih clutched them and squeezed. She turned around to face Toni, who stood by the opposite sofa. Isolated from the others, and afraid. Toni kept her eyes focused on the floor, expecting to experience Chiang Shih’s wrath. She did not notice when Walker quietly took up position behind her. Chiang Shih stood silent for several seconds, watching Toni for any indication of defiance or self-righteous anger, which would have been a death sentence. Instead, Chiang Shih saw only contrition. She strolled across the space to Toni, taking deliberate steps while she gauged Toni’s reaction. Toni stood silent, head lowered, eyes averted, body limp. Complete subservience.

This was what Chiang Shih wanted.

As Chiang Shih approached, Toni began to drop to her knees. Chiang Shih placed her hands on Toni’s elbows and raised the master to her feet. Toni still averted her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered.

“All is forgiven.” Chiang Shih spoke in a voice as soft as fur.

“But I failed you.”

“Ion failed me. Your mistake was in trusting Ion too much.”

Toni still averted her gaze. Chiang Shih cupped her chin and tried to raise her head, but met resistance.

“Look at me,” said Chiang Shih gently.

Toni lifted her head and locked eyes with Chiang Shih. They displayed fear and self-loathing. Chiang Shih slid her arms around Toni and drew her close. For several seconds, the embrace was one-sided. Then, tentatively, Toni raised her arms and hugged back. Chiang Shih could feel the anxiety drain away from her minion.

Only after she broke the embrace did Chiang Shih notice the scarred and deformed lips. “Who did this to you?”

“The huntress.”

Chiang Shih saw through the top of Toni’s blouse the massive scarring on her chest. Chiang Shih unbuttoned the top two buttons and pulled the clothing aside. Eighteen pocks were massed together in a tight cluster, with the skin around each twisted and discolored, and having the texture of leather. Toni took the two plackets of the blouse from Chiang Shih and closed them, her hands clutching the material against her chest.

“What happened?”

“The hunter shot me with bullets dipped in holy water.”

Chiang Shih felt a surge of anger but repressed it. She took a deep breath. “You’ll have your vengeance on the hunters. But in time. We have something more important to take care of first.”

“Which is?” asked Treja.

Chiang Shih crossed the living room to a lounge chair located between the two sofas and motioned for the others to sit. “We must rebuild the Washington covens.”

Treja’s eyes narrowed. “Covens?”

“Four, to be exact.”

Treja and Melinda looked at each other quizzically. Toni stared down at the floor, realizing that the coven needed to be rebuilt because of her failure. Only Walker showed no emotion.

Treja noticed the indifference. “You knew about this?”

“Of course.”

“Then I hope you have a plan on how to build four covens without them being detected.”

“We do.” The tone of Chiang Shih’s voice revealed her displeasure at his insolence. “Each of you will be responsible for one of the covens. You’ll establish them in isolated locations where it’ll be difficult for the humans to find them. The difference is, this time the covens will not be allowed to hunt.”

“Then how will they feed?” asked Melinda.

“Each of you will be responsible for feeding your own coven. You’ll hunt down the humans yourselves and bring them to the covens. And you’ll hunt only amongst the dregs of humanity. Vagrants. Hookers. Junkies. Only those humans no one cares about and who no one will miss. Under no circumstances are you to attract attention to yourselves or to your covens.”

“We all know what happens when a coven attracts attention to itself.” Melinda cast an accusatory glance in Toni’s direction.

Toni bristled, but remained silent.

“That’s enough,” Chiang Shih chastised the young master. “The original coven was destroyed partly because of Ion’s incompetence, and partly because Drake Matthews is a far better hunter than most of those we’ve encountered in the past. Only Father Cushing was better.”

At the mention of Cushing’s name, Walker bared his fangs and snarled.

Chiang Shih nodded her agreement. “We underestimated the hunters once. We won’t let that happen again. Which is why the covens will remain hidden and you will bring them their food. If only a handful of masters are scavenging for humans, it’ll make it difficult for the hunters to track us. Even so, that’s why I want four covens. The hunters may discover and destroy one coven, but never all four.”

“How big will the covens be?” asked Treja.

“Thirty to forty vampires,” said Chiang Shih. “Each.”

Treja muttered the word fuck under his breath. Melinda looked over at Walker to gauge his reaction. Even Toni looked up, taken aback by the comment.

“You can’t be serious about the numbers?” asked Treja.

“I agree,” added Melinda. “There’s no way we can create four covens with so many vampires and keep them fed without drawing attention to ourselves.”

Treja jumped in. “Do you realize how many humans we’d have to kill every night to keep those covens fed?”

“Enough,” ordered Walker.

Chiang Shih rose and stepped over to Treja and Melinda. She spoke in a tone firm but not angry. “You just need to provide enough food to keep the covens alive, not in combat readiness. One human every few days. Enough for sustenance and to turn the human into one of us. When the time is right, they can feed all they want.”

“And when will the time be right?” Melinda did not hide the snideness in her tone.

“Certain conditions have to be met. Once they are, we’re going to turn the covens lose on Washington, eliminate the humans, and rule this city as our own.”

Chiang Shih’s eyes switched from Treja to Melinda, gauging their reactions. She saw confusion, uncertainty, and disbelief. Not that it mattered. As long as they obeyed, Chiang Shih did not care what they thought of her plan. But one master had not yet offered an opinion.

Chiang Shih turned to Toni. “You’ve barely spoken.”

“Sorry.” Toni averted her eyes again.

“Don’t be. I want your opinion.”

Toni said nothing and kept her head lowered. After several seconds, Chiang Shih cupped Toni’s chin and raised her head. “Speak your mind.”

Toni sighed, resigned that she had to tell the truth, but knowing her opinion would be unpopular. “We tried this once before. In the Ukraine. And we failed miserably. The Russians annihilated all of our covens. Over two hundred vampires and five masters were killed. Ion and I barely escaped. Why would you want to try again? And why here in Washington, where we face one of our most dangerous enemies?”

“Because this time we have something that guarantees victory. We have the Vampyrnomicon.”

“The Vampyrnomicon is a legend,” spat Melinda.

“It’s far from a legend,” corrected Walker, an angry edge to his tone.

“You’ve seen it?”

“We once owned it.” Chiang Shih stared down the adolescent, who cowered. “Various masters were caretakers of the book for centuries. The last owner was Emilio Carius, a master from Saragossa who was arrested as part of the Inquisition in the late 15 Century. Neither Carius or the Vampyrnomicon were ever seen again.”

“So what changed?” asked Treja.

“Antonio Ferrar interrogated Emilio Carius.”

Toni raised an eyebrow. “The same Antonio Ferrar whose personal belongings are on display at the Smithsonian?”

“The same.” Chiang Shih nodded. “And with Ferrar’s personal belongings here in Washington, that means the Vampyrnomicon is here also.”

“If it still exists,” Melinda muttered under her breath.

Chiang Shih shot her a withering look. She struggled to keep her voice calm, despite her anger. “The Vampyrnomicon is among Ferrar’s personal affects. I can sense it. We’ll find it. And once we do, we’ll obtain a power that has been deprived to us for millennia, a power that will give us dominion over humans. Once we have that power, we’ll take this city from the humans. No longer will we live in sewers and abandoned buildings, but in the humans’ homes. Soon the humans won’t be hunting us, but serving us, as our slaves and as our food.”

Chiang Shih strode back to her chair and stood behind it. “This is why I’ve brought you all to Washington. You are my most powerful and smartest masters. I’ve relied on you in the past, and I’m relying on you now more than ever. You build the covens. I’ll find the Vampyrnomicon. Soon we’ll rule this city and show the humans who the real masters are. If there is nothing else, you’re all dismissed.”

Toni, Treja, and Melinda all stood to leave. Toni removed a scarf from her pocket, folded it into a triangle, and placed it over her face to hide the scarring, tying the loose ends into a knot behind her head. Melinda watched, disgusted, and turned away. As they headed for the door, Chiang Shih said, “Toni, stay behind a moment.”

Toni obeyed. Chiang Shih walked over and embraced Toni, holding her close. It was a familiar feeling, one they had shared on many an occasion as lovers. This time, the gesture was one of solidarity.

“I wanted you to know that I don’t hold you responsible for Ion’s actions.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me.” Chiang Shih broke the embrace, but kept her hands on Toni’s shoulder. “You were as much a victim of Ion’s arrogance as the rest of the coven. We’ve worked well together in the past, but the next few months will be our greatest achievement. You and I, and the others, will create the first city populated by the undead. Then, once it’s ours, we’ll take revenge on the hunters who did this to you.”

“I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t.”

Chiang Shih reached up for the scarf. Toni tried to stop her, but Chiang Shih clasped Toni’s hands and pushed them down by her side. She pulled Toni’s scarf down over her face, leaned forward, and kissed Toni on the deformed lips. Toni tried to back away, embarrassed by her disfigurement. After a few seconds, she kissed back, her tongue exploring Chiang Shih’s mouth. Finishing the kiss, Chiang Shih pulled the scarf back over Toni’s mouth.

“Go now. We’ll talk later.”

After Toni left the apartment, Chiang Shih turned back to the living room. Walker stood where he had throughout the meeting, his arms folded across his chest. A look of dissatisfaction sharpened his already stern features.

“You disapprove of how I’m handling this, don’t you?”

“It’s none of my business.”

“You’re my right hand man, so it is your business.” Chiang Shih stepped up to Walker. She placed a hand on his chest, caressing her fingers along his pectorals and up to his shoulder. “Jealous?”

“No.” The quickness of his response indicated she had touched a nerve.

“Then what is it?”

“You’re far too lenient with Antoinette.”

“Do you think I should hold her responsible for Ion’s actions?”

“You should hold her responsible for not keeping Ion in check.”

“Not all men like a dominant woman.” Chiang Shih gave Walker a quiet, seductive snarl.

“I’m serious. Antoinette used to be one of your best masters. Not anymore. She allowed herself to become as sloppy and decadent as Ion. She survived the French Revolution and the Ukraine without a scratch. Now she’s so pathetic a pair of humans were able to disfigure her.” Walker moved back a step, breaking contact with Chiang Shih. “Antoinette is a liability. I’m afraid she’ll ruin what we’re trying to accomplish.”

“Don’t worry.” The coquettish attitude vanished. “I realize Toni failed. And she paid a heavy price for it. Because of that, she won’t allow herself to fail again.”

Walker sighed, resigned he would not win this argument. “I still don’t understand why you’re so lenient with her.”

Chiang Shih walked over to the window and stared out over the city. She did not appreciate the view, however. Instead, she concentrated on a man she had known more than fifteen hundred years ago. A powerful, mesmerizing man who nearly had ruined her life.

“Let’s just say I can empathize with some of the bad decisions Toni has made.”

Pannonia, the Carpathian Basin, east of the Danube River. 453 A.D.

CHIANG SHIH STROLLED through the campsite surrounding the wooden palace, trying to avoid contact with the humans. Thankfully, their reverie kept everyone preoccupied, so no one noticed or cared about her. She moved from tent to tent, staying in the shadows. The only living things that acknowledged her presence were the horses in the corral as she passed. They neighed at her approach and trotted away to the other side of the enclosure.

She stopped near the palace entrance to survey the area. Guests entered and left, laughing and talking boisterously, and partaking of the wedding feast. Buoyed by recent victories in Italy, the Huns now stood to conquer the biggest prize of all—Constantinople. Soon they would lay siege to the largest city in Christendom and, once the city fell, plunder more wealth than any of them ever thought imaginable. But first, they celebrated their chief and warlord, for tonight Attila would take a new bride to his bed.

His death bed.

Chiang Shih closed her eyes, trying to force from her mind what she had to do. It pained her knowing she would murder Attila. She loved him. Not only because he was the only human who could satisfy her in bed. She also admired his physical strength. His courage. His determination. Maybe if she had sired him as a master two years ago, when they first became lovers, he could have joined Chiang Shih as her mate, and together they could have fulfilled her plans of domination. Instead, she reveled in the novelty of having a human plaything, and delayed Attila’s repeated requests to join her in immortality. Now, having grown weak and cautious, Attila had become a liability that needed to be dealt with.

She had joined up with the Hsiung-nu, as the Chinese called the Huns, almost three centuries ago when the Great Wall checked their nomadic surge eastward. It had been a fortuitous defeat for Chiang Shih. Having been unable to create a kingdom of the undead within the Han Empire, she opted to become a camp follower and joined the Huns as they retreated to the west. For hundreds of years she preyed upon the small villages scattered across the steppes of Central Eurasia and Russia, draining countless thousands of peasants of their blood, often leaving a few behind as vampires to terrorize the survivors. The swath of destruction created by the Huns as they pillaged across the land provided ample cover for her feedings. She might have gone unnoticed indefinitely had it not been for her own indiscretions. Shortly after the Huns’ ambitious invasion of Europe, the barbarians were defeated on the Catalonian Plain near Orleans in 451, followed by a strategic retreat to rest and lick their wounds. Without the sacking of villages to feed her thirst for blood, Chiang Shih became careless and unwisely used the outbreak of pestilence in the camp to feed off of the Huns themselves. It did not take long for her to be discovered, captured, and brought before Attila to face a certain death.

Fortunately, Chiang Shih found it easy to manipulate Attila. She convinced the warlord of her own immortality, and promised him the same if he spared her life. Enticed by the ultimate power, not only did Attila spare her life, but he took her for his newest bride. The next year, they returned to Italy as joint commanders and showed Europe and the world, in an orgy of violence, that the Huns were still a power to be reckoned with. Aquileia in northeast Italy fell after a three-month siege to the Huns, who then proceeded to slaughter every single inhabitant of the city. The same fate befell Altinum and Patavium. Cowered into submission, Vincenza, Verona, Brecia, Bergano, and Milan surrendered before the horde. These cities were still plundered, although Attila spared them from whole-scale destruction. Not even Chiang Shih could count how many of the undead wandered the Italian countryside in the wake of these conquests. Most satisfying of all, Rome itself was vulnerable for sacking.

Then her plans began to crumble. With greatness and immortality within his grasp, Attila succumbed to his human weaknesses. Four decades earlier, the Visigoth king Alaric died mysteriously after surrounding and preparing to sack Rome, a superstition that gnawed away at the warlord. Pope Leo, who pimped Christianity from the Vatican brothel in Rome, came to Attila and persuaded him not to lay siege to the city. Fearing his own mortality, Attila withdrew from Italy. He compounded his mistake by returning his horde to the palace at Pannonia to prepare for an attack against Constantinople, the most powerful city in the Christian realm. It was a foolhardy move that threatened not only to rain destruction down upon the Huns, but also expose Chiang Shih and her legions of the undead to a crusading Christian army. With that decision, the man who once had been her lover and her potential partner in world domination became her greatest liability.

As such, Attila needed to be eliminated.

Chiang Shih plotted out Attila’s death on the journey home. She had told the warlord that the time was right for him to join her in immortality so he could fulfill his destiny. The ceremony would take place at his palace in Pannonia just before the siege of Constantinople. He would need to take a virgin as his bride to complete the ceremony. She convinced Attila to wed the young Ildica, a virgin from a Germanic tribe allied to the Huns, ostensibly to seal a political alliance. In reality, Chiang Shih wanted a young girl who had been removed from her tribe and placed in unfamiliar surroundings, which would make her far more compliant.

As Chiang Shih stood outside the wooden palace, those inside rejoiced over Attila’s marriage to Ildica. Soon they would all be in mourning.

She discretely moved closer to the entrance. When a small group of revelers staggered out, she used them as cover to slip into the palace unnoticed and made her way to the banquet room, where she disappeared into the shadows. A score of Huns sat on wooden stools along the walls. A large bed covered in ornate drapes made of fine linen occupied the center of the hall. Attila sat on a couch in front of the bed. At first sight, he did not seem impressive. A man short in height but with a broad chest, he had small eyes, a flat nose, and a graying beard and hair. Yet there was no mistaking the confidence and strength that radiated from him, making him the most feared warlord in the land. Ildica sat beside him in her wedding dress, her eyes focused on the ground, a perfect example of meekness.

Chiang Shih watched as the wedding banquet played itself out. The guests had just finished the traditional welcome in which Attila would have each guest stand, one by one, in order of importance and would drink a single toast to him. With everyone in the hall having been so honored, and with excessive amounts of wine having been drunk, the guests dined on their wedding feast of meat and bread brought in on silver platters looted from Italy and placed on tables in the middle of the hall. Then, amidst more toasts, a pair of barbarians entered the hall to sing songs of praise to Attila’s valor and his victories, followed by a Moor who told fantastic stories to entertain the guests. As the festivities wound down, Attila noticed Chiang Shih lurking in the shadows and acknowledged her with a slight nod. Chiang Shih made herself as inconspicuous as possible.

Attila stood and announced in a bellowing voice. “My friends. Thank you all for sharing this joyous occasion with me. But I have to ask you all to leave. I want to be alone with my new bride.”

The guests all stood, serenading the warlord in a chorus of whistles and applauds. Singularly and in groups the guests staggered out, most in a drunken stupor. Attila followed behind them, joking with a few of his chieftains as he herded the guests toward the exit. When the last one had left, Attila motioned to one of the guards.

“I want to be alone with my bride. Make sure there are no disturbances.”

“As you wish.”

Attila closed the doors to the hall, and then turned around to face his bride. “We’re alone now.”

Chiang Shih emerged from the shadows. Attila stood erect and arched his shoulders back. She saw the way he stared at her, and noted the lust in his eyes. Chiang Shih feigned a smile. She wanted to take him to bed. To feel him inside her. To drink of each other’s blood and sire him as a master. For a moment, she considered abandoning her original plan and taking him as one of her own. But her desires had to take second place to her survivability.

Ildica, who still sat on the couch, her head bowed, looked up upon hearing Chiang Shih approach. Her face remained expressionless, but her eyes betrayed fear and uncertainty. Ildica glanced between Chiang Shih and Attila, hoping for an explanation. Chiang Shih knelt in front of Ildica and placed her hands over the girl’s.

“Everything will be all right,” she said in a reassuring voice.

Ildica nodded her assent.

“Is it time?” demanded Attila.

“Almost, my love.”

“And I’ll be as immortal and powerful as you?”

“More so.” Chiang Shih stood. She offered one hand to Ildica, who rose from the couch and took it. Chiang Shih led the girl over to the marriage bed. With her free hand, she motioned for Attila to follow. Attila crawled into bed and lay on his back. His brides sat on either side of him, Chiang Shih on his left, Ildica on his right. Ildica sat with her hands folded on her lap, an inexperienced girl with no idea what to do next. Chiang Shih reached out, took one of Ildica’s hands, and raised it to her lips. She gently kissed each fingertip and ran her tongue along Ildica’s thumb to her wrist. Her tongue made tiny circles, growing progressively larger until her mouth covered Ildica’s wrist. The girl gave a throaty moan.

Reaching out, Chiang Shih cupped Ildica behind the neck and drew her close. Their lips met. Ildica tried to pull back, but Chiang Shih held her head in place. She kissed the girl, again and again, each lasting longer than the last, until Ildica kissed back, tentatively at first, then slowly and more erotically. Their tongues met, and Ildica frantically explored Chiang Shih’s mouth. After a few seconds, her lips moved down Chiang Shih’s neck until she nibbled on the nape. When Chiang Shih reached up and caressed Ildica’s breast, the girl inhaled deeply.

Placing her hand behind Ildica’s neck, Chiang Shih lowered the girl’s head into Attila’s crotch. The girl did not resist. When her lips touched his cock through the clothes, she startled. Attila was enormous—ten inches long and two inches thick. It strained against his clothes. Ildica placed her hand on it, running her fingers across its length. She began to kiss it through his pants. Attila thrust his crotch into Ildica’s face. Unable to wait, Ildica pulled down his pants enough for the cock to spring free. Closing her eyes, Ildica placed her lips on the tip and slid as much of it into her mouth as possible.

Attila thrust deep into her throat, gagging her. “I’m going to enjoy being immortal.”

Chiang Shih placed her right hand over Attila’s eyes and closed the lids. “Just relax, my love.”

As Ildica sucked on Attila, Chiang Shih ran her fingers down his face, stroking his cheek and chin. Her hand came to rest over Attila’s mouth, with her fore and index fingers under his nose. She looked at him longingly. A tear formed in one of her eyes. Fighting back her emotions, she mouthed a single word.

“Goodbye.”

Chiang Shih’s hand morphed, the nails of the fore and index fingers transforming into six-inch-long talons that plunged through Attila’s nostrils and sliced into his brain. Attila’s eyes shot open, staring at Chiang Shih in disbelief. He tried to get up, but she forced his head down on the bed, holding him in place. Distracted by the commotion, Ildica attempted to look up from her sucking. With her left hand, Chiang Shih pushed the girl’s head onto Attila’s crotch, his engorged cock filling her mouth and preventing her from crying out to alert the guards.

Attila gagged as blood hemorrhaged from his brain and poured into his throat. He tried to raise his head to breathe, but Chiang Shih’s grip was too powerful. He opened his mouth to gulp for air, but Chiang Shih wrapped her thumb under his chin and forced his mouth shut. With no other recourse, Attila clutched at her arms, at first trying to use his own strength to break her grip and, when that did not work, frantically scratching and clawing. With a muffled cough, blood spurted out of Attila’s nose, covering Chiang Shih’s taloned fingers in blood. With his airways momentarily clear, he desperately snorted through his nose, and drew even more of the precious fluid into his lungs. Unable to breathe, the mightiest and most feared man in the world degenerated into a state of panicked terror, thrashing around against Chiang Shih’s grip. Chiang Shih closed her eyes, wanting to remember Attila as the warlord he was rather than the pitiful human he had become.

After another minute of struggling, Attila jerked frenetically, and then his body went limp. Chiang Shih moved her thumb over to the carotid artery to feel for a pulse. Nothing. She morphed her hand back to its human form. With the two fingers she had used to murder him, she closed Attila’s eyes for the final time.

“Sleep well, my love.”

Chiang Shih released her grip on Ildica’s head. The girl fell backwards onto the floor, the limp cock flopping out of her mouth. Leaning over, she retched. After regaining some of her composure, she looked up at Chiang Shih, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Why did you do that?”

“Shut up, bitch. You’ll alert the guards.”

Ildica glanced over to the bed. Her eyes went wide at the sight of Attila’s corpse. “What did you do?”

“I killed him.” Chiang Shih licked the blood from off of her fingers.

Rolling onto her hands and knees, Ildica crawled for the door. Chiang Shih went after her, quickly catching up. Grabbing the girl’s hair in her left hand, she yanked her to her feet. Ildica started to scream. Chiang Shih clutched a hand over the girl’s mouth, applying enough pressure to nearly crush her jaw and stifle any sound.

“Shut up or I’ll tear your throat out. Do you understand?”

Ildica nodded. Chiang Shih released her grip and let go of the girl’s hair. Ildica stepped back out of Chiang Shih’s reach and massaged her jaw.

“You don’t honestly think you’ll get away with this?”

“Get away with what?” Chiang Shih asked coyly. “Attila died in his sleep.”

“You murdered him.” Ildica arched her back in an unusual streak of defiance. “And I’m going to tell the guards.”

Chiang Shih chuckled. “Go ahead. Tell the guards that a monster snuck in here under their nose, killed Attila, and left you untouched. You’ll be lucky if they don’t kill you on the spot.”

Chiang Shih approached Ildica, who stepped back. She grabbed the girl around the throat and transformed into her vampiric form. The girl shook with terror. When Chiang Shih spoke again, her voice was deep and guttural.

“And if they don’t kill you, I will. And believe me, my way will not be pleasant.”

Chiang Shih released the girl, who crumbled to the floor, too terrified to respond. Chiang Shih reverted back to her human form. Kneeling beside Ildica, her voice became calm and soothing. “Now, what do you intend to tell the guards?”

Ildica whimpered. “That Attila died in his sleep.”

Chiang Shih gently patted her cheek. “Good girl.”

Without waiting for a reply, Chiang Shih stepped over to Attila’s corpse and gave it a goodbye kiss. She raced across the hall and jumped, sailing through the window cut at a height of ten feet into the wall, landing on the ground outside the wooden palace. She refused to look back. Instead, she raced for the tree line and disappeared into the woods. She would spend some time here in Carpathia, maybe even start a coven, and contemplate her next move. It was all for the best. For too long she had ignored her instincts, settling for the easy kills provided by the Huns’ pillaging and for love. In each case, it had almost cost her dearly. She had learned a valuable lesson, though, one she would never forget.

Never again would she allow anything, including her own emotions, to stand in the way of the advancement of the vampire kingdom. That would include, when necessary, culling the weak from the pact.

8

WASHINGTON EXPERIENCED A gorgeous autumn day, with temperatures in the low fifties accompanied by a warm sun that more than made up for the cool morning. Drake stood on the sidewalk in front of the Freer Gallery’s main entrance on Jefferson Drive, staring out over the Mall and soaking up the sunshine. This would be a perfect opportunity for a cigar, he mused. Except for the fact that it was only ten AM, that he did not have any bourbon with him to accompany it, and that the city had banned public smoking, which they enforced with more zeal than their anti-crime law. Besides, he would be meeting Jessica in a few minutes.

He looked at his watch. Not because Jessica was late, but because he had nothing better to do. Having arrived twenty minutes early, he already had checked his watch half a dozen times, and each time it seemed like the hands were moving slower than before.

“Impatient, aren’t you?”

Drake turned around. Jessica walked up behind him. She wore a tight pair of jeans tucked into knee-length boots and a pink turtleneck sweater that she filled out quite nicely. Jessica had opted not to wear a jacket, a decision Drake fully appreciated.

“I’m just waiting for you.”

“Well?” Jessica held up her arms and turned around completely, allowing Drake to take in the full view. “Was it worth the wait?”

“Very much so.” Drake stepped forward and hugged Jessica, then gave her a quick kiss. “In fact, I’m no longer interested in the Spanish Inquisition.”

“I know what you’re interested in. But I have work to do.”

“All work and no play—”

“Gets me fired.” Jessica gave Drake a quick peck on the cheek and gently broke their hug. She pulled the entrance tickets from her purse. “Come on. The exhibit is all about violence, torture, and death. You’ll love it.”

They entered the museum, made their way upstairs to the main foyer, and followed a pair of velvet ropes supported by chain stands that guided visitors to the Ferrar exhibit. A young woman checked their tickets to make sure they had arrived at the appointed time, and then directed them to the exhibit room. Several minutes later, they entered a large hall that detailed the history of the Spanish Inquisition in photographs, paintings, and sketches. It covered the period from its beginnings in the late fifteenth century to combat heresy through its heyday under King Ferdinand V and Queen Isabella when detainment without due process and torture reached its height. The Inquisition eventually disbanded in the early nineteenth century, but not before hundreds of thousands of innocents were tortured until they converted or renewed their vows of Christian faith, and five thousand people were executed for heresy. Drake and Jessica took their time in this hall, stopping to read each description, with Jessica frequently scribbling in her notepad.

Exiting this display, the two entered the next room through a pair of ornately-carved heavy wooden doors, each twelve feet tall and five feet wide, replicated to look like the doors leading into a cathedral. Immediately upon entering, Drake slowed. “Wow!”

They entered a spacious room, at least one hundred feet long and half as wide, with a ceiling towering nearly twenty feet. The interior surfaces were fabricated in such a way as to look like the main hall of a medieval castle, an ambience further induced by the dim lighting. What caused Drake’s exclamation, however, was not the design of the room but the exhibits on display. Situated in the center of the floor space were a dozen devices used for the interrogation and torture of those accused of heresy by the Inquisition. Stocks. A rack for stretching the accused. A floor-mounted garrote. A scavenger’s daughter, an iron device with mounted manacles for the neck, hands, and feet that forced the victim into a fetal position. An iron maiden, a bulky wooden sarcophagus adorned with the visage of a woman whose interior walls were filled with spikes carefully arranged so that, when the twin door were shut, the spikes would penetrate the victim’s body but not puncture any vital organs. An inquisitional chair, a wooden monstrosity with a carpet of thirteen hundred spikes covering the back, seat, armrest, and leg rests, accompanied by a waist-high bar to hold the victim in place. And a large-toothed, four-handled saw used to cut in half a victim, suspended upside down, from crotch to head. A series of glass display cases were arranged in line along each wall. Each case held various weapons from that period. Daggers. Ceremonial and war swords. Spears. A variety of maces, most with ornamental flanges that were straight-edged, curved, or pointed. Halberds, which were spear-like weapons topped with a spike that reminded Drake of a meat cleaver with a spear point welded to the end. Partisans, thirty-inch-long spears whose blades tapered outward from the point to the hilt, ending in curved wing blades. And a bill hook, an agricultural tool used for chopping objects and trimming hedges that, when placed on the end of a spear pole, became an effective weapon.

Drake walked from one display case to the next, examining each weapon in great detail, in some cases bending over the case to get a closer look. He did not speak a word, and barely acknowledged Jessica’s presence. While Drake examined the weapon in the final display case, Jessica stepped up beside him.

“What do you find so fascinating?”

“These weapons.”

“One of those guy things?”

“Not really.” Drake turned to face Jessica. He lowered his voice so the man in the red parka examining the display case to his left would not hear. “I wonder if we could adapt any of these to fight vampires.”

“You probably could, if you and Alison don’t mind running around Washington with these things and looking like a bunch of peasants from a 1930’s horror movie.”

“I guess we would look stupid.” Drake chuckled. “Come on. Let’s check out the rest of the exhibit.”

The final room contained Antonio Ferrar’s personal affects. An inquisitional robe. A wooden chair he used to sit on while presiding over tribunals. A dagger worn under his robe for protection. And sundry other items representative of life in the fifteenth century. Drake stood in front of a display case containing Ferrar’s toiletries when Jessica slid up beside him. Wrapping her arms around his left arm, she hugged him close.

“Does Reese really think he’ll find that vampire book in this exhibit?”

“It’s called the Vampyrnomicon. And no, he won’t find it here. Ferrar’s books and papers are too fragile to be put on public display. They’re being kept in a special archive downstairs. Only a few academics are being allowed access to them.”

Jessica looked at him, surprised by the answer. “And how do you know all this?”

“Reese told me. That’s why he’s here in Washington.” Drake ushered her along to the next display case. “Ostensibly, he’s doing research in Medieval Studies. But he’s really combing through Ferrar’s papers to see if he can figure out where the Vampyrnomicon is.”

“What’s in it?”

Drake shrugged. “No one knows. According to Reese, it contains everything there is to know about the undead. Their origin. Their history. And, hopefully, how to destroy them for good.”

A moment of silence passed as Jessica thought about what Drake had said. Then she asked, “If the Vampyrnomicon contains so much information on vampires, then the vampires would do anything to prevent us from getting it. So doesn’t that put Reese in danger?”

Drake had not considered that possibility before. What Jessica said made sense. If the Vampyrnomicon did hold the deepest secrets of the undead, then finding that book would give them the ultimate weapon to clean out the nest once and for all. Although he had no proof, Drake assumed the vampires also knew about the Ferrar exhibit and its connection to the Vampyrnomicon, and would stop at nothing to prevent the hunters from getting their hands on it. It was just another part of his job. However, until Jessica mentioned it, he had not taken into account the possibility that Reese’s unique ability as the only one who could determine the location of the book could put him in harm’s way. Drake liked and respected Reese, but was not sure how the professor would fare in a vampire attack.

Seeing that the conversation had put Drake in a somber mood, Jessica tried to cheer him up. “We’re assuming that this Vampyrnomicon is real and not just a legend. Even if it does exist, and it’s here in the museum, what are the chances the vampires have figured it out for themselves and will come for it?”

“I guess you’re right,” said Drake.

“Of course I am. I always am.” Jessica hugged his arm close to her. “Now, smile. This is a date, remember?”

“You’re right.” Drake placed his hand over Jessica’s and squeezed gently. “I’ll be morbid on my own time.”

“Good. Because I have a couple of hours before I have to be back at the office. How about grabbing a taxi back to your place?”

“I like that idea.” Drake leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. “But first I want to hit the gift shop.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I want to see if they’re selling any replicas of the weapons we saw in that last room. Maybe Jim can adapt them for use against the undead.”

Jessica sighed. “I’m dating an adolescent.”

“If you never grow up, you never grow old.”

Holding hands, Drake and Jessica made their way out of the exhibit and toward the gift shop.

THEY WERE SO involved with each other that neither of them noticed the man in the red parka vest who followed them out at a discreet distance. He had entered the exhibit a few minutes after Drake and Jessica, and had stood by them to view some of the displays, never giving them a second thought. At least until he heard them discussing vampires and the Vampyrnomicon. His interest piqued, he stayed within earshot of the couple, listening to every word.

After Drake and Jessica left the gift shop, Akers waited a few minutes to ensure they would not see him, and departed the museum to report what he had heard to Chiang Shih.

REESE RUBBED HIS eyes, trying to ease the tiredness. He felt like he had been reading for hours. Which, in fact, he had. A glimpse at the wall clock showed that it was already four thirty-four in the afternoon. The room at the far end of the Freer Gallery’s archives section that had been set aside for scholars to study Ferrar’s books and papers would be closing in less than half an hour, so he decided to call it quits for the day and resume his research tomorrow. Hopefully he would have more success in the morning in solving the mystery surrounding the Vampyrnomicon. He doubted it, though, for he was nowhere closer to finding it than when he began. In fact, things were more confusing than ever. He had unearthed two previously unknown facts about Antonio Ferrar that seemed to contradict each other and shrouded the question in even more mystery.

The first fact he extrapolated from something already known by historians. Ferrar had been a prolific memoirist. It was practically an obsession. An English-language version of his memoirs as a priest in Spain and his years as an inquisitor had been available since 1953, and had provided the framework for every biography written about the man since. The private archives held a treasure trove for Ferrar biographers—a collection of his unpublished, hand-written memoirs dating back to his youth. The first two volumes, written on separate sheets of paper that were later bound by the Church, detailed his life as a young conversos living in Christian Spain. These diaries were written in colloquial Spanish. Although Reese’s Spanish was rusty, he pieced together a fascinating mosaic of the inquisitor’s youth.

Born in 1446 as Noah Levi, Ferrar was the son of a Jewish merchant family who lived in Madrid. His father had converted the family to Catholicism when Ferrar was three because it was neither physically safe nor financially profitable to be a Jew in a Christian Spain still obsessed by the Muslim Moor’s occupation of the southern half of the Iberian Peninsula for more than seven centuries. His father soon fell in with Madrid’s Catholic demagogues, adopting a zealous pro-Christian, anti-Semitic stance to convince others of the solidity of his new-found faith. Being a devoted son and loyal Catholic, Ferrar readily adopted this demeanor as his own. The remainder of the diaries contained fascinating vignettes of everyday life in fifteenth century Madrid and how he lived as a conversos, always under suspicion by his Christian neighbors. Interspersed with these entries were rambling diatribes against Islam and Judaism that would have made the most extreme racist blanch. The second of the two diaries ended in the spring of 1453 when, as a youth of seventeen, Ferrar entered the priesthood.

The third memoir picked up at this point. This edition, hand-written both in Spanish and Latin in a cheap leather-bound journal, described his five years as a seminary student. This memoir Reese found much easier to read because, as Ferrar became more conversant in Latin, he wrote predominantly in this language. The last two years of entries were entirely in Latin. Because of the enormity of the time required for his studies, this memoir contained fewer details. Nonetheless, it provided invaluable insights into the life of a seminary student and showed the full acceptance of his peers as a devout Catholic.

And finally there was the fourth memoir, the one known to history that related Ferrar’s life as a priest in Saragossa and his role in the Inquisition. Reese had read these memoirs so many times he practically knew them by heart. Even so, to see and touch the actual diary, a thick oversized book bound in expensive leather with Ferrar’s name stenciled in gold on the cover, was a researcher’s dream. In addition, it offered the opportunity to unravel the mystery of the Vampyrnomicon.

Little did he know when he began reading how entangled that mystery would be.

Ferrar had been assigned as the junior-most priest at the Saragossa Cathedral in the winter of 1458. The period covered by the first twenty-two years was an unremarkable memoir of the day-to-day grind of a priest, a lurid accounting of the Saragossian’s sins, and a testament to his deepening faith. The text only became compelling after 1480 when the Dominicans in Spain initiated the Inquisition to purge unbelievers. Pedro Arbues, the canon of Saragossa Cathedral and Ferrar’s mentor, requested that the young priest head up the Inquisition in their diocese. Ferrar readily accepted the assignment. The entries for the next few years describe a nightmarish existence within the dungeons of Aljaferia, where the accused were detained. The rounding up of Jews and other non-Christians. The arrest of supposedly lapsed Christians, who were not allowed to know the accusations brought against them. A litany of tortures, forced confessions, and, for those who remained true to their non-Christian faiths, public executions by secular authorities, which allowed the Catholic Church to keep its hands clean of the sin or murder. Nothing new to Reese, but reading it in Latin, and in Ferrar’s own hand writing, made it seem as if he had a window into hell itself.

Which seemed a fitting prelude to what happened next.

On 15 September 1485, a conversos murdered Pedro Arbues. As expected, retribution was swift and fierce, even by Inquisition standards. Seven people were rounded up in connection with the murder. Because Arbues had been Ferrar’s friend and mentor, the Church gave the priest the honor of interrogating and punishing the accused. Ferrar’s last journal entry, dated 21 September 1485, listed the names of the six men and one woman apprehended for the murder, and noted that their interrogation would begin the next day.

No record exists of Antonio Ferrar ever making another journal entry from that day until his death at Mont St. Michel in 1491. Reese had asked the head archivist if there were any more memoirs available for viewing, or if any existed in Ferrar’s personal belongings that scholars were not being granted access to. She assured him that every book in the Ferrar collection had been meticulously catalogued in Spain and rechecked upon arrival at the Freer Gallery, and that no other memoirs existed.

It seemed incredible. Why would a man who kept detailed memoirs for more than thirty years, recording even the most mundane aspects of his life, suddenly stop writing at the height of his career? Most theories centered on a letter discovered in the Vatican archives in the late nineteenth century criticizing Ferrar for his “overzealous brutality” in connection with one of the unidentified prisoners arrested for Arbues’ death. Historians speculated that Ferrar’s zeal to convince others of his Catholic credentials, coupled with a thirst for revenge for those who murdered his mentor, had driven the priest to commit unspeakable horrors on the accused. Unfortunately, since no accounting of the interrogation could ever be found, this theory remained in the realm of conjecture.

Reese found a single clue to what might have happened, however vague it might be. Among the seven names listed in Ferrar’s last journal entry, the priest described only one of the accused—Emilio Carius. Most translators of the memoirs used the Latin term maleficium, which had been translated as “the criminal” or “the wrong one.” However, that was a transliteration error.

The actual word Ferrar had used to describe Carius was maleficus, the “evil one.”

Further deepening the mystery, Ferrar left the priesthood in early 1486 and retired to Mont St. Michel in western France. Here he lived as a recluse, shunning all human contact until he died in an unexplained plague that wiped out the city in 1491.

The head archivist, a mature woman with her auburn hair pulled back in a tight bun, came up to Reese’s table. “Sir, you need to pack up. We’re closing in a few minutes.”

“I’ll be ready in a moment.”

As the woman walked away, Reese placed the book he had been reviewing back into its special basswood case, which was lined with acid-free cardstock that preserved the material, and returned the case to its appropriate shelf in the climate-controlled book cabinet. Intuition told him that he was very close to unlocking this puzzle, and that the key lay with this Emilio Carius. When he returned tomorrow, he would scan through the other books from Ferrar’s library, hopefully finding something meaningful in them.

THE PUPPY YELPED, half from pain and half from terror, when Chiang Shih plunged her fangs into the back of its neck. It thrashed around, trying to break free. Quickly realizing the futility of its efforts, the animal went limp. It pathetically whimpered as the master drained its life blood. Chiang Shih savored the meal. Its little heart pumped frantically from fear, causing the blood to pour into her mouth. Panic-induced adrenaline always added a savory flavor. As she drank, coldness crept through the puppy’s body, and its heart rate slowed. With a final sob, the puppy died in her hands. Chiang Shih finished feasting, draining the animal of its last drop of blood. She took the shriveled carcass and tossed it into a green trash bag along with the other three cat and puppy carcasses. Walker would dispose of the bag later that night during his hunt.

Feeding off of stray animals was not the best way to live, but she needed to do so to maintain security. She already took a risk having her masters out there creating covens and hunting for food to sustain them. For her to be in any way associated with those missing humans could unravel her plans. Besides, living in a luxury apartment and feeding off of stray pets still beat living in sewers or forests and eating whatever vermin she could get her hands on.

Standing up in the bath tub where she had feasted, Chiang Shih noticed both she and the basin were splattered with blood. Sliding the shower curtain across the stall and turning on the faucet, she washed away the incriminating fluid. She was drying herself off when a knock came at the door.

“Come in.”

Walker entered. He wore black jeans and a matching shirt.

“I thought you’d be out hunting,” she said.

“I should be. But Akers dropped by. He says he has something important to tell you.”

“Can’t you handle this?”

“I could.” Walker smirked. “But I think you’ll want to hear what he has to say.”

“I’ll be right there.”

As Walker exited, Chiang Shih pulled a silk robe out of the closet, slid it on, and headed for the living room. She found Walker standing by the window, his back turned to Akers as he stared out over Washington. Akers sat on one of the sofas, fidgeting and nervously looking around the room. Upon hearing Chiang Shih enter, he jumped up and bowed his head.

“Thank you for seeing me, mistress.”

Chiang Shih sat down in the leather chair. “Walker said you needed to talk to me.”

“Yes, ma’am. I went to the Freer Gallery to check out the Antonio Ferrar exhibit for any signs of the Vampyrnomicon, just like you ordered.”

“Did you find the Vampyrnomicon?”

“No. But I wasn’t the only one looking for it. I overheard a couple talking about the book.”

Walker turned to face the others and leaned back against the window. “Describe them for her.”

“The man was about six feet tall, medium build, with short-cut dirty blonde hair. He wore a leather flyer’s jacket.”

Chiang Shih recognized the description. “The hunter.”

“The woman was a little shorter. She had shoulder-length blonde hair, and was very attractive.”

“That sounds like his girlfriend,” said Chiang Shih.

Walker nodded. “It seems as if the hunters also know about the Vampyrnomicon.”

“I’m not surprised.” Chiang Shih returned her attention to Akers. “What did they find?”

“Nothing. I overheard them saying that if the Vampyrnomicon was in the collection, it would be in the private archives. Somebody named Reed, I think, was searching the archives.”

“Was the name Reese?” asked Chiang Shih.

“Yeah. That sounds right. Do you know him?”

“He’s that meddlesome college professor who has been mentoring the hunter on how to kill us.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Walker.

“I could take care of them for you,” offered Akers with ingratiating enthusiasm.

“Thank you, but no. I don’t plan on letting the hunters get off that easily,” Chiang Shih said reassuringly. “And I need you to stay out of trouble. You’re too important to us to wind up in jail over some petty crime.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Besides, I don’t want to stop the hunters. At least, not yet.”

Akers looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

Even Walker did not understand. “Why wouldn’t you want to stop them?”

“Let the hunters do the work for us. We can’t visit the museum during the day, but the hunters can. Let Reese do all the research. If the Vampyrnomicon is in the archives, he’ll find it. Once he does, then we’ll take it from the hunters.”

A sardonic smile spread across Walker’s lips. “That sounds like fun.”

“It will be,” said Chiang Shih. “But not for them.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” asked Akers.

“Yes. Find out where the hunters work and live, and stay close to them until you know whether or not they find the Vampyrnomicon.”

Akers hesitated, his eyes darting between Chiang Shih and Walker. “T-the only thing is… I mean….”

“Is something wrong?”

Walker pushed himself away from the windows and stepped over to the others. “What he’s trying to say is that there’s no way he’ll be able to stay close enough to the hunters to know if they find the Vampyrnomicon without giving himself away.”

“You have a point.” Chiang Shih frowned. “Do you have a way around this?”

“I do.” Walker faced Akers. “How long will it take you to find out where they work?”

“Two or three days, at most.”

“Good. Once you’ve tracked them down, come see me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have anything else to tell me?” asked Chiang Shih.

“No, ma’am.”

“Then you’re dismissed.”

With the barest of nods, Akers turned and rushed out of the apartment. Once the door closed behind him, Chiang Shih stood and moved over to Walker. “Are you sure your plan will work?”

“I guarantee it.”

“Then I’ll leave it all to you. Once the hunters have the Vampyrnomicon, we’ll take it from them and make them regret that they ever challenged us.”

RACING AROUND THE kitchen as he made preparations for his guest, Mike Fletcher was practically giddy with anticipation. Moments like this were few and far between, and had to be carefully planned and skillfully executed. Such preparations dictated the infrequency of these trysts. When he did manage to pull one off, it usually ended up as a quick tawdry event that ranked high in thrills but little in meaning. Tonight would be different. Tonight he would be meeting his guest at his house where they would be safe from prying eyes, just as he liked it. He did not need to get caught in the act because he knew full well how society would respond if they discovered his secret—that Mike Fletcher, the vice principal of Washington’s largest junior high school, was a pedophile.

Mike felt his anger rising and forced himself to relax. He despised the word pedophile. It sounded so demeaning. It wasn’t like he had a penchant for grade schoolers or little boys. And he never forced anyone to do anything they didn’t want to anyways, unlike all those fag priests who used to preach against sin on the pulpit, then in the back room would tell the impressionable altar boys “Hail Mary, full of grace, stick this penis in your face.” He didn’t consider himself a pervert. He liked girls between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. They were still innocent and inquisitive, and were only looking for a good time, unlike most women he knew who entered relationships with a lifetime’s worth of emotional baggage. Lots of cultures didn’t frown on teenage girls marrying older men. In Japan it was perfectly legal for men to get head from girls as young as fourteen. Hell, an entire industry developed around that fetish.

Mike considered himself a fetishist, not a pedophile.

He knew damn well that the courts, the school system, and his family and friends would not see it that way. He also knew that getting caught would land him in a world of shit, which was why he always showed great caution when fulfilling his fantasies. The most important rule was never shit where you eat, so he never dated any of the girls from his school, or in the Washington area for that matter. He never used the Internet to search for his porn because that left an electronic trail that easily could be traced back to him. Instead, every two months he met a man in Silver Springs who, in exchange for $100, would pass him a USB flash drive containing one Gigabyte of pictures of teenage girls either in the nude or performing various sex acts. He would then view the images directly off the flash drive, never loading them onto his computer so they could later incriminate him. He conducted his instant messaging of potential dates anonymously from different Internet cafes and Starbucks using a laptop and e-mail account he had set up under an alias.

Most important of all, he never dated at his house because of the danger of exposure. If some nosy reporter or vice squad sting team showed up at his door, they’d have him dead to rights. Or, God forbid, one of the little cunts tried to blackmail him. To avoid any hassles, he did all of his dating in the Baltimore area under a false name. He used his own car, but with a fake set of license plates that he would switch off when he drove up to Maryland. He never rented a hotel room or used his credit cards, which could link him to that city and to a particular time. The system had been nearly foolproof in preserving his anonymity. By necessity, each date had been a quick encounter in a public place, usually in the backseat of his car, or occasionally in an isolated park.

He had been playing it safe for nearly twelve years, fulfilling his desires without letting them become a self-absorbing addiction. So far his caution had kept him out of trouble. Tonight, though, things would be different because he had invited one of the girls over to his house.

Mike finished his preparations, setting up a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries. Once he had everything in order, he went over to the full-length mirror in the hall and checked himself out. Not too bad for a guy just shy of fifty. About twenty-five pounds overweight. A bald spot. Less body tone than he would have preferred, but still in a hell of a lot better shape than most men his age. And with more than enough downstairs to satisfy any teenage pussy.

Something told him that Vampgirl1648, as she called herself on line, was no ordinary teenager. They had met in a chat room five days ago. At first, he had been skeptical of dealing with her because of her obvious maturity, fearing she might be a cop. After engaging her in conversation he sidelined those concerns. She had a childishness about her that could not be feigned. He could not explain how he knew this, but after twelve years of dealing with teenagers on a daily basis, he knew a teenage girl when he talked to one. When she suggested they meet at his house for something special, at first Mike hesitated. As luck would have it, however, his wife would be out of town that night. With excitement overriding common sense, he arranged for Vampgirl1648 to drop by at eight o’clock.

Mike puttered around in the living room, closing the curtains and setting the lights on dim, when the doorbell rang. His body tensed in anticipation, and he felt the familiar stirring in his groin. His hands began to sweat with nervousness. Wiping the palms on his hips, Mike forced himself to stroll to the front door so as not to appear overly anxious. He stopped, took a deep breath, and opened it, hoping the risk he took would be worth it.

The instant he set eyes on Vampgirl1648, he realized it would be.

A beautiful young girl who could have been no older than thirteen stood on his front porch. She had an angelic face, with shoulder-length blonde hair that set off a stunning pair of blue eyes and cherubic cheeks. Yet while the face implied innocence, the body screamed slut. She wore a short, green-plaid skirt and sheer white blouse, with white bobby socks and black low heels. A catholic school girl with a touch of whore. The little cunt sure knew how to tease a cock.

“Are you Mr. Fletcher?” she asked.

“Yes, I am.” He offered his hand. “Please, call me Mike.”

“I will, Mike.” She took his hand and gave it a single, dainty shake. “I’m Vampgirl.”

“What should I call you?”

“You can call me anything that turns you on.” The teenager entered the house, stepping so close to Mike that her tits brushed his arm. She spun around quickly, causing the short skirt to twirl, revealing red satin underpants. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” Mike practically slammed the door shut. “Let’s go to the living room.”

“Lead the way.”

Vampgirl held out her hand like a Southern belle. Mike took it and escorted her into the living room. Her hand was surprisingly cool. Almost cold. Yet it hummed with a sexual energy. He felt himself growing hard.

They sat beside each other on the sofa. As Mike settled in to talk, he leaned forward and poured himself a glass of wine. He held a bottle up to Vampgirl. “Would you like some?”

“No, thanks.”

“Are you sure?” Mike sat back into the sofa. “It’ll break your inhibitions.”

“I don’t need wine for that.”

Vampgirl slid sideways on the sofa and leaned back against the armrest. Keeping her left foot on the floor, she swung her right onto the sofa. With her legs spread, Mike could see under the short skirt. He could not stop from staring at the satin panties and the mound underneath. Nor could he prevent the raging hard-on that strained against his trousers.

“Tell you what,” said Vampgirl. “We both know how tonight’s going to end. And I can see by that bulge in your pants that you’re horny as hell. How about a quick blowjob to break the ice? That way, when we get to the main event, you won’t cum early?”

“Y-you’re serious?”

“Of course.” Pushing herself out of the corner, the teenager slid across the sofa alongside of Mike. Her hands glided down to his crotch, one holding the top of his trousers while the other pulled down his zipper. She reached into his trousers, wrapped her fingers around his cock, and pulled it out. She stroked it, her fingers sliding gently across the skin. Mike felt his balls churning, and knew he would not be able to hold out much longer. Not wanting to waste his load in her hand, he placed his hands on the back of Vampgirl’s head and forced it into his crotch. Rather than resist, Vampgirl sucked him into her mouth until his entire cock plunged down her throat.

Mike leaned his head back into the cushions and moaned. He’d never forget tonight.

MELINDA STOOD IN front of the bathroom mirror, using a facecloth to wash off the blood from her face and hair. Luckily it cleaned up easily. Mike had doused her really well, which wasn’t really surprising. Feeding on a human during sex or terror, when the heart pounded and pumped blood, always resulted in an abnormal amount of splatter. Not that she minded. Melinda loved to be covered in blood. She found it sensual. The touch of it on her skin excited her.

Unfortunately, the blood did not come out of her clothes. Mike had sprayed across her chest, soaking her white blouse. Stepping into the master bedroom, Melinda opened the closet and rummaged through. More than half of them were women’s clothes. Melinda chuckled. Wouldn’t Mrs. Fletcher have a surprise waiting for her when she got home? Not that she felt any sympathy for the woman. Her husband had preyed on children to satisfy his own deviant pleasures and paid a just price for his sins. She would be better off without him.

Finding a turtleneck sweater, Melinda yanked it off the hanger and slipped it on. The sweater hung a little big on her, but it served its purpose in covering the blood-soaked blouse. Closing the closet doors, Melinda headed back downstairs.

Mike lay flopped back on the sofa, his head leaning to one side. He sat in an expanding pool of blood that soaked his trousers and seat cushions, and flowed down the front of the sofa to stain the rug. Melinda had left his fly unzipped, exposing the raw gaping hole where his cock used to be. He had thrashed around so violently when she fed that it came off in her mouth. The bastard’s prick was so small she barely felt it go down when she swallowed. Leaning over, she placed two fingers against his neck and felt for a pulse. Surprisingly, his heart still beat, albeit slowly. He would bleed out completely before too long.

With a barely audible moan, Mike tried to turn his head, but did not have enough energy left. Placing her hand under his chin, Melinda turned his head to face her. Their eyes met. A look of sheer terror replaced his vacant stare. Good, she thought. Let him suffer a little more before he died. Bending over, Melinda kissed him on the lips. He tried to back away, but could not.

“Thank you, Mike. I had a wonderful time. I’ll see you soon. In Hell.”

With a final gasp, Mike left the world forever.

With nothing of interest here for Melinda, she left the house, pausing just long enough to look out the front window and scan the street, making sure no one was around who might witness her departure and identify her later. Minutes later, she was several blocks away, safe from being linked to the crime scene.

9

DRAKE CALLED A taxi to take him to the office because he needed to carry the replica medieval weapons he had purchased at the Freer. Walking to work would have been difficult since each weapon was in a heavy wooden crate. Though going to work by taxi did not preclude him from asking the taxi driver to stop for a few minutes so he could pick up an iced coffee. Now he regretted being a slave to routine. Lugging the two awkwardly-sized wooden crates and his iced coffee up the front stairs of his office building turned out to be more difficult than he had imagined. With the drink in one hand, the handle of one wooden crate in the other, and the second wooden crate precariously lodged under an armpit, he struggled up the front stairs. He nearly dropped the box under his arm, steadying it with his coffee hand in the nick of time. Now he stood at the top of the stairs, unable to open the front door or even ring the bell. With no other options left, he gently began kicking the glass with his toe.

Alison responded on the tenth knock. She stormed into the hallway, ready to chew a second asshole into whatever obnoxious visitor made the racket. Her eyes softened when she saw Drake, but only a bit. He could tell by her expression that she viewed him as only slightly less obnoxious than a solicitor. Rushing up to the door, she pushed it open and held it in place with one hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” she greeted him.

“And good morning to you, too.” Drake motioned with his head to the box under his arm. “Grab that, will ya?”

Alison stepped forward. Placing one hand under the wooden crate and grabbing the handle with the other, she relieved Drake of his burden. Mobility restored, Drake maneuvered by Alison, banging his own crate against the jamb. Alison followed him inside. Drake placed his iced coffee on one corner of Alison’s desk, and then set the crate down on the sofa across from it. He took the second crate from Alison and placed it beside the first.

“What’s in those?” asked Alison.

“Is Jim here?”

“He’s upstairs.”

“Call him down. I’ll show you both together.”

Alison picked up the phone and paged Jim. Drake slid off his leather jacket and tossed it onto the coat rack, then took a long drink of iced coffee. By the time he finished, Jim came downstairs from his work shop.

“What’s up, boss?”

“I’ve got something I want to show you.”

Drake unlatched the two crates and lifted the lids with the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old showing off his favorite Christmas gift. Alison and Jim stepped forward to look in. Each crate contained a sword, the blade approximately a meter in length, with an ornately-carved hand grip.

“What are they?” asked Alison.

“I picked them up at the museum gift shop. They’re replicas of the swords the Conquistadors used during the conquest of Latin America.” Drake turned to Jim. “I thought you could adapt them for hunting vampires.”

“Are you serious?” asked Jim.

“Yeah. Can’t you do anything with them?”

“Not really.” Jim picked up one of the swords and turned it in his hand, examining the blade. “These are straight-edged weapons. You really can’t pimp them up other than decorating the hand grip. The only way to kill a vampire with one of these would be to slice off its head. And these are way too dull to do that.”

Drake tried to hide his disappointment. “Couldn’t we sharpen them?”

Jim shook his head. “These are display swords. I’d ruin the blades if I tried. In any case, they wouldn’t make good weapons.” Jim handed the sword back to Drake. “Sorry, boss.”

Alison placed a hand on Drake’s shoulder. “Guess you don’t get to fulfill your fantasy of running around Washington like Pirates of the Caribbean.”

“Ah, you’re just afraid of handling a man’s weapon.”

“Whatever.”

Drake stepped to the side to face Alison and feigned a pirate accent. “Are you showing thine timidity, wench?”

“Wench?” asked Alison, miffed.

Drake placed the tip of the blade under her skirt and lifted the material a few inches. Alison knocked the sword aside with her hand.

“Me thinks the wench’s petticoat is tied a bit too tight.”

“If that’s how you want to play.” Alison picked up the other sword and took up a stance.

“On guard, wench.”

Drake raised his sword and tapped it against Alison’s. With a motion of the hand almost too quick to see, Alison tipped her sword to the left and brought the point underneath the hand grip of Drake’s sword. With a single yank, she ripped the sword from his hand. His weapon tumbled to the floor. Alison lowered her sword and placed the tip against Drake’s groin. A wry smile pierced her lips.

“Me thinks you won’t be needing these anymore,” she said.

Applause from the entranceway attracted their attention. They all turned to see Smith by the hall door. He stood leaning against the frame, clapping. “Looks like I hired the wrong person as team leader.”

“Give me the word,” joked Alison. “I’ll make some headroom.”

“You better not. He still might be useful.” Smith stepped into the room. “Where did you learn to fence like that?”

Alison gave Drake’s crotch a slight tap with the blade tip, and then placed the sword back in its crate. “I had an older brother and two cousins who liked to play The Three Musketeers, and I always got stuck being Comte de Rochfort. So I learned how to fight back.”

“Remind me to thank your brother if I ever meet him.” Drake placed his own sword back in its crate, fighting back the urge to rub his crotch.

“I warned you I didn’t want to fence.” Alison sounded more apologetic than angry.

“Next time I’ll listen.”

Jim walked over to the sofa and closed up the crates. “Let me take these upstairs before someone gets hurt.”

“Don’t you want to hear what Smith has to say?” asked Drake.

“Not particularly.” Jim turned to Smith. “No offense, but every time you talk with Drake, we wind up traipsing around some God-awful part of the city. Other than that, I like you just fine. If you’ll excuse me.”

Jim picked up the two crates by their handles and brought the swords upstairs. Drake stepped over to Alison’s desk, retrieved his iced coffee, and headed for his office, motioning for Smith and Alison to follow. Smith took a seat in one of the easy chairs in front of Drake’s desk. Alison sat on the sofa underneath the painting of Nosferatu.

Drake slid into his chair behind his desk and sipped the iced coffee. “Sorry about Jim. He doesn’t mean to be rude.”

“Don’t apologize. The kid’s right. My visits usually precede you going on a bad hunt.”

“But if it wasn’t for you, I’d still be sitting in a Washington jail being traded for a carton of cigarettes.” Drake took a long drink of coffee. “What’s on your mind?”

“During the attack on the row house the other day, how many snuffies did you encounter?”

“Five,” said Drake.

“The four we ran into upstairs and the one that tried to escape through the basement,” added Alison.

“But no master?”

“No.”

Alison shook her head.

Smith sat quietly, thinking.

“You think we missed the master?” asked Drake.

“It’s possible.”

Alison leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. “Why do you think the master is still alive?”

“I don’t know if she is. None of the police who were on the raid reported seeing anyone leave the row house, and no one was found inside during the search. To be honest, I have no reason to believe the master is alive other than intuition.” Smith snorted. “Not much to go on, is it?”

Drake smiled. “One thing I’ve learned in this business is that intuition will save you nine times out of ten.”

“Maybe. But we’re still at a dead end.”

“Not really. If the master was killed during the raid, either by us or by the police, then chances are her ashes are still there. It would have been easy for the police to have missed them.”

“Little good that does us,” said Smith.

“On the contrary.” Drake finished the iced coffee and dropped the empty cup into the waste basket. “All we have to do is go back to the row house and look for her ashes ourselves.”

FATE ALWAYS SHINED on Preston. It had for as long as he could remember. Whenever life dealt Preston a shitty hand, which seemed to be frequently, Fate allowed him to draw an inside straight. It had served him well throughout his life, especially during his years with the police force. It enabled him to survive political crises when men with lesser luck had been crushed. Yet having good luck was only half the battle. Fate might let you draw an inside straight, but if you did not know how to properly play your hand then little fucking good it would do you. And Preston was a skillful poker player.

This time, Fate allowed him to draw a damn good hand.

As Preston made his way through police headquarters heading for the squad room, he marveled at how things had worked out for him once again. Rodriguez had become a liability. He knew as much as Preston did about these things plaguing the city, which made Rodriguez a serious threat to Preston if the former decided not to cooperate. Normally that would not be a concern, because over the years Rodriguez had proven himself to be a good cop, both reliable and loyal. Lately, however, Rodriguez had shown signs that he could not be trusted. First, he filed a false report about the attack on the row house. Then, even worse in Preston’s opinion, he lied about letting Drake Matthews and the others escape, indicating sympathy with Matthews, at best, or collaboration. In either case, Preston could no longer rely on Rodriguez and saw him as a potential threat to Preston’s plan to manipulate this situation to his own advantage. Preston decided to sideline Rodriguez from this investigation, getting him out of the way long enough for Preston to profit from the current crisis. That would have been next to impossible given Rodriguez’ stellar performance record and the partiality Roach showed toward him, until Fate intervened on Preston’s behalf.

Arriving in front of the squad room, Preston entered. As expected, he found Rodriguez reading at his desk. As Preston drew closer, he noticed the title. The Science of Vampires by Katherine Ramsland. So, the bastard really did believe they were dealing with the undead. Rodriguez glanced up and saw Preston approaching. He closed the book, set it on his desk, and placed a copy of The Washington Post on top of it, doing so in a nonchalant manner as if he were not attempting to hide anything. No matter. It just reaffirmed Preston’s decision to get Rodriguez off of this case.

“Afternoon, sir.” Rodriguez sounded cheery. “What can I do for you?”

Preston flopped down into the wooden chair beside Rodriguez’ desk. He dropped a manila folder on his blotter. “This came across my desk this morning. I need someone I can rely on to run herd on it.”

“Someone you can rely on?” Rodriguez slid the folder in front of him and opened it. “What’s wrong with this case?”

“What isn’t wrong with it? The victim is Michael Fletcher. He was the vice principal of Marion Barry Junior High School.”

“Was?” Rodriguez turned the page to a crime scene photograph showing Fletcher dead on the sofa, sitting in a pool of blood. “Jesus.”

“His wife returned home late last night and found him like that. Bastard bled to death. The sick part is, they never found his dick.”

“Charming.”

“It gets better.” Preston leaned forward and rested his left arm on the desk, lowering his voice so as not to be overheard. “One of the cops who first arrived at the scene checked out Fletcher’s home computer to see if there were any e-mails or instant messages that might offer a clue to who did this. That’s when he found those nine one-Gigabyte thumb drives tucked away in his desk drawer.”

Rodriguez flipped to the last page of the folder where the thumb drives sat in a clear evidence bag stapled to the back flap. “Let me guess. Bondage and SM?”

“Kiddie porn. Teenage girls. All thirteen to sixteen years old.”

“Fuck.” Rodriguez aspirated the exclamation. “Any of them from Marion Barry Junior High?”

“Not sure, but probably. We won’t know until you print out photos of the girls’ faces and show them around the school.”

“You realize it’s going to take a while to do that without panicking half the parents in the school system or having it wind up on the front page of the papers?”

Which will keep you out of my way while I deal with this vampire issue, Preston thought. “I know that. That’s why I’m asking you do to this. I need someone who can not only get this done thoroughly, but can carry it out diplomatically.”

“I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Not really.”

Rodriguez sighed. “When is the autopsy being performed?”

“It’s not. Since the cause of death is obvious, the family arranged to bypass an autopsy and go directly to internment.”

“Isn’t the family interested in catching the killer?”

Preston shook his head. “Given how he died, and the fact that the killer was probably a teenage girl, my guess is the family and the school are going to brush this under the rug and claim he died of a heart attack or something like that.”

“How the hell did they pull that off?”

“Fletcher had some influential friends on the School Board and in the mayor’s office who don’t want this to become a media circus. Fuck the truth and the sodomized teenagers, just as long as we keep the school system’s precious reputation intact.” Preston reached into his pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. “Fletcher’s now at the Serra Funeral Home in Georgetown. Swing by there and pick up his personal belongings. And see if the mortician can give you any further insight into how he died. If we can’t get an autopsy, at least we might be able to get something from the preparation of the corpse.”

Rodriguez folded the scrap of paper and slid it into his pocket. “So what are my marching orders? Find out what’s going on, or make sure this whole thing stays hidden under the rug?”

“For now, find out what’s going on, but do it quietly. Once we have a better handle on what Fletcher was involved in and who his victims were, then we can reevaluate whether it’s worth expending political capital on this.”

Rodriguez sighed. “Washington politics. The best leadership money can buy.”

Preston stood. As he passed by Rodriguez, he patted him on the shoulder. “Do the best you can. And let me know if you run into any blowback.”

Exiting the squad room, Preston prided himself on another successful manipulation. Personally, he could give a fuck how the investigation turned out. That pedophilic little prick got his bit off by one of his little whores, a fitting if somewhat twisted justice. If the investigation succeeded, Preston could share in the credit. If the investigation created a scandal and ruffled political feathers, then he would sacrifice Rodriguez for exceeding his authority. In either case, Preston had succeeded in sidelining Rodriguez while he dealt with the undead.

THE TWO MEN stood in the litter-strewn backyard of the row house, staring at the building’s rear façade. For the first time since he had been hunting the undead in Washington, Drake felt apprehensive. He had no idea what made him uneasy. It was a beautiful autumn day. An early afternoon sun bathed the wall in brilliant light, revealing every blemish. Pocks from where a fusillade of police bullets had gouged the wall. Charred bricks formed a fan pattern above the top floor windows, remnants of the fire started by Drake during their escape. Every window contained shattered panes of glass, with most of the boards used to block out the sun being blasted from the frames. A battered remnant of a normal life long past, with all its flaws and imperfections exposed to the light of day.

Which probably explained his unease. Usually Drake entered buildings like these in the dead of night when the dark obscured reality. He normally fought the undead in subways or underground garages, places permanently enshrouded in dark. The one time he had entered this nest, he had done so through a tunnel connected to a sewer. It seemed like he lived out his life in an alternate world to the rest of humanity, a world that lacked light or warmth. A world inhabited by the undead. He had lived in that world for so long it had become second nature to him. Going through a door in the middle of the day like a normal person offered him a new perspective and gave him a chance to compare the ordinary world with the one he lived in.

“Ready?” asked Smith.

“I guess so.”

Smith reached under his Savile Row suit jacket and withdrew a Sig Sauer P229 semi-automatic from his shoulder holster. He flipped off the safety.

Drake chuckled. “If we run into any vampires, that won’t help you.”

Smith thought about it for a second. Shrugging, he slid the semi-automatic back into his shoulder holster.

Drake pulled out one of his Glocks and handed it over. “If it makes you feel better, take this. The rounds are laced with holy water.”

“Thanks.” Smith pushed aside the front flap of his suit jacket and tucked the Glock between his pants and the small of his back. He patted Drake on the shoulder. “Come on.”

The two crossed the backyard and climbed the few steps to the rear door. Drake yanked away the strands of yellow barricade tape stapled to the jamb and tried the knob. Locked.

“You have any special tools for unlocking doors?”

“Yup.” Raising his foot, Smith slammed his heel against the door just above the knob. With a crack of splintering wood, the door flew open until it banged against the wall. It shuddered, closed slightly, then stopped. Smith grinned. “The low-tech methods are still the best.”

“Works for me.”

The two men switched on their flashlights. Drake led the way inside.

Despite the boards that had covered the kitchen windows having been mostly been blown out, darkness still shrouded most of the room. Enough light remained for the two men to see a squad of rats abandon their foraging and dash for the safety of the inner walls, and of the cockroaches swarming over the appliances and through the cabinets. The musty smell of accumulated mold mixed with the sickeningly sweet stench of decayed meat. Smith coughed several times and gagged, then pressed his left wrist under his nose to block the smell.

“Welcome to my world,” said Drake.

“You can have it.”

Drake led the way to the door leading to the basement and shined his light inside. He barely recognized it. The decayed bodies had been removed, the only evidence of their existence being the chalk outlines the police had drawn around each victim. The number of outlines and their grotesquely-twisted forms attested to the horrors that took place down there. The city had filled in the entrance tunnel leading to the sewer, the giant cement plug reminding Drake of a tombstone sitting atop a mass grave.

The two men stepped out of the kitchen into the foyer. Here enough light poured through the uncovered windows that flashlights were no longer necessary. In front of the kitchen door, a pile of vampire ash had been strewn about by the police and firemen, with several footprints ground into the hardwood floor.

“This is what’s left of the snuffy Alison used as shield to protect us from the gunfire.”

“She’s resourceful.”

Drake took Smith on a room-by-room tour of the row house, pointing out where he and Alison had slain each vampire. Seeing the chalk outlines where police had found blood-drained bodies brought home to both men the true revulsion of what went on in this nest and the viciousness of the enemy they faced. After checking out the room on the third floor where the main battle had taken place, they walked down the hall and stopped a few yards short of the master bedroom. Scorched wood and blistered paint surrounded the doorway and sprawled along the ceiling.

“This is the room the snuffies came out of. Alison and I never got a chance to check it out. I tossed two bottles of Heaven’s Fire in here, just in case.”

Carefully walking up to the door in case the fire had damaged the floorboards, the two men peered inside. Jim’s home-made napalm had gutted the room. The inner walls and most of the floorboards were burned away, exposing the supporting beams that were charred black by the flames. The remains of a bed and the scalded wire frame from a mattress dominated the floor. Few ashes remained, most of them having been washed away by the concentrated streams of water used to put out the fire.

Smith switched on his flashlight and shined it around the remains, carefully studying the room. “You did a good job of torching this room. If the master was in here, she wouldn’t have survived.”

“The key word is ‘if.’ There’s no way to confirm it.”

“Yeah.” Smith shined the flashlight around the room one final time, trying to convince himself they had eliminated the master. Common sense prevailed. “So we go on the assumption that she’s still alive?”

“We have no other choice.”

“Damn.” Smith switched off the flashlight and turned to Drake. “What now?”

“We continue our nightly hunts. If we’re lucky, we’ll find the new nest and destroy it before it gets too big.”

REESE CLOSED THE back cover of a Spanish-language edition of Dante’s Inferno. He shut his eyes, trying to alleviate the strain from seven hours of non-stop reading. It did not work. Even more frustrating, he was only halfway through his search.

After not finding any memoirs for Antonio Ferrar dated post 21 September 1485, he decided to thumb through each of the inquisitor’s books, page by page, hoping to find a notation on the endplates or in the margins of a page that might provide a clue to what happened after his last diary entry. It sounded simple enough. After all, Ferrar’s personal library contained less than thirty books. But simplicity quickly turned to monotony when he began the arduous task of thumbing through each volume. Several hours and hundreds of brittle pages later, all Reese had come across were a few inscriptions in a couple of the books and personal notes from superiors who had given these books as gifts. Nothing useful. And there were another dozen books in the archives he still needed to look at. Not a promising prospect.

Reese placed the book he had just finished perusing back into its special basswood case, closed the lid, and returned it to its climate-controlled bookcase. He removed the next basswood case and brought it back to his work station, where he opened the lid and removed from its setting an oversized presentation Bible. It measured thirteen-by-seventeen inches in diameter, and bore a title inlaid in gold on the leather cover. According to an inscription on the inside cover, the Bible had been a gift from Pedro Arbues, the canon of Saragossa Cathedral, to “his most loyal and faithful servant in Christ.” Despite being more than five hundred years old, the Bible was in near pristine condition, obviously having been used infrequently. Reese confirmed that assessment when he opened the Bible to the pages set off by the red linen bookmark. The binder crackled when he opened it, not from age but from lack of use. The marked section was from Isaiah. Reese scanned the pages, his eyes eventually falling on a single passage surrounded by two hand-drawn brackets. “I form the light and create darkness: I make peace and create evil: I the Lord do all these things.”

Not necessarily the Holy Grail, but it was the best lead he had all day. Hell, it was the only lead he had all day.

Wanting to re-read the inscription, Reese closed the Bible and opened just the front cover. As he leaned closer to examine the handwriting, he noticed an inch-long tear in the material where the front cover met the binder. The tear ran the length of the Bible and had been carefully resealed with glue, done so meticulously that a casual glance would not reveal the damage. Damage may not have been the appropriate word, for on closer examination Reese noticed that the tear seemed clean, looking more like someone had purposefully sliced the material. The glue had long since lost its adhesiveness, which allowed the cover to separate from the binder. Reese lifted the Bible so the lamplight fell directly on it, trying to see if there was anything between the cover and the binder. He saw the edges of what looked like several lose pages.

Reese laid the Bible back on the table, trying to contain his excitement. Not looking up or moving his head, he scanned the research room with his eyes. None of the other researchers sat at his table, and the three at the other tables all had their backs to him. The archivist with the auburn hair sat at her station in the main hall, out of their line of sight. Placing his right hand on the pages of the Bible to hold it in place, Reese slowly pushed down on the front cover. The glue gave way, slowly increasing the tear along the length. He placed his thumb under the front cover just as it separated. Lowering the cover onto the table, he got a look at the binder. Several sheets of five-by-seven inch paper were tucked into a hand-made pocket created between the cover’s hard interior support and its leather covering. Taking a last surreptitious look to make sure no one was watching, he slid out the pages and closed the cover.

Reese recognized the handwriting as belonging to Antonio Ferrar. He grew really excited when he noticed the date in the upper right corner of the first page. 27 September 1485. Six days after the final entry in his archived memoirs.

Reese practically trembled with anticipation as he read the text, mentally translating from the original Latin.

27 September 1485

I am committing this account to a separate journal out of fear. Fear that I am slowly losing my sanity. Or worse, fear that my sanity remains intact, and that the evil I confront actually exists.

I speak, of course, about Emilio Carius, the unholy one. Even writing his name fills me with dread, for it is as if I cited the infernal name of Lucifer himself. Any humanity that once shone in the darkness of his being—if, in fact, such humanity ever existed—has long since been extinguished. I have been charged by the Holy Father to save men’s souls. Alas, this one has no soul to save.

Let me return to the beginning to properly record the nightmarish events that have unfolded.

Four nights ago, Emilio Carius was brought to Aljaferia, along with five other men and a woman, charged with the murder of the beloved Canon of Saragossa Cathedral, Pedro Arbues. The others are insignificant. They have already admitted their crimes, have been absolved of their sins, and received just punishment. May God have mercy on their souls.

Emilio Carius is different.

I knew soon after they brought him to Aljaferia that evil consumed this man. It was not the vile blasphemies that emanated from his tongue in a steady stream of verbal defilements against God the Father and Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Nor was it the fact that it required six of our strongest men to subdue and bring him into custody, or that a series of chains were required to be draped across and wrapped around his body to hold him in place. Even the accusations against him—that he only left his residence at night during the witching hours, that he was frequently witnessed cavorting with immoral women or tempting young children, none of whom were ever seen again—failed to accurately define his inner darkness. No, what bespoke of his evil was his imperviousness to the physical tribulations he endured, tribulations designed to bring about a cleansing of the soul and the redemption from sin.

For three days we attempted to convince him to confess his sins and renounce Satan, all to no avail. Though I may be condemned to eternal damnation for daring to commit this to paper, it seems as if God’s merciful presence had abandoned Aljaferia.

On the first day, we tried the strappado. Tying his hands behind his back and the weights around his ankles was difficult due to his inhuman strength. God forgive me, I doubt we would have been able to succeed if he had not wanted us to subject him to tribulation to taunt our faith in the Almighty. No man or woman has been able to endure the strappado for long. Yet when we hoisted his bound wrists onto the pulley and lifted him off the ground, Emilio Carius laughed and blasphemed the Lord God and the Holy Catholic Church. We raised and dropped him a dozen times, and nary once did he even groan in discomfort. On the thirteenth drop—the unholy number—the weights around his ankles proved too great a burden for his body to bear, breaking his arms. I know as sure as I know there is a God Almighty that Carius’ arms broke, for the sound of their snapping was audible to all present, and his inability to use them afterwards was evident. I emphasize this point to make clear the unholy nature of what happened next, for after hoisting Carius down and returning him to his cell, next morning his arms were healed completely as if no injury occurred. A demonic sign if ever I have witnessed one.

On the second day, we tried the water. Again, strapping him to the trestle was difficult, requiring three times as many ropes and chains as is normal to ensure his being secure. We used a stick to place the strip of linen down his throat for fear of being bitten. But when we lowered his head and poured water on the linen, it had no effect. Again, he barely seemed to suffer discomfort. I ordered the guards to double the amount of water poured on the linen and to triple his time on the trestle, steps that would kill a normal man. I swear by all that is Holy that none of this had any effect on him. After the guards took Carius back to his cell, they talked in fear amongst themselves about the powerful nature of the evil we faced.

On the third day we tried the fire. As we tied Carius to the floor and doused his feet in oil, I thought I detected a touch of fear in his voice as he blasphemed all that is holy about our Church. But when we positioned his feet near the flames, his fear—if indeed it was fear—did not prevent him from continuing his stream of invectives against God and from spewing forth the most disgusting and vile blasphemies about the Holy Virgin Mother.

From the ultimate evil can flow the ultimate blessings, and that was when I discovered by the grace of our All Merciful God the demon’s weakness.

“Fifteen minutes to closing,” announced the archivist from the doorway.

Shit. Reese looked at his watch, irrationally hoping that maybe she had misread the time. No such luck. He looked up, startled to see her staring intently at him. Oh, God. Did she notice the memoirs spread out on the workspace? If she became suspicious and came over to investigate, and discovered how he had defaced the Bible, he would be banned from the archives and never get to finish reading the memoirs. Reese smiled, hoping to defuse the stern look.

The lines around her lips and eyes became even sharper, if possible. Taking the index finger of her right hand, she tapped it several times against her watch. Reese acknowledged her with a thumb up. The stern features did not soften any, but at last she left the room and went back about her business.

Knowing he had only a few minutes at most to put everything back in order without intrusion, Reese worked quickly. He realigned the pages of the memoirs so they were perfectly stacked. He opened the Bible and slid the pages back into the pocket in the cover. Per his usual routine, he replaced the Bible in its basswood case and shelved it, breathing an inward sigh of relief that no one caught him. With everything put away, Reese gathered up his belongings and left, wishing the archivist a pleasant good night.

Once outside, Reese paused. His heart still raced with excitement. He had found a secret memoir by Antonio Ferrar, one that no previous historian had ever known existed, let alone read. Even more exciting, it dealt with the legendary vampire who last owned the Vampyrnomicon. He had stumbled across a historical goldmine, a once in a lifetime find. Unfortunately, he would have to put off mining that gold until the Freer opened again tomorrow morning.

Zipping up his jacket against the chill, Reese headed back to his hotel for dinner.

NEGOTIATING THE RUSH hour traffic through Georgetown, Rodriguez spent more time with his foot on the brake than on the accelerator. After lurching to a stop for the umpteenth time, he began to wish he had taken the squad car rather this his own, because that way he could have switched on the siren and flashing blues and expedited his way through the congestion. Instead, he used his own car so he could go home right after taking care of business at the funeral home. That would make his wife and daughter happy. However, when the gridlock at Whitehurst Freeway and Wisconsin Avenue caused him to miss the traffic signal for the third time, he regretted his decision.

By the time he made it onto Wisconsin Avenue and turned left onto the street where the Serra Funeral Home was located, he already had gone an hour past the end of his shift. He did not need a clock to tell him that. The setting sun creeping toward the horizon glared down the street, taunting him with another late shift. He pulled down the visor. Squinting against the brightness, Rodriguez almost overshot the driveway leading into the funeral home’s parking lot. He turned the steering wheel sharply to the right, bounced the front tire over the curb as he entered the driveway, and parked around back. Two minutes later, he stood on the back porch ringing the service bell.

An extremely attractive blonde opened the door. Standing five-and-a-half feet in height with shoulder-length hair, she reminded Rodriguez of a young Jodie Foster. Her attire took him by surprise—white blouse, black skirt, and black heels. Granted, he did not expect a hunchback with a broken neck, but neither did he anticipate meeting someone who looked like they just stepped out of a Washington law firm.

“May I help you?” she asked, a solemn expression masking any emotion.

“Are you Miss Hughes?”

“I am.”

“I’m Officer Rodriguez with the Washington Police.” He offered his hand. “We spoke a few hours ago about Michael Fletcher.”

“Do you have some identification, please?”

“Of course.”

Rodriguez reached under his jacket and pulled out his badge, flipped it open, and presented it. She examined it for several seconds, then moved aside and held open the door.

“Please, come in. Sorry to seem so paranoid. We have to protect the deceased’s privacy.”

Rodriguez stepped inside. “Is that really a problem, Miss Hughes?”

“You’d be surprised. Once we were preparing a former child star who had ODed on cocaine while staying here in Washington. A tabloid journalist showed up claiming to be a police photographer.” She closed the door and turned to Rodriguez, flashing him a flirtatious smile. “And please, call me Michelle.”

Michelle led Rodriguez through the back rooms of the funeral home and down a flight of stairs to the embalming room. As they approached, Rodriguez coughed, the overpowering odor of disinfectants irritating his sinuses. Still, it was not as aggravating as having to listen to George Thorogood’s Bad to the Bone blasting from a stereo system. When they entered the embalming room, Rodriguez stopped short, taken aback by the sight before him.

His gaze focused on the stainless steel table in the center of the floor. Atop the table lay the cadaver of a middle-aged man, naked except for a piece of cloth discretely covering its genitals. Its head rested on a plastic block, and its arms were folded across its chest in a state of peaceful repose, temporarily held in place by a wooden positioning device. Between the loss of blood and the pale, waxy appearance, the cadaver looked more like a movie prop than something that once had been alive.

The mortician stood behind the table. Wearing a full-length white vinyl coat, yellow latex gloves, and a surgical mask, he looked like a mad scientist. He hovered over the cadaver holding what appeared to be a nail gun. The mortician placed the gun against the cadaver’s gum just beneath its nose and depressed the trigger. A hydraulic thump echoed over the music. When the mortician pulled the gun away, Rodriguez could see the head of a needle imbedded in the cadaver’s gum, with a short length of wire attached. The mortician performed the same procedure to the matching spot on the lower gum. Rodriguez nearly puked when the mortician began tying the two strands of wire together, wiring the jaw shut.

Michelle leaned into Rodriguez and spoke loud enough to be heard over the music. “First time seeing a dead body?”

“I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies. I’ve just never seen them… like this.”

Hearing the two talking, the mortician looked up from his work and reached over to turn off the stereo. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Michelle answered for them. “Bob, this is Officer Rodriguez with the Washington Police. He’s here to pick up Fletcher’s personal affects.”

“Nice to meet you.” Rodriguez stepped up to the work table and extended his hand.

Bob did not offer his own. “Don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t want to be shaking my hand right now.”

Rodriguez could not argue with that.

“Michelle, could you get Officer Rodriguez the bag with Fletcher’s personal belongings?”

“Sure thing.”

As she left, Bob bent over the cadaver. “If you’ll excuse me. I need to finish up here, and then we can talk.”

“Go ahead.”

Rodriguez moved to one side so as not to be in the way, but still watched with morbid fascination. Bob moved to the next stage of the embalming process. He took several bottles containing various fluids from underneath the stand holding the embalming machine and emptied them into the machine’s container tank.

“Is that formaldehyde?” asked Rodriguez.

“A mixture of formaldehyde and glutaraldehyde.” Bob held out the empty bottle for Rodriguez to see. “The rest of the solution is made up of germicides, preservatives, dyes, water, and a bunch of other chemicals.”

“It sounds like a drink at a bar I know of in Dupont Circle.”

“Trust me. This cocktail would rip out your insides within seconds.”

Bob finished filling the container tank with two gallons of embalming fluid mixture. Taking a scalpel from the tray, he used it to make a small incision several inches long near the cadaver’s collarbone, then used an aneurism hook to pull back the layers of skin and muscle until the arteries were exposed. He raised the right common carotid artery above the skin and strung two sutures underneath it, holding the artery in place, then followed the same procedure with the right jugular vein. Again using the scalpel, Bob made one incision each in the carotid artery and the jugular vein. Picking up two tubes from where they rested by the embalming machine, Bob inserted the pumping arterial tube into the carotid artery pointing toward the heart, inserted the drain tube into the jugular vein, and secured both in place with sutures. With all the preparations having been made, Bob switched on the embalming machine and set the pump’s pulse feature. Embalming fluid pumped down the arterial tube. As the fluid was injected into Fletcher’s cadaver and filled the vascular system, the body began to expand to its normal size. Every few seconds, the pulsing action would eject remnants of blood and bodily fluid out of the drain tube, which emptied into a nearby sink.

After removing his gloves and wiping his palms on a towel draped over the rim of the sink, Bob stepped over to Rodriguez and extended his hand. “Let me properly introduce myself. I’m Bob Hanley.”

“Juan Rodriguez. Nice to meet you.” He shook the mortician’s hand. “You have an interesting operation here.”

“Thanks. It’s not for everyone, though. It grossed the shit out of me for the first few months. That’s why I could never understand why Michelle wants to get into the business.”

Rodriguez looked over his shoulder to see Michelle enter holding a clear plastic bag filled with bloodied cloths. She shook her head in good-natured frustration. “Don’t listen to him. He just feels threatened because I like this stuff as much as he does.”

“Three weeks’ vacation and all I can eat,” said Bob in a passable imitation of Boris Karloff.

Michelle handed the bag to Rodriguez. “Here are Fletcher’s personal effects.”

“Thanks. Can I bring these back to the station with me?”

“As long as you sign an itemized list of the contents.”

“We have to be careful about accounting for the deceased’s personal belongings and for every mark on the body,” added Bob. “You’d be surprised how many people would sue to make a buck off of a loved one’s death.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about the body while preparing it?”

“Other than its sex organs were chomped off?” Bob forced a grin. “Seriously, no. I examined the body myself when it arrived.”

“No bite marks on the neck?”

“Nothing like that. The body—”

The stirring on the embalming table attracted everyone’s attention. Rodriguez’ eyes widened in disbelief. Michelle gasped. Bob said it best when he muttered, “Holy fuckin’ Christ.”

Fletcher moved. Nothing dramatic. More like someone stirring in their sleep. As they watched, the cadaver changed. The hydrating muscles became developed and toned. Its fingers extended and its nails elongated into talons. Its face underwent the most severe transformation, with the forehead protruding and becoming deeply-furrowed, and the mouth twisting and churning as something changed underneath the skin. What lay on the table no longer appeared human.

“Oh my God,” rasped Michelle. “Did the embalming fluid do that?”

“I don’t think so,” answered Bob, bending over the cadaver. “I’ve never read of such a reaction—”

The body went rigid, causing the three to jump back. A primal scream bellowed from its lungs, muffled by the mouth being wired shut. Twisting its head and stretching its jaws, it strained to open its mouth until the skin began to tear around the wires. Finally, the mouth sprung open in a jagged, gaping yaw, leaving chunks of jaw and dislodged teeth clinging to the wires. It took a deep breath and let out an agonized howl.

Raising its arms, the thing that was once Fletcher clawed at its collarbone, gouging out dead flesh and muscles. Instead of blood, pink fluid flowed from its veins and arteries. It eventually found the arterial tube and ripped it out. The tube clattered to the floor, still spewing embalming fluid. The vampire fell back onto the table, writhing in agony and ripping away its flesh to release the fluid still in its system.

Michelle staggered backward, tripping over a box and falling onto her back. She kept crawling away until she slammed into the wall. Bob stood frozen in a pool of his own urine. Only Rodriguez snapped out of the original shock.

“Shut that thing off!” he ordered, shoving Bob toward the embalming machine.

As the mortician fumbled with the controls, eventually shutting down the flow of fluid, Rodriguez looked around for something to put the vampire out if its agony. He spotted an axe in a glass-enclosed firefighting station on the far wall. Racing over and smashing the glass with his elbow, Rodriguez grabbed the axe and ran back to the table. Raising the weapon above his head, he aimed for the neck. Because of the vampire’s writhing, the blade crashed into its mouth, practically severing the lower jaw. The blow splattered Rodriguez with chunks of skin and fragmented teeth. Rodriguez tried to yank the imbedded axe free, twisting it several times. He nearly puked at the squishing noise the blade made against the muscles. When the axe finally came loose, the jawbone fell away, giving Rodriguez a clear shot at the neck. He raised the axe a second time, took careful aim, and brought it down hard, severing the head with a single blow. A look of relief washed over the vampire’s mangled features as its head dropped to the floor.

Embalming fluid sprayed from the neck, covering the table and floor. The body stiffened one final time before beginning its disintegration. The skin darkened and peeled off like embers from a burning log, revealing muscles and organs that crumbled into ash. Once exposed to air, the body fell apart from the heart outward, consuming itself more rapidly with each second. The left shoulder caved in on itself, freeing the drain tube which fell onto the table and rolled off onto the floor. Its head crumbled last, the remnants mixing with the spilled embalming fluid. Within thirty seconds, nothing remained of Fletcher but ash and a nightmarish memory.

Rodriguez stepped over to Michelle, who huddled against the wall in a fetal position, her head pressed tightly against her knees. She flinched when he touched her. Rodriguez crouched down and offered his hand again.

“It’s all right. It’s over.”

Tentatively, Michelle took his hand and struggled to her feet. She leaned back against the wall and sobbed. Rodriguez wrapped his arms around her and hugged, trying to provide some solace.

“W-what the hell just happened here?” asked Bob, still in shock.

“There’s a new narcotic on the street that has strange effects on its users,” Rodriguez lied. “It must have reacted with some of the chemicals in the embalming fluid.”

“A drug that brings the dead back to life?”

Rodriguez ignored the question.

Bob moved closer to the table and examined the carnage. “What the hell am I supposed to tell the family?”

“Tell them what I just told you.”

“Yeah.” Bob struggled with the story, slowly accepting it. “Do you think they’ll believe it?”

“Of course they will.”

Rodriguez did not know, or really care, if the Fletcher family believed a story so fucking outlandish. He only hoped Roach and Preston would.

ANGELA STROLLED DOWN the sidewalk, her stiletto heels clicking against the pavement. Despite the chilly night air, she wore a leather mini-skirt and a red silk tank top. An outfit, she could boast with pride, that nicely accentuated her long legs and naturally large breasts, and which complimented her neck-length auburn hair. Not that it did much good. Business had been slow these past few weeks, so she wore the whorish attire to attract a john. Since she was not about to lower her fee, she needed to dress more seductively than usual to give them a bigger bang for their buck, no pun intended. The look, unfortunately, had not drummed up any business, and all she had to show for her efforts were blisters and a set of nipples rigid from the cold.

She turned left off of H Street, walked a few blocks, and turned left again, heading back toward Union Station and the surrounding hotels. With luck, she would find a lonely businessman or horny tourist looking for some companionship. Angela had walked a block when she saw a handsome man approaching from the opposite direction, of average build and height, with a goatee and black hair down to his shoulders. She liked what she saw. The way he bore himself suggested someone extremely confident, and his clothes hinted of money, much better than her usual johns. Hell, she might have done him for free if she was not already behind on her rent.

As they drew close, Angela maneuvered into his path. “Are you looking for a good time?”

The potential john looked her over, definitely pleased with what he saw. The sideways glance up and down the street, though, told her the rest of the story. Most of the men she knew frequented working girls, but were embarrassed to be seen with them. Hypocritical, but typical. And something that could easily be dealt with.

Moving closer, Angela placed a hand on his chest, circling her fingers against the shirt. She spoke in a sultry voice not much louder than a whisper. “I know a place not far from here where we can be alone. It’s not the Waldorf, but it’s private enough that we can party for a while without being disturbed.”

“Really?”

The sudden interest confirmed to Angela she had closed the deal. Wrapping her arms around the john’s left arm, she maneuvered him back down the street in the direction of Union Station. “My name’s Angela. What’s yours?”

“Santos.”

The two walked for a few blocks, and then turned down an alley that ran between a pair of old buildings converted into office space for small businesses. They stopped one hundred feet in by an old iron door built into the side of the brick wall and hidden from the street by a dumpster. Most of the paint had long since peeled off the door, and rust had formed on the exposed metal. It might have been mistaken for an abandoned entrance except for the shiny deadbolt. Angela looked around to make certain no one saw them, produced a key from the pocket of her skirt, and quickly unlocked the deadbolt.

“What is this place?”

“You’ll see.” Angela tugged on the handle, and the door opened with a squeal of rusty hinges. Reaching in, she flicked on a light switch and stepped inside. “Come on, lover.”

Santos obeyed. The two stood on a metal landing to a circular flight of wrought-iron stairs that descended underground. Angela closed and bolted the door behind them. Walking carefully on her toes so as not to get her heels stuck in the stairs, she led the way down. They soon came to a cement landing and another metal door, this one in much better condition and without a lock. Angela opened the door, reached in to switch on another light, and beckoned for Santos to follow.

The room was ten feet wide by fifteen feet long. Another door and a large rectangular window dominated the opposite wall. Nothing could be seen through the window, everything on the other side being pitch dark. Beneath the window and running its length stood an old floor-mounted console with gaping holes where the electronics used to be. An old but reasonably clean mattress sat against the wall to their right.

Angela leaned back against the console, her legs spread invitingly. “Whaddaya think?”

“Nice.” Santos stepped beside her and stared out the window into the void. “Where are we?”

“It’s part of an old train storage line for the Metro. They stopped using it decades ago because it was too close to Union Station and had become congested. Since then, they’ve forgotten about it. A friend of mine who used to work for the Metro gave me the keys. We’d come here once a month. I’d give him a freebie, he’d give me a Metro pass.” Since the idle chatter chewed into her work time, Angela got down to business. “The price is a hundred dollars. For that, you get whatever you want.”

Santos handed her five twenty-dollar bills, which she folded and slid into her skirt pocket. Angela unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it off, draping the garment over the console. She started to unzip her skirt, but Santos placed his hand on hers.

“Keep them on.”

“Whatever you want, lover.” She placed the toe of her shoes against his leg, running it up and down. “How do you want it?”

“Turn around.”

Angela obeyed and bent over the console, her legs spread wide. With her left hand, she hefted the leather mini-skirt, exposing her ass. She felt Santos move closer and heard him unzip his pants. His cock head nudged her anus. Then, with a slow thrust, he entered her.

Angela gasped. She had taken it up the ass many times, but rarely with a cock this big. And cold. Usually her johns were so horny their dicks practically burned her. But a cock was a cock. At least this guy had good staying power. Most of her johns shot their wads quickly. Not this guy. He humped her ass with deep, steady strokes. She almost enjoyed this. She could tell by his increasingly heavy breathing that he did, too.

Suddenly, Santos grabbed Angela by the back of the neck and squeezed. The steady rhythm of their sex gave way to aggressive fucking. He began slamming into her as deep and as hard as he could. This went way beyond rough sex.

“Hey, you’re hurting me!”

Santos increased the ferocity of his fucking.

“All right, asshole. Get the fuck off—”

Santos clutched Angela’s hair in his right hand and slammed her face into the console. She felt her nose shatter. The pain from the broken nose and the blow momentarily stunned her. She was only vaguely aware of her attacker grunting like an animal, and raping her so viciously she knew she would have to go to the emergency room afterwards. Tricks had gone bad before, and she had learned to go along with it rather than fight back, and hopefully live through the ordeal. Opening her mouth to breath, she spit a wad of bloody mucus onto the counter.

When Angela looked up into the darkened window, the reflection made her blood run cold. She expected to see her attacker mounted on her, fucking away like a maniac. Instead, she saw a monster. The goatee and long hair had become matted over a pallid face and deeply-furrowed forehead. It panted its lust through an enlarged mouth with animal-like teeth and canines two inches long and razor sharp. When it lowered its head, blood-red eyes gleamed back at her in the reflection. The thing grinned at her and growled.

Angela screamed, even though she knew no one would hear her all the way down here. Half-way through the cry, the thing wrapped its hand over her mouth, talon-like fingernails digging into her cheek. It yanked her head back, wedging her against its chest. She watched in the reflection as the thing’s mouth opened wide. With an animalistic howl, it dropped its head, plunged the fangs into her neck, and sucked. This is fucking insane, she thought, it’s drinking my blood. Angela tried to struggle loose, but the thing gripped her too tight. It grunted and made one final deep thrust, releasing itself inside of Angela as the life passed from her.

TREJA ENTERED THE abandoned control room after having examined the train storage line for himself. The little whore had been right about this place being isolated. A quarter of a mile of branch line sat just off of this room. The entry into the main subway had been sealed up long ago, so tight in fact that he could barely hear the Metro trains rumbling past on the other side. As far as he could tell, the tunnel’s structural integrity remained intact, with little to no chance of a cave-in. The stairwell from the alley that he and the bitch had entered by was the only way in or out of the tunnel. With the alley door locked, no one could get in. He could set up locks on the door leading into the tunnel so no one could get out.

This location would make a perfect site for his coven.

The bloody body of the whore lay crumbled on the floor in front of the console. She had been a good fuck, but she would make an even better mistress for the new coven.

10

ROLLING ONTO HER stomach, Jessica pulled the pillow against her and hugged it. She sighed. Last night’s lovemaking had been fantastic. Drake had been distracted most of the earlier part of the night through dinner and the movie. Once back at his apartment that changed. Drake literally picked her up and carried her into the bedroom where they made love with a passion she had not experienced since college. Each of them had finished twice before eventually falling asleep in each other’s arms.

She sighed again, burying her cheek into the pillow. How things had changed these past few weeks, and all for the better, which in and of itself seemed unusual. She had the two things she always wanted, a lover and a career, neither of which took more out of the relationship than they gave back.

Drake was the ideal boyfriend. Confident. Self-reliant. Employed. Most important, he did not feel threatened by a strong, independent woman, especially when her career overlapped with and often opposed his own. Sure, he had some rough edges. But he could say the same thing about her. They had a good relationship.

Much the same could be said for her career. Six months ago it seemed about as badly derailed as an Amtrak train. Her piece on the police raid on the row house redeemed her in the eyes of Philips and the publishers, even if she left out half the truth and stretched the other half so it fit the reader’s preconceived notions of reality. Following that, her review of the Antonio Ferrar exhibit put her in their good graces. Philips had promised her that the next assignment would solidify her position at The Standard. Things looked promising, and by this time next year she should be one of the paper’s star reporters.

Life was good. Which meant Jessica waited for something to come along and fuck it up.

Rolling in the other direction, she went to drape her arm over Drake, but it dropped onto the empty mattress. She opened her eyes and looked around. Drake already had gotten up. The red LED on his alarm clock read 7:38. She didn’t mean to spend the entire night here, and would have to go to work in the same clothes she wore yesterday unless she hustled back to her place.

The aroma of freshly-brewed coffee wafted into the bedroom. Getting out of bed, she slid on her panties and white blouse, buttoning up the middle three buttons as she exited. She walked down the hall and past the foyer. As she stepped into the living room, she saw Drake seated in his recliner, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. In his left hand he held a glass of iced coffee, which he sipped from every few seconds. With his right hand, he pulled various greens from a Ziploc bag, feeding them one-by-one to Van Helsing who sat on his lap. Drake took out a six-inch-long sprig of dill and offered it to the rabbit. Van Helsing consumed the dill, crunching away lustily until the entire sprig disappeared. Drake then fed him a chunk of radicchio.

“How come I don’t get breakfast in bed?”

Jessica’s question startled Van Helsing, who crouched in Drake’s lap, the half-eaten piece of radicchio hanging out of his mouth. When he saw the intruder was only Jessica, he resumed munching on his breakfast.

Drake patted his companion’s back as he looked up at Jessica. “I’ll be happy to give you breakfast in bed, if you sit on my lap and let me feed you.”

“I’ll make my own breakfast, thanks.” She slowly moved to the recliner so as not to startle Van Helsing and kissed Drake on the forehead. “What’s up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night when we made love, and now the way you’re playing with Van Helsing. You seem so….” Jessica could not think of the right word.

“Alive?”

“Yeah.”

Drake fed Van Helsing a carrot slice. “There’s more to life than just hunting vampires.”

“Does that mean you’re giving up hunting?”

“I wish.” With no more greens left to give Van Helsing, Drake lifted his companion off his lap and hugged him. Van Helsing tolerated the affection for several seconds, then nudged Drake’s nose with his own and dug with his front paws against his t-shirt. Drake placed Van Helsing back on his lap. The rabbit jumped onto the floor and scampered into his den, but not before giving Drake a derisive flick of his rear paws. Drake stood up and brushed fur off of his lap.

“I’d love to give up hunting and lead a normal life. Maybe even open up a private investigation agency.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I have a job to do.” Drake headed toward the kitchen. “I made some hot coffee for you. Want some?”

“I’d love some.” Jessica followed Drake. “You know, you can’t rid the world of the undead by yourself?”

“If everyone thought that way, the world would eventually be overrun by them.” Drake removed a coffee mug from the cabinet and placed it on the counter in front of Jessica, then removed the pot from the coffee maker and filled it. “Besides, I’m not trying to rid the world of the undead. Just Washington.”

Jessica picked up the mug. “I thought you destroyed the nest during the raid on the row house?”

“We can’t be certain we got the master.” Drake finished off his iced coffee and placed the empty glass in the sink. “For all we know, she’s still alive and is rebuilding the nest.”

“But you’ve already cleaned out the city of most of its vampires.”

“That’s not the point. I signed on to clear Washington of all its vampires. Until I’ve done that, I’m in for the duration.” Van Helsing entered the kitchen, his claws clicking on the tiled floor. He ran up to Drake, nudged his foot, and presented himself. Drake bent over and picked up the rabbit, cradling him in his arms and kissing him on the forehead. “I just have to spend more time appreciating those things that are important to me.”

“Like Van Helsing.”

“And you.”

Jessica took a long drink of coffee, more to hide her smile than anything else. Every day she became more attracted to Drake. She had several relationships in the past, and even a few that had not ended in disaster. She had a unique relationship with Drake, and not just because it was a bond between opposites. The investigator and the investigatee. The coward and the daredevil. The homebody and the hellion. This went deeper than affection based on differences. She felt complete when with Drake because he never criticized or tried to change her. He didn’t talk down to her or treat her like a trophy girlfriend. They had only known each other for a few weeks, and had dated for even less. Yet during that time, he had been nothing but supportive, even when their professional interests were opposed to one another. What started out for her as a news story had turned into an affair, one that made her happier than she had felt in years. She only had to make sure that Drake didn’t get himself killed or that she didn’t fuck it up.

No problem at all, if she excluded the fact that Drake hunted the undead for a living and her job was to report that to the public.

Jessica would deal with those concerns later. Right now, she had something more important to take care of. Taking a last sip of coffee, she placed the glass on the counter. “Do you mind if I take a shower before work?”

“Go ahead.”

“Can you get me a towel?”

“They’re in the linen closet just outside the bathroom.”

“I want you to get it for me.”

Drake looked up quizzically, but stopped before he could say anything. Jessica unbuttoned her blouse and slid out of it. With a flick of the wrist, she tossed the garment on the counter in front of him and headed back toward the bedroom. As she left the kitchen, she looked over her shoulder. Drake followed close behind, taking off his own shirt.

STEPPING INTO THE outer office, Alison made her way to her desk, peering into Drake’s office as she passed by, but saw no one. She looked at her watch. A few minutes before ten o’clock. That did not surprise her, though. The past few days, Drake had been coming in late, even by his usual standards. It was the reason she no longer hauled her ass in here on time. She hated being the only one in the building. Well, not quite. Jim arrived every morning around seven, then became so engrossed puttering around in his workshop that he rarely came down to say hello. It had nothing to do with rudeness, just his being absent minded. Even so, it meant she still spent the morning in the office alone.

Alison slipped off her leather greatcoat to reveal her outfit—a leather skirt, high-heel boots, and white turtle neck sweater. Why she bothered dressing up, she had no idea. It did no good. Drake never noticed. To get his attention these days, Alison would need to be blonde, big-titted, and perky. Just like Blondie.

Slipping into her chair, Alison switched on her computer and waited for it to boot up. She reprimanded herself for sounding like a jealous teenager. Although in all honesty her dislike for Blondie went beyond her unrequited feelings for Drake. Sure, Alison resented that not being the primary woman in Drake’s life. What really bothered her was that Blondie distracted Drake who now spent less time at the office, and consequently less time hunting. If a vampire threat still existed in Washington, which it most likely did, then every night Drake spent with Blondie meant another opportunity for the master to rebuild the nest.

Thankfully, Drake had not gotten to the point where he became overly cautious, a prospect that concerned Alison. She originally ruled it out as something that could never happen. But a week ago she would have refused to believe that Drake would spend more time with a vapid blonde than in hunting the undead. Alison would watch how things played out the next few weeks. If Drake became too wary during their hunts, refraining from taking the necessary risks to bring down the undead, and instead concentrated on playing it safe so he could get home to Blondie, Alison would have to rethink staying on as a hunter. She did not mind risking her life in the line of duty, but would be damned if she would do so in some watered-down hunt where the goal was not to kill vampires but to make sure Drake got home safe so he could get laid.

By now, the computer had fully booted up. Alison accessed the Internet and began searching local news sites for stories about missing persons and unexplained violent attacks that might indicate the presence of the undead. About ten minutes into surfing she heard, through the ceiling, a muffled swoosh from upstairs, similar to a can of whipped cream being emptied all at once. A moment later, feet scuffled across the floor toward the stairs. She heard a stumble, then the sound of a stool or small table being knocked over. Opening her desk drawer, Alison pulled out a stake. She reached under the drawer, detached the 9mm Sig Sauer from its holster attached to its underside, pulled back the slide, and switched off the safety. Holding the Sig Sauer in her right hand and the stake in her left, Alison rushed to the stairs leading to Jim’s work area.

Jim stumbled down the steps. His eyes were closed tight and tears streamed down his cheeks. He bumped his shoulder along the wall for guidance. A whitish cloud of smoke billowed after him, stopping two stairs down and hanging in mid-air. Alison met him halfway up the stairs and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Jim jumped back, startled.

“It’s okay. It’s Alison. What happened?”

Jim tried to speak, but instead coughed uncontrollably. The tears flowed more heavily.

“Are you all right?”

Jim nodded, then coughed again.

“Is anyone up there?”

Jim shook his head. Clasping Alison’s left arm, he tried taking a deep breath, but began hacking. After a few seconds, the spasm subsided. He took another breath, this time not as deep, and succeeded in inhaling. After a few shallow breaths, Jim could take in air without coughing. Using the backs of his wrists, Jim wiped his eyes and opened them, fluttering the lids a few times until the irritation subsided.

“What happened?” asked Alison.

Jim spoke in between shallow breaths. “I was experimenting… with the tear gas… laced with holy water.”

“It didn’t work?”

“The tear gas… works fine…. It’s the dispenser… that sucks.” Jim coughed again, though not as hard this time. “While I was reloading the canister… the dispenser nozzle went off…. Emptied the whole thing… in a single gush.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Jim climbed to his feet, using the wall as support. “The lab’s a mess, though. Tear gas everywhere.”

“Tear gas?” asked Drake as he walked across the office. Alison had not noticed him enter. “What happened?”

“One of my weapon experiments… misfired. I flooded the workshop… with tear gas.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

Drake leaned over and looked up the stairs at the smoke that filled the upper level. “How long will it take to clean up?”

Jim shrugged. “An hour or so for the gas to dissipate, then a couple more to clean up.”

“Do you feel well enough to stick around?”

“I think so. Just give me a few minutes to get some fresh air.”

“Good.” Drake patted Jim’s shoulder. “Make sure you both go home early tonight and get some rest.”

“We going hunting on the Mall tomorrow night?” asked Alison.

“Yes. But not on the Mall.”

“Why’s that?”

“We’ve been cruising the Mall for over a week and haven’t run across anything. If the vampires are still out there, they’ve probably changed tactics and hunting grounds, which means we have to. We’ll be hunting for them somewhere else.”

“I don’t think I want to know where,” said Jim.

Drake smiled. “You probably don’t.”

RACING THROUGH THE front entrance of The Washington Standard building, Jessica accidentally slammed the doors on an intern on her way out. Jessica offered a hurried apology and headed on inside to the elevators. Despite being thirty-five minutes late, she couldn’t have cared less. Her plans for a quickie in the shower with Drake fell apart and turned into another double round of lovemaking in his bedroom. By the time they were finished, she had only ten minutes to make it to work. So she took a quick shower, raced out of the apartment without even applying make-up, and hailed a taxi to the office. She didn’t mind, though, because this was the best morning she had experienced since God knows when.

It did not even bother her when she ran into Philips waiting to get on the elevator as Jessica stepped off onto her floor.

“There you are,” said Philips, surprised to have run into her. Philips placed his hand on her wrist and gently pulled Jessica back into the elevator with him. “Walk with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

The elevator doors slid shut. Philips pressed the button for the top floor. As the elevator lurched up, he turned to Jessica. His eyebrows crunched in curiosity. “Didn’t you wear that same outfit yesterday?”

“No,” lied Jessica, hiding her embarrassment.

Philips shrugged and continued. “I have an assignment for you. I want you to handle the Mike Fletcher case.”

“The junior high school vice principal who was found murdered in his home?”

“Yup.”

“No problem. I’ve handled murders before.”

“This is a little different.” The elevator pinged when it reached the top floor. Philips waited until the doors opened, then he and Jessica stepped off. He lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. “Two facts about the case haven’t hit the media yet. First, they found a shitload of child porn on the bastard’s computer. Mostly teenage girls. And he didn’t download the stuff from the Internet. The police found it on several USB hard drives in his desk, so it’s practically untraceable.”

Jessica suppressed any outward display of emotion. As disgusting as all this was, she sensed a major story here. “Go on.”

“Here’s the sick part. Someone bit off Fletcher’s penis during sex.”

“Bit off?”

“Presumably one of his teenage girlfriends. Son of a bitch bled to death, which in my opinion is still too good for him.” The two stopped in front of the door to the publisher’s suite. “So, do you think you’re up to this?”

After what she had experienced hunting with Drake, investigating a pedophile killer would be a welcome break. Yet she could not say that to Philips. Instead, she opted for the generic, “Not a problem.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Philips flashed an uncharacteristic smile. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew a small, folded piece of paper and handed it to Jessica. “This is the cop who’s handling the case. I don’t know how much information you’ll get out of him, but it’s a start.”

“Where did you get this?”

“A good reporter never reveals his sources.” Philips gave her a friendly wink, then entered the suite.

Jessica headed back to her office. Once in the elevator, she opened the folded piece of paper and read the name. Juan Rodriguez. Plus his phone number at police headquarters. Holy shit. That was the same cop who kept on arresting Drake. This could turn out to be more interesting than she originally thought.

“I DON’T LIKE this one damn bit,” protested Roach.

“Neither do I,” said Preston. “But what else can we do?”

Roach grunted. Partly out of frustration, but mostly because he had developed one of his mega-migraines that even a double dose of pain relievers had no effect on. There were many downsides to this job. Too many, truth be known. Having to tell families that they lost a loved one in the line of duty. Having to watch scum avoid doing well-deserved jail time because some judge threw out the case over a minor technicality, or because the judge felt a naive and misguided sympathy for the defendant. One of the more distasteful tasks, however, was having to suspend one of his cops. Especially a cop like Rodriguez, whom he had known for years.

“There’s got to be another way to handle this,” said Roach, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Rodriguez is a good cop.”

“Was a good cop.” Preston huffed. “Look, I agree with you. Rodriguez used to be one of the best we had. But these past few weeks…. Hell, I don’t know what happened. First, we had the incident in the sewer when he not only lied about that junkie who tried to escape, but also let Drake and the others go, despite your orders to arrest anyone leaving the row house. Now this.” Preston held up a manila folder to emphasize his point.

“I guess you’re right.”

Of course Preston’s right, Roach chastised himself. He never took pleasure in disciplining one of his officers, but occasionally it had to be done. Too many a good cop turned bad, though admittedly some had been bad seeds to begin with. Cops who became enthralled by the underworld culture that they policed and immersed themselves in it. Cops who couldn’t handle the daily depravities they witnessed and turned to alcohol or drugs to deaden the pain, or who took the law into their own hands. This seamy side of law enforcement garnered media attention. “Cop busts drugged-up speeding motorist” never made the news. “Cop busts open motorist’s skull” became the top story for days. This was why Roach needed to be especially diligent in disciplining or removing such influences if he wanted to retain the police’s credibility.

Still, that didn’t make this any easier.

Roach expanded the massaging to include his temples. “I hate suspending him for lying.”

“He’s not lying about taking a few bucks as a bribe for not writing a parking ticket. That I could excuse. He’s falsifying official records and trying to get others to falsify them. We also know of at least one instance when he violated his orders.”

“It doesn’t make sense. We’ve never had trouble with Rodriguez before. Why now?”

“It’s irrelevant.” Preston did not hide his frustration. “Rodriguez is no longer reliable. He can’t be trusted to deal with the public. It’s your duty to suspend him pending an investigation.”

“You don’t have to tell me my duty,” snapped Roach. “I know what I have to do. That doesn’t mean I have to—”

A knock interrupted the conversation. Roach’s secretary opened the door and leaned in. “Rodriguez is here to see you.”

“Send him in.”

Preston sat upright in his seat. Roach took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, simultaneously trying to calm his anger and summon up his nerve.

Rodriguez entered. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes.” Roach motioned to the empty chair in front of his desk. As Rodriguez sat down, Roach continued. “I wanted to get an update on the Fletcher investigation. Did you find anything interesting among his belongings?”

“Just his blood-stained clothes. I checked with the officers who searched his house. Fletcher was careful to cover his tracks. The only thing we found so far is an instant messaging address his wife says doesn’t belong to either a friend or colleague. VampGirl1648. I tried tracing who it belonged to. The owner set up the account a week ago using a Hotmail account and only used it at different Internet cafes throughout D.C., so there’s no way of tracing who it belongs to. Saunders is checking the cafes to see if we can get a description of the user.”

“Did you try contacting this VampGirl1648 yourself?” asked Roach.

“Yeah, but it didn’t do any good. The account went dead the night Fletcher was killed.”

“What about Fletcher’s hard drive and the USB disk?” asked Preston.

“I haven’t seen the take for those yet. The lab techs are still going through it. I should have access in a few days.”

Roach nodded his acknowledgement. “Did the funeral home find anything unusual about the body?”

“Nope.”

“Did they have any insights into the case?”

Rodriguez shook his head.

“You didn’t get much from there, did you?”

“Not really.”

Roach resigned himself. He had given Rodriguez every opportunity to tell the truth, but he refused to cooperate. Roach didn’t know why he refused to fess up, and at this point he didn’t care. Rodriguez would have to deal with the consequences. Looking over to Preston, he nodded for him to proceed.

Opening the manila folder, Preston removed several pieces of paper stapled together and passed them to Rodriguez. “Explain this.”

Rodriguez took the pages apprehensively and flipped them open, scanning the content. After a few seconds, he asked, “What’s this?”

“It’s a police report filed late last night by Anderson,” said Preston. “After you left the funeral home, Bob Hanley called and asked to speak to a detective. It seems an incident occurred at the funeral home while you were there, one that you failed to report. Hanley was not pleased with both the way you handled the situation and, as he put it, ‘the cavalier and bullying manner’ in which you treated him and Miss Hughes.”

Rodriguez continued reading through the report, never once making eye contact with Preston.

“Do you have anything to say?” demanded Preston.

“No.” Rodriguez closed the report and handed it back, again without making eye contact.

“You realize the seriousness of this?”

No response.

“Based on what Hanley told Anderson, you’re suspected of filing a false report.”

No response.

“You know what the consequences are if you’re found guilty?”

Still no response.

“Fuck him,” Preston said to Roach.

“Joel, please.” Roach leaned forward and spoke to Rodriguez in a fatherly voice. “Juan, you can’t keep up the silent treatment. Will you answer some questions?”

“If I can, sir.”

“Did you file a false report on your trip to the funeral home?”

“No comment.”

“Did Fletcher’s corpse spasm repeatedly during the embalming process?”

“No comment.”

“Did you cut the head off of Fletcher’s corpse?”

“No comment.”

“Did you suggest that Bob Hanley lie to the Fletcher family about what happened at the funeral home?”

“No comment.”

Roach closed his eyes, the throbbing behind his temple almost unbearable. He did not need this shit, and would not take it any longer.

“Juan Rodriguez, you’re hereby suspended from the force until further notice. Hand over your badge and your weapon.”

Without so much as a protest, Rodriguez removed his weapon from its holster, ejected the clip, and pulled back the slide into the locked position. He placed his weapon and his badge on the desk in front of Roach.

“Is there anything else, sir?”

Roach shook his head. “Just get the hell out of here.”

“May I pick up some personal belongings from my desk?”

“As long as you’re out of the building in fifteen minutes.”

Rodriguez stood and left the office. The other men watched him exit. When the door closed behind Rodriguez, Preston turned to Roach.

“What the fuck was that all about?”

Roach inhaled deeply. “Maybe it’s stress.”

“Good luck getting him to take a psych exam.” Preston laughed derisively. “If you want, I’ll have Internal Affairs open a file on Rodriguez.”

“Wait on that.”

“What for?”

“Give him a few days to sort his shit out. Then we’ll talk to him again. Maybe he’ll be more cooperative.”

Preston stared at Roach, incredulous. “Why bother?”

“Rodriguez has never caused problems before. The way he’s been acting lately doesn’t make any sense.”

“So you want to give him the opportunity to make complete assholes of us?”

“That’s enough!” Roach slammed his hand onto the top of his desk, ending any further discussion. “It’s my decision to make, and I’ve made it. Now, do we you have anything else we need to discuss?”

“No.”

“Then you’re dismissed.”

Preston sat staring at Roach for a few seconds. With a sigh and a disgruntled shake of his head, he stood and left the office. Roach felt the same level of frustration toward Preston that he knew Preston harbored toward him. Preston was a damn good special assistant, having proven himself invaluable to Roach more times than he could remember. But Preston was also a bureaucrat, not a street cop, which often meant he took a hard-line, by-the-book attitude when it came to the men and women under his command. Preston often forgot that those cops who worked on the street often saw shit the desk jockeys could never imagine, and those experiences affected each cop in different ways. More than likely, Rodriguez had experienced something that affected his judgment.

With luck, things would work themselves out in the next few days.

THAT CONFIRMED IT, fumed Preston as he stormed back to his office. He kicked open the outer door to his suite, scaring the hell out of his secretary. She jumped in her chair, spilling half of her tea onto her blouse and lap. She opened her mouth to protest, but wisely thought better of it. Glaring at her, Preston did not offer an apology, but instead barked, “No calls or visitors.” He shoved open the door to his private office, slamming it so hard behind him that one of the picture frames on the wall flew off of its mounting and crashed to the floor.

Preston stepped over to the window and gazed out onto the station’s main entrance, watching people come and go. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it for ten seconds before exhaling. It helped calm him down, but only slightly. The human body naturally reacted to certain conditions, in his case with having to deal with timidity and gross stupidity. Both of which were epitomized by Roach.

How fucking stupid could one man be? Roach had been hired to protect the citizens of Washington, and for the most part he did, albeit within his limited abilities. Roach made a good effort, and racked up a lot of success, in keeping violence off the street, in minimizing the gang and drug problems, in cracking down on non-violent crime, and the like. While acceptable under normal circumstances, the existence of the undead presented an unprecedented threat to this city, one that demanded leadership, courage, and the will to act. Not the type of qualities you find from someone unable to think outside his extremely narrow box.

Granted, no one had ever trained for a scenario such at this at the academy. He could imagine the ridicule if he issued everyone on the force stakes and bottles of holy water. Or the look on the face of the Internal Affairs inspector when one of his cops said, “Sorry, there’s no body to conduct a police brutality investigation on because it turned to dust when we drove a stake through its heart.” Or worse, the panic that would ensue when the public realized that vampires walked amongst them. No, under the instances, the force needed to take unorthodox measures and handle the problem out of the public’s view.

Neither of which Roach was capable of doing.

For those few with access to it, enough evidence existed confirming the existence of the undead for anyone with the foresight to recognize it. The testimony of Jason Clark, the eleven-year-old boy attacked at Union Station. The incident on the Metro where Matthews pumped two full magazines of .40 caliber rounds into something powerful enough to walk away from such an attack. The disintegration of the thing that attacked Rodriguez and the others in the sewer during the raid on the row house. Hanley’s description of what happened to Fletcher during the embalming. Christ, he even had the security camera CD-ROM of the vampires who murdered Dekker and that photographer at the morgue, which had cinched it for him.

How could Roach not react to this information? Instead, he shoved his head up his ass and refused to acknowledge reality, coming up with this insipid rationale about chemicals that when mixed with narcotics created spontaneous combustion, a mantra Roach repeated so often Preston thought Roach believed it. That was the extent of his action—to explain away the situation rather than confront it. Never mind that the evidence pointed to a major threat to Washington. We’ll distort the facts or ignore them entirely. If Roach could not get over that mental block, then he sure as hell would never take the steps necessary to stop this threat. Roach merely delayed the inevitable and allowed the undead to grow stronger in the process. The vampires would eventually come out and feed in the open. By then, it would be too late to stop them. That was one clusterfuck of a train wreck Preston wanted to avoid.

Preston knew for certain that the public would eventually become aware of this. A month ago, no one knew anything about the presence of vampires in Washington. Now it had become the worst kept secret. The security personnel at the Metro and the morgue who prepared the CD-ROMs of the security tapes. The sewer worker who had been attacked. A rapidly growing number of cops on the force. And every one of their family, friends, and colleagues who they talked to. Sure, none of them had the entire story, and probably would never put all the pieces together. But if enough people started talking, the scattered bits of information would take on a life of their own. Once that happened, someone in the media would begin investigating, and at that point it wouldn’t be too difficult to unearth the truth.

Hell, Jessica Reynolds already must have figured it out, especially since they had kidnapped her. He couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t yet published her story, and assumed that either she or her editor were not yet ready to risk their careers by going public.

Right now, Drake Matthews presented the biggest threat to keeping the existence of the undead under wraps. On average, the police were arresting Matthews or a member of his group once a week, or could at least place them at the scene of an incident. God only knew how many incidents they were involved in which the police never knew about. Both Matthews and the police were interested in keeping his activities secret. Nonetheless, every time he burnt a bridge, or wrecked a tourist attraction, or engaged in a gunfight with the undead, or blew up a portion of the sewers, he attracted public attention. Preston could not figure out why more reporters like Miss Reynolds had not latched onto the story, although the likelihood of that happening seemed inevitable. As long as Matthews and his group remained free, they hastened the day that the public would become aware of the vampires terrorizing Washington, and the bedlam that would follow.

Preston took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. This time he felt much more at ease because he realized what had to be done.

Going over to his desk, Preston opened the top drawer and removed the CD-ROM containing the compilation of security camera footage from the morgue. He knew he should show it to Roach and try to convince him of the threat they faced. He would have, if he thought it would do any good. Preston felt certain, however, that Roach would concoct some rationale to explain it away. Roach was a good cop, which explained how he got to be promoted to chief of police. When it came to politics, though, he didn’t have a clue about how to act, and the chief’s job required a politician more than a cop. Roach should have thrown Matthews and the others in jail a long time ago and tossed away the key. When the mayor asked for their release, as he always did, Roach should have reminded the mayor that they worked for the citizens of Washington and not some anonymous benefactor. But to do that would have required balls, which Roach had traded in for his chief’s badge.

Preston snapped the CD-ROM in half and tossed the pieces into the wastebasket.

He would bide his time and watch how events transpired, carefully positioning himself with regards to the threat. At some point this would come to a head, and he felt confident Roach would be unable to handle the situation. When Roach stumbled, Preston would move in, take over as chief, and do what had to be done to clean out the nest.

In the meantime, Preston needed to find a way to neutralize Drake Matthews and his group, even if he had to manufacture it himself.

LESS THAN ONE hundred yards away, Rodriguez sat at his own desk, throwing its contents into the waste basket, but for different reasons. Rather than disposing of evidence, he tidied up clutter and gathered his belongings. Even though only suspended from the force, he would not be coming back.

He had considered arguing with Roach and Preston, but why bother? The two of them already had made up their minds. Neither was concerned by Hanley’s claim that the undead had come back to life on the mortician’s table, and that Rodriguez had to behead the thing to survive. They were more concerned that he had filed a false report. The same held true for the incident in the sewer during the raid on the row house. Not a word about the thing that attacked them down the tunnel, that bullets had no effect on it, or that when set on fire it crumbled into dust. They were more concerned about his not arresting Drake Matthews and the others, and in his not reporting the details.

Rodriguez could almost forgive Roach, but not quite. Maybe Roach didn’t comprehend the severity of the situation, being unable to see the danger in the forest through the bureaucratic trees. Maybe he was just being poorly advised and believed that bad drugs were causing spontaneous combustion among its users. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. Rodriguez knew there wasn’t anything personal in Roach’s suspending him.

Preston, on the other hand, could go fuck himself. That self-serving little prick knew damn well what they faced. Preston and Rodriguez had both watched the CD-ROM showing what took place at the morgue. Only a fool could watch it and believe otherwise, and Preston was no fool. Preston and Rodriguez were both doing the same thing—not being dumb enough to commit to the record that Washington faced a threat from the undead. The difference was that Preston would get away with it.

Fuck it. Let Preston cover his political ass and ignore the threat. Rodriguez couldn’t care less. By the time the vampires overran the city, he and his family would be long gone. Then Preston and Roach could pull their own butts out of the fire.

Placing the last of his belongings in the empty printer paper box, Rodriguez gave his desk one final look over. He noticed the red light flashing on his phone voice mail. At first he considered ignoring it, but since he would never be back, he decided to check it out. Rodriguez picked up the receiver, pressed the MAIL button, and punched in his pass code. A few seconds passed before the message played.

“Officer Rodriguez, this is Jessica Reynolds with The Washington Standard. I’m working on the Michael Fletcher case and was hoping to interview you, or at least get an official statement. When you get a chance, please call me back.” Jessica left her office and cell phone numbers.

Jessica Reynolds. That name sounded familiar. Then he remembered. That was Drake Matthews’ reporter friend, the one who had been arrested for assaulting Wilson during the attack on the sewer workers. Usually he hated hearing from the media. Not this time.

Rodriguez replayed the message, this time jotting down the two phone numbers onto a notepad. He tore off the top sheet, folded it in half, and slid the piece of paper into his shirt pocket. He then deleted the message from his answering machine.

Maybe he could do something about this situation after all.

REESE OPENED THE Bible with the excited anticipation of a seven-year-old unwrapping his birthday gifts, albeit one showing considerable restraint. When the museum opened at ten o’clock, it required every ounce of will power not to rush down to the archives room and pull out Ferrar’s diary. Thankfully, common sense prevailed. He took his time, waiting for the other researchers to take their books before retrieving the basswood case containing Ferrar’s ceremonial Bible. Once back at his work station, Reese removed the Bible from its case, slid the pages out from under the front cover, and began translating where he had left off.

On the third day we tried the fire. As we tied Carius to the floor and doused his feet in oil, I thought I detected a touch of fear in his voice as he blasphemed all that is holy about our Church. But when we positioned his feet near the flames, his fear—if indeed it was fear—did not prevent him from continuing his stream of invectives against God and from spewing forth the most disgusting and vile blasphemies about the Holy Virgin Mother.

From the ultimate evil can flow the ultimate blessings, and that was when I discovered by the grace of our All Merciful God the demon’s weakness.

Upon hearing such profanity aimed at our Holy Virgin Mother, I succumbed to the sin of anger and lashed out at Carius. Taking the only object at my disposal—the bowl of holy water in the sacramental font—I tossed it on him, hoping to stun him into silence. Instead, I opened the gates of hell.

Carius cried out with an intensity I have never heard before. Whereas three days of interrogation barely left a mark on Carius, the holy water burned him, searing the flesh and inflicting unbearable agony. I watched him writhe in his restraints, howling, disoriented by fear, pain, and disbelief. In his frenzy, Carius partially broke his restraints and nearly overpowered three guards. He relented in his attempt to escape only after I threatened to douse him again with holy water. Carius calmed down and allowed himself to be returned to his cell where he now rests. He is bound by twice as many chains as before, and guarded by twice as many sentries, each armed with a flask filled with holy water.

I know not what evil possesses this man’s soul, or if he even has a soul left to possess. Tomorrow I will begin researching whatever demon it is that haunts this man. If there is even the slightest chance of redemption for Carius, then I must try.

30 September 1485

The creature that lies in our jail is not possessed by evil. He is the incantation of evil itself, a man with a soul long since consigned to hell. My research indicates we are dealing with a vampirus, or a vampiro according to lay people. One of the undead. Legend states that vampirus were once men whose souls were forfeited to Satan, some voluntarily, others being forced to do so against their will. Their very existence mocks our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, for vampirus are immortal, sinful, and live off of the blood of man. Their only weaknesses are holy water, fire, sunlight—items of purity.

I know I should destroy this thing. My duty as a representative of God’s Church on earth compels me to do so. However, my duty as an inquisitor compels me to interrogate Carius, to discover the true depths of this evil, and to offer one final chance for the redemption of his sins and the salvation of what remains of his soul. I beseech Thee, oh Lord, to guide me and let Thy will be done.

In the meantime, for the sake of my guards, I have taken precautions to protect them. Ever since burning Carius with holy water three nights ago, he has been particularly vehement in insulting and blaspheming the guards, even threatening harm to their families. They are afraid that Carius might break his bonds and turn them into the undead. Or worse, that by being so close to evil, they may themselves become tainted and suffer damnation. Drastic action needed to be taken to assuage their fears. I devised a method that hopefully will keep the vampirus contained. The guards triple tied and triple chained Carius, then placed him in a coffin that was tightly sealed. The coffin was placed into a large tub set up in Carius’ cell, which was filled with holy water. Carius will be kept there until I decide what to do with him.

2 October 1485

Last night, the answer came to me while I slept.

I moved Carius’ interrogation chamber from the dungeon to a hall on the main floor dominated by windows, each of which was covered by heavy curtains. In the morning, when the sun had safely risen above the horizon, the guards brought Carius’ coffin from his cell to the interrogation chamber. Carius must have realized that, having discovered his vulnerability, we would use it against him, for when we opened his coffin he fought back with the strength of a demon. He nearly overpowered all five guards until I pulled back one of the curtains, bathing one corner of the hall in sunlight. I threatened to open them all unless he allowed us to proceed. Fearful of death, he relented.

Since only holy water appears to have an effect on Carius, I again placed him on the strappado and inserted the cloth down his throat. This time, I soaked the cloth with holy water.

The effects of pouring holy water on the cloth were instantaneous—and horrifying. As the cloth became saturated, Carius thrashed around violently, trying to break his restraints. Then the choking began, as if he were suffocating. One of the guards withdrew the cloth, only to find it soaked with blood. Carius hacked for several minutes, spitting up frothy blood and chunks of lung. Yet, still, the vampirus would not confess his sins and ask for redemption, and through a scratchy voice began blaspheming us with increased ferocity. Now, rather than contempt, I detected fear in his voice.

Carius underwent five additional strappado sessions. Each time, he suffered unspeakable agony. And each time, he refused to confess his sins and ask for redemption. After the seventh session, however, Carius could take no more. With wisps of white smoke flowing from his ravaged lungs with each exhalation, and with a raspy voice barely audible due to the searing of his throat, Carius related his story.

Born in 1321 to a family of merchants in Barcelona, Carius was a university professor in his hometown, a good Christian who loved God and his family. That life ended in 1348 when the Black Death swept across Spain. A hoard of vampirus followed the plague, using the disaster to feed unnoticed. Carius became one of their victims, attacked one night on the way home from lecturing at the university, dragged into an alley, and drained of blood. He awoke the next night, one of the undead.

Over the next two days, Carius related a litany of sins and depravations from his life as a vampirus, a vile and disturbing history that I dare not commit to paper. In truth, the recounting of these horrors is unimportant. Not once during his confession did Carius show remorse or repentance. Not once did he seek forgiveness or ask for absolution. In fact, his recounting was not so much a confession as a prideful boasting of his sins, a mirror reflecting on a blackened soul.

However, Carius did mention two facts of interest.

First, he provided the names of other vampirus like himself, demons who are undead but can take on human form when necessary. Most live outside of Spain and are not within our reach. Three live within the realm, one each in Madrid, Barcelona, and Salamanca. I have ordered these vampirus be arrested and brought to Aljaferia under the same restraints we are currently using for Carius.

Second, because of his education, Carius was tasked by the Master to write a book detailing the history of the vampirus. Carius keeps it hidden in his residence, but told me where I could find it. I have dispatched a guard to retrieve it.

3 October 1485

The guard brought me Carius’ book today. It is titled Vampyrnomicon and is repulsive in every aspect. The book is bound in human skin. The text, which is in Spanish, is written in blood. I will read it later, though I fear what it contains.

5 October 1485

May God have mercy on my soul, but I’ve begun feeding Carius. I only want to provide enough sustenance to keep him alive in case we need to interrogate him further, and for him to face judgment. Since he thrives only on blood, finding food has been difficult—rats, hares, and whatever small animals I can scrounge up.

13 October 1485

The other three vampirus have been brought to Aljaferia. I am keeping them locked up under the same conditions as Carius—sealed in coffins immersed in tubs of holy water. None of them know about the arrest of the others. Two days ago, I began their interrogations using strappados, again soaking the cloth in holy water. Two vampirus eventually confessed, one after two sessions, the other after nine. Each related a story similar to Carius, of being turned into the undead against their will and of lives debased by evil and carnality. Each revealed the other vampirus they knew. Eight in total. In addition to Carius and each other, they named two more in Europe and one each in Madrid and Gibraltar. I have dispatched guards to apprehend the two Spanish vampirus and bring them here.

The third vampirus was strong willed and refused to talk. Over two days I conducted fourteen strappado sessions. The vampirus railed against his captors and threatened his interrogators, and blasphemed God and all that was holy. He never revealed anything about himself or other vampirus. We will never know whether he might have eventually talked, for during the fourteenth session, while pouring holy water on the cloth lodged in his throat, the vampirus experienced a particularly violent reaction. He thrashed around and arched his back until I thought his spine would snap. A dark spot appeared on his chest, growing rapidly. The chest caved in, the flesh and organs within turning to dust. Blood gushed from the opening, spurting in the air like a fountain, bathing us and the strappado in blood. Decay washed over the vampirus. Within thirty seconds, the demon had disintegrated, returning to dust from which life originated.

After this episode, one of my guards had experienced enough. He came to me tonight and said he could take no more, having become afraid for his sanity and his salvation. We prayed, I blessed him, and we bid each other farewell. I do not blame him. If my duty to God and Church did not compel me to remain here to exorcise this evil, I would have joined him.

16 October 1485

I finished reading the Vampyrnomicon tonight, and wished I had never heard of it. It mocks Christianity and challenges my faith. If even a portion of what is written is accurate—and God, how I fear that it is—then mankind faces an evil far greater, and far more dangerous, than anything foretold in the Bible. This book bore the darkest secret of the vampirus. I would dismiss this book as the ramblings of an insane man if I had not personally witnessed the interrogation of Carius and the other vampirus. I should destroy this book and cleanse the world of what is within its pages were it not for the passages it contained on how to confront and defeat the vampirus. I only wish I had the moral and spiritual strength to confront the vampirus myself. Since I do not, I am at a loss over what course of action to take, and will seek the Lord’s guidance.

20 October 1485

The two vampirus from Madrid and Gibraltar have been brought to Aljaferia, have been interrogated with the strappado, and have confessed their abominations. Like the others who have been detained, they admitted to knowing other vampirus, six in all. Three in Spain, who have already been arrested and interrogated, and three others not yet identified living elsewhere in Europe. There appear to be no more vampirus in Spain, at least according to those detained within Aljaferia. I pray that they are truthful, for I don’t know if even God can help this realm from these demons.

As for the other countries tainted by the vampirus, they are on their own since the jurisdiction of the Inquisition does not extend to them. But as a man of God, I cannot ignore the presence of evil, so I have dispatched priests to meet with officials of the local dioceses where these vampirus reportedly dwell to try and convince them of the danger their countries face. I am not confident of success, for no one in their right minds would believe what will be related unless they have experienced it for themselves. I barely believe it myself. Still, I pray that God blesses those who receive my delegations and gives them the foresight to recognize the demons within their midst.

In the meantime, the five vampirus we have in custody are being kept in sealed coffins immersed in holy water, and are being fed just enough to keep them alive until I can decide on their fate.

“Fifteen minutes,” announced the archivist from the doorway.

Damn. Translating the diary was taking much longer than Reese anticipated. He thumbed through the remaining pages. Seven hours of reading, and he still had five pages left. He contemplated scanning them quickly for the mystery of the Vampyrnomicon, but between his rusty translation skills and the minimal time remaining, he probably would mess it up. Besides, he needed time to place the diary back into the front cover of the Bible and return the Bible to its basswood case. He could finish it tomorrow.

Damn again. Tomorrow was Saturday, so the archive room would be closed. For a quick second, Reese considered plowing ahead with the translation, but thought better of it. As difficult as it would be, he would wait until Monday to finish the diary.

When he met Drake tomorrow for lunch, he would relate what he had discovered thus far.

“CAN WE GET this underway?” huffed Melinda.

“Patience, little one.” Walker stood in his usual spot by the window overlooking the neighborhood.

“I don’t like that name.”

“Then stop acting your human age.”

Melinda gritted her teeth, but wisely kept silent.

“We’re waiting for Akers.” Chiang Shih sat in her chair between the two sofas, one leg draped over the knee of the other, her forearms on the armrests. She wore black heels and a black evening gown split down one side. The way she glared at her youngest master testified to her displeasure with Melinda’s impatience.

Melinda grunted, then made a quiet aside to Toni who sat beside her on the sofa. “I don’t see why we have to wait on a human.”

“Shhh,” admonished Toni.

“When’s he supposed to be here?” asked Treja.

“Eight o’clock,” answered Chiang Shih.

Melinda looked at her watch. “He’s eight minutes late.”

“I told Akers to be careful whenever he comes here to make sure he’s not followed.” Walker turned from the window to face Melinda. “So be patient, little one.”

Melinda’s upper lip trembled with fury.

A knock sounded on the front door. Walker nodded to Treja, who stood and went to answer it. A minute later he returned with Akers.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it.” Walker picked up a box from off of the end table and walked over to Akers, handing it to the human. “This is for you.”

“What is it?”

“An electronic listening device with a miniature microphone that you can attach to the hunter’s clothes. It has a range of one hundred yards, so you should be able to eavesdrop on them from safety.”

“Thanks.” Akers examined the box. “I’ll get this onto Drake as soon as possible.”

Akers started to leave, but Chiang Shih called after him. She motioned to the empty seat on the sofa beside Treja. “Please stay. What I have to say is for all of you.”

Though apprehensive, Akers obeyed. As he walked over to the sofa, his eyes darted from vampire to vampire, as if he expected to be set upon at any moment. Chiang Shih smiled. He was more perceptive than she gave him credit for. Once he sat down, Chiang Shih stood and crossed over to in front of Akers, making an effort to appear non-threatening.

“I want you to know that I appreciate what you’re doing for us. Being human, you have access to the hunters that we don’t. We’re counting on you.”

“Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

“I’m confident you won’t. You can imagine the price of failure or disloyalty.”

Akers swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Or disobedience.”

Chiang Shih spun toward Melinda, swinging her right arm so the back of her hand connected with the child’s cheek. A loud crack echoed through the room as Melinda’s jaw shattered along the hinge. Melinda morphed into her vampiric form. She glared at Chiang Shih with eyes red with fury, her body tense as if she were about to lunge. Instead, she hissed, even that act of defiance distorted by her hanging lower jaw. Chiang Shih grabbed the child by the neck, yanked her out of the chair, and lifted her into the air. Her feet dangled and kicked helplessly. Chiang Shih slammed Melinda against the wall, pressing her neck against the surface until her spine reached its breaking point. Chiang Shih’s fingernails transformed into claws, which dug into Melinda’s neck and around the larynx until the tips touched. Blood flowed down the child’s neck, staining her blouse. Melinda’s defiance was replaced with a new look—terror.

Leaning her face into Melinda, Chiang Shih spoke in a voice so low and guttural it barely sounded human. “I gave explicit orders that no one was to feed off of any humans other than the homeless. Yet you defied me and killed that vice principal.”

“’E wuz a child ’oles—”

“I don’t want excuses!” Chiang Shih bellowed. She tightened her grip around Melinda’s neck, closing off the larynx. “By feeding off of a prominent human, you’ve drawn attention to us and jeopardized everything. The only reason I don’t rip out your throat is because I need four covens to complete my plan. Having to bring in a new master to replace you will throw off my schedule. Do I make myself clear?”

Melinda could only respond with a barely perceptible nod.

“My patience with you is at an end. If you defy me again, I’ll drag you into the street during the middle of the day and toss you into the sunlight.”

Chiang Shih released her grip, her hand returning to its human form. Melinda slid down the wall, crumbling into a heap on the floor, gasping and coughing. She covered the wounds on her neck with one hand. Blood seeped between her fingers. Melinda kept her gaze focused on the floor.

Chiang Shih looked at Walker. “The little bitch is your responsibility. Keep her in line, or kill her.”

“With pleasure.” Walker stepped over to Melinda. Grabbing her by the back of her neck, he lifted the master to her feet and forced her to look at him. “And I won’t be as gentle about it as the Mistress was.”

Chiang Shih walked back to her chair and sat down. Walker dragged Melinda over to the sofa and flung her onto it. The young master whimpered and curled into a fetal position, her arms wrapped around her knees. Walker circled around behind the sofa, hovering over Melinda.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” Chiang Shih spoke to Akers in her normal, sultry voice as if the last minute had never happened. “You’ll find that I’m very magnanimous to work for, and the rewards are more than satisfactory. Just don’t disobey me. I don’t tolerate insolence or disobedience. Unfortunately, as you saw, I often have to remind my masters.”

Akers sat in his chair, shaking, unable to acknowledge.

“You can leave,” Walker said to Akers. “Let me know if the hunters find the Vampyrnomicon.”

Akers hesitated. Finally he stood up. “Yes, of course.”

“Thank you,” said Chiang Shih.

Akers headed out, throwing a surreptitious glance at Melinda as he raced by. Chiang Shih withheld the urge to grin. Two of her minions learned valuable lessons tonight. She felt confident no one would defy her again.

When the front door closed behind Akers, Chiang Shih resumed. “Now that the human has left, I want to discuss the status of your covens.”

Treja leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ve set up my coven in an abandoned subway tunnel near Union Station. The only person who knew about it is now one of us.”

“How secure is it?”

“I have sole control over who gets in or out, so there’s no chance anyone will stumble across it or that one of the coven will go wandering for food.”

“Excellent.” Chiang Shih turned to Toni.

Toni lowered her head to hide her deformity. “I took over an abandoned apartment building near the riverfront. Not many humans go down there at night, and those who do won’t be missed. I already have two vampires in the coven. A teenage runaway and a mugger.”

“Very good.” Chiang Shih’s pleasantry faded. “Melinda?”

The young master pulled her knees tighter against her chest.

“Melinda?” Chiang Shih asked again.

“M… mine’s in an old school in northeast Washington.” Melinda never looked away from her knees.

“How many do you have?”

“None. I would have had one, but—” Melinda censored herself.

“Get to work on it.”

Melinda nodded weakly.

Chiang Shih looked at Walker.

“Sorry, Mistress. I’ve been getting the listening device for Akers and haven’t had a chance to establish one yet.”

“You know you’re behind schedule?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Chiang Shih looked around the room. “If no one has anything else they want to talk about, then our business is done. We’ll meet again Monday night,”

The masters stood and headed for the door. Melinda remained on the sofa, still in the fetal position. Toni reached out her hand and offered it to Melinda. A long pause elapsed before the girl looked up, clasped the hand, and allowed herself to be escorted out. They had just reached the foyer when Chiang Shih called to them.

“Nelson, stay behind.”

Walker fell back from the rest of the group. Once the others left, Chiang Shih stood and strutted toward the bedroom. She glanced over her shoulder, the gleam in her eye declaring her intentions. Walker followed, unbuttoning his shirt. When he reached the bedroom, Chiang Shih sat on the bed. Her legs were spread wide, one foot planted on the floor, the other propped up on the bed. She raised her dress, exposing her sex.

Walker slid out of his shirt and dropped it on the floor. “Is this my punishment for not starting a coven?”

“If I was going to punish you, I’d shut you off. But then, I’d be punishing myself.” Chiang Shih placed her hand over her mound and inserted a finger, frigging herself. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been together.”

“Almost two weeks. Ever since you ordered me to Washington.” Walker unzipped his trousers. His eight-inch erection popped free, pointing at Chiang Shih.

“That’s been way too long.” Chiang Shih wrapped her fingers around his cock. At her touch, it throbbed. She stroked it, her fingers gliding over the cold skin and caressing the bulbous head. Chiang Shih’s thumbnail elongated into a short talon. She placed the tip in Walker’s pee hole, and flicked. “Give it to me now.”

Walker pushed Chiang Shih back onto the bed and climbed on top of her. He hesitated, taking a moment to admire her beauty. To breathe in the scent of her pussy, gorged with blood and flowing with juices. With a single, powerful thrust he plunged his erection deep inside her, driving it in to the hilt. Chiang Shih cried out in painful ecstasy and arched her back to meet his thrusts. Walker pistoned his cock into her. With each upward stroke, she ground her pelvis into him, their bodies slamming together. The more aroused he became, the harder and faster he fucked her.

Chiang Shih felt her passion growing. She verged on an orgasm, and could not wait any longer. Wrapping her legs around Walker, she dug the points of her heels into his ass cheeks, tearing away at the skin. The pain only excited him more. He drove deep into Chiang Shih with long, vicious strokes. She could tell by his panting and by the throbbing of his cock that he was ready to cum. Chiang Shih plunged her heels through the skin of Walker’s ass cheeks. Walker howled and morphed, which further increased the size of his erection. Throwing her head back, Chiang Shih cried out as an orgasm raced through her. As she did, Walker bent forward and plunged his fangs into her neck, sucking her blood as he erupted inside of her.

His energy spent, Walker returned to his human form and collapsed onto the bed beside Chiang Shih. She lay beside him, satisfied and content. She cared for Walker as much as she could care for anyone else. Those feelings were based on more than just sex. They had met nearly six hundred years ago and been inseparable since, their relationship only growing stronger as they descended upon Europe in an orgy of death and destruction.

Now they stood on the brink of not only bringing that same nightmare to the United States, but of turning it into the first vampire kingdom.

Strait of Messina. October 1347.

A WARM AUTUMN sun beat down on the tiny fleet of twelve Genoese galleys, occasionally being obscured by a billowy cloud before shining through again. Blowing from the south, a gentle breeze wafted across the waters, rippling the azure surface while driving the galleys northward. The tiny fleet hugged the east coast of Sicily, gently slipping past the island’s mountains and green vistas. Like thousands of ships from scores of nations and city-states before them, these twelve ships sliced through the warm waters, swaying with the waves as they plied their way to their destination.

Whereas those other ships bore commerce, this fleet brought death.

Below decks, in the vile, darkened environment that reeked of feces, urine, and body odor, and where the air was humid and stagnant, a lethal disease had taken hold. Several passengers had lentil-sized boils on their thighs and arms. Those that carried them knew full well their significance, as did those whom the eruptions had yet to infect. Their symptoms generated fear and desperation throughout the fleet, for it signified the horrible fate that awaited all the passengers. No one spoke the word. No one had to. The boils meant only one thing.

Plague.

Those making this desperate journey tried to block out that thought. Most had witnessed these horrors before and had them engraved in their memories. When the passengers boarded the galleys at Kaffa in the Crimea, the Black Sea region already suffered from the ravages of plague. Those who survived Kaffa knew all too well that the appearance of the boils indicated the first sign of a slow, agonizing death. Once infected, the bearers experienced a violent coughing up of blood, which rapidly degenerated into a gangrenous inflammation of the throat and lungs. Chest pains and incessant vomiting soon followed and, for the fortunate ones, death. The living wallowed in a stench of puke and decay, surrounded by the dead and the dying, praying to God that they would be spared. When the last galley pulled out of Kaffa and the fleet set sail south, passengers and crew felt confident they had cheated death. Little did anyone on board realize that, in fact, they were its messengers.

As the fleet passed through the Bosporus for the Mediterranean, docking for a brief respite at Constantinople, it unwittingly put the plague ashore. By the time the disease gripped Constantinople in its full fury, unsuspecting infected travelers had carried it south across the Dardanelles, east into the Middle East, and north into the Balkans. By then, the Genoese fleet moved on toward home, unaware of the chaos it left in its wake as it transported its cargo of death to Europe.

No one in the fleet knew that the spread of plague was being manipulated by two individuals aboard one of the galleys.

Muhammad al Muhammad Abu Bakir strutted below deck, careful to avoid the rays of sunlight flowing in through the hatches and portals. No one talked to or made eye contact with him, everyone shunning interaction with others in hopes of avoiding the plague. He made his way to the galley’s stern to one of the few private cabins on board. Abu Bakir knocked on the door, waited for the voice on the other side to answer, and entered.

The two small portals on the port beam were covered over with Persian rugs, plunging the cabin into darkness. Even so, Abu Bakir could see Chiang Shih lying on a pile of straw in the corner. She rested peacefully, her brunette hair flowing over her bodice.

“Mistress, we’re about to arrive.”

“What time is it?”

“Early afternoon.”

“Is everything set?

“Yes. The last cage is ready to be released.”

“Good.”

Chiang Shih opened her eyes and stood up, brushing off the hay as she rose. She crossed the cabin and knelt before the last of three metal cages they had smuggled aboard the vessel at Kaffa. The cage measured three feet in width and length and one foot in depth. Like the other cages before it, two dozen rats filled this one. Not just any rats, though. Rats collected from the alleys and garbage dumps of Kaffa. Rats carrying the plague.

Abu Bakir marveled at her ingenuity. Chiang Shih had noticed long ago that the spread of the plague across Russia and Asia Minor coincided with the migration of the rat population. Although never able to determine exactly why the rats brought death and destruction in their wake, she realized the corollary was unmistakable. Before boarding the galleys, they had scoured the streets of Kaffa, finding as many rats as possible and placing them in the three cages, which they then snuck into her cabin. They kept the rats alive during the voyage by feeding them food scraps and chunks of bread soaked in water.

The first cage of rats had been released while the galleys were docked at Constantinople. It had been a test case. Chiang Shih wanted to see if a limited number of plague-ridden rats could infect a large population center. The effects of the vermin’s introduction into the city had been far-reaching and catastrophic, far outweighing Chiang Shih’s expectations.

She released the second cage of rats aboard the galley two days previous to ensure the plague had enough time to take hold amongst the passengers and crew. The incessant coughing heard throughout the vessel this morning testified to her success.

The third cage would be released at their destination and, with luck, would have the same results in Europe as it did in the Crimea and Constantinople.

The galley lurched to one side as it tacked hard to port. Chiang Shih went to one of the portals and pushed aside the Persian carpet. The fleet had drawn close to the Sicilian shore and turned to enter the harbor from the north. They sailed by a series of warehouses dotting the narrow peninsula. Across the harbor on the opposite bank, a medieval wall followed the shoreline before eventually turning inland at the southern and northern outskirts of the city. Towering sixty-five meters above it all stood the campanile for the city’s Normanesque cathedral. The shores outside the city walls bustled with activity. Fishermen unloading their daily catch. Women doing laundry. Children playing along the beach. All of them unsuspecting of the tragic fate that approached.

The fleet had reached its destination. It prepared to weigh anchor at Messina.

Abu Bakir came up behind Chiang Shih to peer out at the harbor, being careful to stay far back to avoid the sunlight. “What are your orders, Mistress?”

“We’ll go ashore around midnight.” Chiang Shih turned to face Abu Bakir, allowing the Persian carpet to fall back over the portal. She pointed to the cage filled with rats. “Bring them with us when we do. We’ll let them go inside the city walls, then find a place to stay until the plague sets in.”

“And then we can feed?” Walker asked expectantly.

Chiang Shih nodded and returned to the hay to get some rest.

The Black Death and the undead had arrived in Europe.

11

IN A DESERT of political correctness, where crime ran rampant but Washington’s leaders hailed a city-wide smoking ban as a boon to public safety, Shelly’s Back Room on F Street provided an oasis of sanity. The law exempted those businesses that derived their income predominantly from tobacco sales, and since Shelly’s dedicated solely to cigar aficionados, it avoided the ban, which suited Drake just fine. He liked having a place where he could enjoy a cigar in comfort without fear of smoking out Van Helsing or having Alison chide him about the hazards of second-hand smoke. Today had an added benefit, for Drake was meeting Reese for lunch and to catch up on old times.

Drake sat in a winged-back chair by the window overlooking F Street from where he could people-watch, although there were not too many people to watch at noon on a Saturday in the federal district. Nor were there that many people inside the bar. Just two couples in suits and fancy dresses, probably grabbing lunch before taking in a show at one of the nearby theaters, and a young man with long hair and a red parka vest who entered a few minutes after Drake. With nothing better to do while he waited, Drake removed his travel humidor from his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a Macanudo, and snipped off the tip with a pair of cigar cutters. Using the box of matches from the table, he lit one and held it below the end of the cigar. The flames leapt up to the tip. Drake slowly rotated the cigar as he puffed, continuing until the strawberry burned red. He drew in a mouthful of smoke, savored the flavor, and blew it into the air, watching as the bluish-white smoke billowed toward the ceiling. Life was good.

“Can I get you anything?” A young brunette stood beside Drake’s chair, smiling with mock pleasantry. She wore a short denim skirt and a blue halter that left little to the imagination. The outfit would have been appealing if the waitress did not look too young to drink alcohol, let alone serve it. She had a pretty face and sensuous eyes. For a moment, the girl reminded him of a young Alison, if Alison dressed like a slut, a prospect Drake could only dwell on for a few seconds before having to push that distracting thought from his mind.

“Just an iced coffee. I’m waiting on a friend for lunch.”

“Sorry, sir. We don’t have iced coffee. If you want, I could pour hot coffee over some ice.”

Drake tried not to grimace. Though her intentions were in the right place, the end result would be lukewarm, coffee-flavored water. “No, thanks. Just give me a diet cola.”

The waitress sauntered off. Drake took another drag of his cigar and slowly exhaled. Halfway through his next puff, a voice said, “Those things will kill you.”

Drake looked up to see Reese standing beside him. “So I’ve heard.”

Drake stood and shook Reese’s hand. The two exchanged a few pleasantries as Reese slipped off his jacket and sat down opposite Drake.

The waitress brought over Drake’s diet cola and placed it in front of him.

“Thanks,” said Drake as he picked up his cigar.

“My pleasure. Have you decided what you want?”

“I’ll have fish and chips.”

“Okay.” She looked over at Reese. “Do you need to see a menu?”

Reese shook his head. “I’ll have whatever he’s having.”

“Good enough.”

As the waitress walked away to place their order, Drake asked, “So how’s the research going?”

Reese became animated. “This is the most awesome book I’ve read on the undead.”

“I thought you’ve read dozens of vampire hunter diaries.”

“Only a few, actually. And most are self-serving accounts. Ferrar’s memoirs are different. He describes the undead at their weakest moments when they’re most vulnerable.”

Now Drake became excited. “Is there anything we can use to kill them?”

“Not unless you want to capture and interrogate them.”

“I’ll pass.” Drake took a puff on his cigar. “What else is in there?”

“Not too much, at least from a hunting perspective.” Reese paused as the waitress came over with his drink, resuming his conversation only after she stepped away. “The memoirs did mention the Vampyrnomicon.”

Drake paused while raising the diet cola to his lips. “What did it say?”

“So far, Ferrar’s memoirs have only mentioned it in passing. He did read it, though.”

“What’s in it that’s so important?”

Reese shrugged. “Ferrar hasn’t discussed what he read, only that it upset him. And before you ask, I don’t know what happened—”

“Excuse me, pal.”

Drake looked up. The guy with the red parka vest stood beside them, his right hand resting on the back of Drake’s chair, an unlit cigarette in his left hand. He raised his cigarette hand. “Do you have a light?”

“Sure.” Drake took the box of matches from off the table and handed them over. The guy pulled out a match, struck it against the side of the matchbox, used the match to light his cigarette, and returned the box to Drake.

“Thanks, man. Have a good one.”

Drake waited until the guy left the bar, then returned to his conversation. “You were saying?”

“About what?”

“What happened to the Vampyrnomicon?”

“Oh, yeah. I don’t know what happened to it. I haven’t finished reading Ferrar’s memoirs. I only got two-thirds of the way through them before the museum closed. I should finish them on Monday.”

“Then let’s get together Monday night for dinner so you can tell me what they say. I know a place that serves great pub food. Unless you want something more upscale.”

“Pub food’s fine with me.”

“Then it’s a date.” Drake puffed on the cigar again. “And it’s my treat.”

“If I’d known that, I would’ve picked the upscale place.”

“Too late.” Drake blew smoke skyward. “I’ll pick you up at the hotel at nine.”

“Kinda late for dinner, isn’t it?”

“I wanted to have Jessica join us, but she has a staff meeting that night until seven.” Drake paused. “You don’t mind if Jessica joins us, do you?”

“Is that the reporter who interviewed me about you?”

“Yup.”

“I’d love to meet her again. I’m curious to hear what she thinks about the existence of vampires now.”

Drake laughed. “I think she’ll have some interesting insights.”

The waitress showed up with their lunches and placed them in front of Drake and Reese. “Can I get you anything else?”

“We’re all set for now,” said Drake.

“Okay. I’ll check on you in a few.” She walked away to check on the two well-dressed couples seated at the other table.

Drake used his fork to break off a chunk of fish and dipped it into the saucer of tartar sauce. “So how are things at Salem State?”

EXITING SHELLEY’S, AKERS turned east onto F Street and rushed to his Oldsmobile Sierra parked a few doors down from the cigar bar. Sliding into the front seat, he removed the listening device’s receiver from the glove compartment, switched it on, set it on the dashboard, and placed the headset over his ears. He heard nothing. He adjusted the volume. Still nothing. Moving his thumb to the channel button, he scanned through, hoping to find the correct frequency.

Fuck. This should have been simple. Planting the microphone had been easy. About the size of a watch battery, he had clipped it to the back collar of Drake’s leather jacket when he placed his hand on the chair while asking for a match. According to the directions, he needed to tune in and eavesdrop on Drake’s conversations until he found out the location of the Vampyrnomicon. Despite following the directions, the damn thing still didn’t work. It wasn’t his fault, but he knew Chiang Shih wouldn’t see it that way. If she dealt with him the same way she dealt with her own vampires…. Akers shivered at the thought.

After several frantic minutes, he heard voices intermingled with static. Changing the frequency at a slower rate, he eventually fine-tuned the reception until he picked up the conversation between Drake and Reese.

“…if Jessica joins us, do you?”

“Is that the reporter who interviewed me about you?”

“Yup.”

“I’d love to meet her again. I’m curious to hear what she thinks about the existence of vampires now.”

Laughter. “I think she’ll have some interesting insights.”

The clinking of plates. “Can I get you anything else?”

“We’re all set for now.”

“Okay. I’ll check on you in a few.”

“So how are things at Salem State?”

Akers leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He wished he had the foresight to get himself some coffee prior to this because, if the last minute was any indication, he would need all the help he could get not to fall asleep.

CHECKING HER NOTEPAD, Jessica reviewed the questions she had prepared for the interview. Despite the commotion of the Cafe Renee coffee shop on Union Station’s mezzanine level, she maintained her focus. She did not want to screw up this opportunity. Much to her surprise, Rodriguez had returned her phone request for an interview. Even more surprising, rather than responding with “no comment” or trying to placate her with a canned statement, he agreed to meet with her for a late afternoon coffee.

As Jessica jotted notes beside her questions, she heard a voice behind her. “Miss Reynolds?”

Jessica turned around, immediately recognizing Rodriguez. Instead of being dressed in his uniform, he wore street clothes. Not surprising, though, since he probably had Saturdays off. She extended her hand. “Please, call me Jessica.”

“I will.” Rodriguez shook her hand. “Thanks for meeting me.”

“My pleasure, believe me. I’m glad you agreed to talk with me about the Fletcher case.”

“Yeah, about that.” Rodriguez sat on the stool opposite Jessica. “Sorry to have lied to you, but I’m not here to talk about the Fletcher case.”

Jessica became defensive. “Why?”

“Well, to start, I’m no longer on the Fletcher case. I’m not even on the force anymore.”

“You were fired?”

“Suspended.” Rodriguez frowned. “They don’t know it yet, but I won’t be going back.”

“Why’s that?” asked Jessica, sensing a story.

“Why was I suspended, or why am I not going back?”

“Both.”

Rodriguez chuckled. “Let’s just say I’ve seen some unusual shit these past few weeks. Shit that Roach and the others refuse to admit exists, and that I can’t deal with alone.”

“Vampires.” Jessica said it in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Yeah.”

What a sad state of affairs, thought Jessica, when two people could talk about the existence of the undead with no more a sense of embarrassment than if they were discussing a case of herpes. She still had one question.

“If you’re no longer connected to the Fletcher case, why did you agree to meet me?”

“You’re friends with Drake Matthews. I want you to arrange a meeting.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Jessica. “What did you want to see him about?”

A slight pause, as if Rodriguez seemed uncertain how he should answer. Finally, he said, “I want to help him hunt vampires.”

FINDING A NEW location to pursue the undead had proven harder than anticipated, but not for the obvious reasons. The criterion for finding a new hunting ground was simple. They needed to find a location that contained minimum pedestrian traffic and little population so the vampires could prowl and feed unnoticed. They also needed to find a location where anyone who fell victim would not be missed or, more cynically, would not be important enough for the authorities to investigate their disappearance. In essence, Drake was looking for an economically-depressed crime-prone section of the city. He had several neighborhoods to choose from. Drake picked the waterfront along the Anacostia River near where the city had been building the new baseball stadium for the Washington Nationals. He drove the SUV, with Alison up front riding shotgun and Jim in the back wearing the infra-red goggles, scanning the area for the undead.

They approached the area via Route 295, exiting at the ramp leading to the Frederick Douglass Memorial Bridge. As the SUV reached the top of the span, the riverfront came into view. The stadium towered over the area. Floodlights dotted the structure. The surrounding area presented a stark contrast to the lights and frenetic energy around the stadium. Block upon block of run-down structures, most darkened and abandoned, others that should have been. Acres of buildings that once testified to the prosperity of the area had long since been turned over to the city, which threw up chain-link fences and gave them over to the city’s utility services. Between it all lay a no-man’s land inhabited by the desperate and the dangerous. The perfect preying ground for vampires.

The bridge sloped down and merged with South Capitol Street. Drake took the first right, turning onto N street.

“Heads up, Jim,” said Drake. “It’s show time.”

“Does this place look as bad in real life as it does through these goggles?” asked Jim.

“Worse,” answered Alison. “This place looks like Baghdad after shock and awe.”

“Which is why this would be an ideal location to feed. So keep your eyes open.”

The SUV’s right front tire banged into a deep pothole, rocking the vehicle. Alison put her hand out to stop from slamming her head against the side window. When the rear wheel banged through the pothole, Alison felt the jolt along her spine.

Drake stopped the SUV at the corner of N and Half Streets. “See anything?”

“Hang on,” said Jim.

As Jim scanned the area with the goggles, Alison looked around. She did not feel very comfortable with what she saw. City facilities set off by chain-link fences. Dark, rutted roads. A single building—a three-story brick structure with half a sign attached to the facade indicating the building used to be a privately-owned convenience store. Or rather, is currently a privately-owned convenience store. Despite years of grime on the exterior walls and mounds of garbage piled up around the building, a light inside showed a lone figure rummaging around and stocking shelves. Working alone in this neighborhood at two in the morning took a level of guts Alison admired.

“Jim?” prodded Drake.

“Just a minute.” Jim finished scanning the area. “Nothing but the shopkeeper in that building and somebody in a shed down the road to our right.”

“That’s the guard shack for the Water and Sewer Authority.” Drake leaned forward onto the steering wheel and looked to the right down Half Street. “Nothing down there but the riverfront.”

“Then we go left,” said Alison.

Drake turned the steering wheel and accelerated. For the next fifteen minutes they maneuvered through the area north of the stadium construction site, but found nothing. Cutting across South Capitol Street, Drake began cruising up and down the streets north of Buzzard Point where many old apartment buildings stood. He paused at every street corner, giving Jim time to scan the surrounding area. If they found nothing, they would move along to the next intersection and repeat the process. At each intersection they found the same thing. Empty streets. Abandoned buildings. The occasional pedestrian or vagrant. But no vampires. After nearly an hour and a half of cruising the riverfront, they emerged back out onto South Capitol Street directly across from the stadium.

“Shit,” Drake huffed. “That was a waste of two hours.”

Alison empathized. “We knew this was a hit or miss proposition when we started it.”

“I know.” The frustration remained in Drake’s voice. “But if we don’t pick up their trail, we risk undoing everything we’ve accomplished since destroying the nest at Wolf Trap.”

Alison placed her hand on Drake’s forearm and squeezed gently. “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“I don’t want this war to go on forever.”

He placed his hand over Alison’s and squeezed back. She felt a thrill at his touch. If only he had clasped her hand under different circumstances.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s give the area another sweep, then we can head home.”

“Might as well.” Initiating a three-point turn, Drake turned the SUV around and backtracked the way they had just come.

TONI CROUCHED INSIDE the first-floor apartment of the abandoned tenement building, partially hidden by the kitchen counter, watching the midnight-black SUV through the shattered glass of the patio door. She had noticed the vehicle when it first entered the neighborhood because it looked out of place amongst the area’s structural refuse. She did not know who it belonged to. The police. Gang members. Or worse, the hunters. In any case, its presence boded ill, especially tonight. Prudence dictated she take cover until the danger passed, so she went to the nearest empty apartment, punched in the glass door, and hid behind the counter.

Several minutes later, the SUV cruised by. Toni snarled. As she expected, it was the hunters. She could see Drake behind the steering wheel. The child sat in back with night-vision goggles on his head. The bitch sat in the front passenger’s seat. Toni contemplated an attack. If she lunged now, she could be out of the building and on the SUV in seconds. It would be simple enough to punch in the passenger’s window and rip out the bitch’s throat. With luck, Toni could be gone before the other hunters even knew what hit them. However satisfying as that would be, it would infuriate Chiang Shih, who had ordered that the hunters were to remain untouched until she said otherwise. After what happened to Melinda the other night, Toni did not want to incur Chiang Shih’s wrath. Vengeance could wait. There would be time enough later to make the bitch pay.

Besides, the squirming bundle tucked under her coat reminded her of the task at hand.

Toni held the bundle against her chest and made her way to the shattered glass door. Inching to the patio, she peered around the corner of the building. The SUV stopped two blocks down the street. It sat there for several seconds while the child scanned the area with his goggles. Drake moved on, turning left down a side street.

With the SUV out of sight, Toni took advantage of the opportunity. She raced down the street in the opposite direction. After covering three blocks, she turned right in front of an eight-story abandoned apartment building, crossed the street, and jumped. Gliding through the air, she landed on a third-floor balcony and dropped into a crouch. The bundle squirmed. Toni ignored it. Instead, she surveyed the area to make sure no one saw her, especially the hunters. Satisfied that she had not been observed, Toni slid aside the boarded-up balcony door and entered the building.

The room, like the rest of the building, stank of urine, shit, and body odor. The one-hundred-plus unit apartment building, which had been constructed when the riverfront had been the vibrant part of the city, had long since become an abandoned hulk. For years, the homeless and drug addicts lived here as squatters, treating the building with the same disdain that they treated their own lives. Crime, vandalism, and disorderliness soon followed until the locals complained loud enough for the city to clean out the building, throwing everyone onto the street and sealing off every first- and second-story entrance. Such security made this building ideal for Toni to start her coven. With no one able to enter, there was minimal chance of someone inadvertently stumbling across them. The difficult access had the added benefit of deterring the coven from venturing outside in search of food. Another plus to this location was its size. Eight stories high, with twelve apartments per floor, it provided more than enough space for the coven to live without them falling over one another and without being discovered by outsiders. Most importantly, the space provided ample opportunities to ambush the hunters if they ever stumbled onto it. She already had prepared several surprises for them on the lower floors.

Making her way up to the sixth floor via the darkened stairwell, Toni pushed open the door leading to the main corridor and strode down to apartment 608. Stepping inside, she crossed the apartment to the spare bedroom. Two vampires crouched in the corner—a female teenage runaway who made the mistake of asking Toni for a handout, and a punk who tried to rob her at gunpoint. They smelled the meat she brought them and scurried across the floor toward her. Toni growled, forcing them to back down and rush back to their corner. Discipline must be maintained.

“Are you hungry?” taunted Toni.

The runaway vampire nodded.

“Feed us,” demanded the punk.

“And why am I feeding you?”

“Because we’re forbidden to leave here without your permission,” answered the punk.

“And the punishment if you disobey me?”

The runaway crouched into a ball. “Death.”

“Very good.” Toni reached under her coat and clasped the bundle. “And the reward if you do as you’re told?”

The punk half stood, expectantly. “You feed us.”

Toni nodded. She withdrew the bundle and pulled back the flaps of the blanket that covered it, revealing a five-week-old baby girl. It had become dazed and lethargic, having exhausted itself crying for milk from its mother, a strung out drug addict. Less than an hour ago, the whore had offered the baby to Toni for a hundred bucks to buy meth. Toni agreed. If she had not taken the child, the whore would have just pawned it off on someone else, and only Satan knew what terrible fate would have befallen the child. At least now her existence, brief as it would be, would be relatively painless and meaningful. Not that the mother received what she bargained for. Rather than giving her money, Toni tore out her throat, fed until full, ripped out the whore’s heart so she could not turn, and tossed the corpse into a dumpster.

“Feast, my children.”

Toni tossed the infant to the vampires. The hungry growls as they sprung from the floor drowned out the child’s wail of terror. The runaway caught the infant in mid-air, turning to face away from the punk as it plunged its fangs into the child’s neck. Pain intensified the infant’s scream. Its face turned crimson as it wailed, the adrenaline sweetening its young blood. The punk raced around front and tried to rip the infant from the runaway, but the latter held on too tight. Instead, it plunged its fangs into the infant’s leg and began feeding.

Toni turned and walked away. By the time she reached the main corridor, the infant’s cries had died out, replaced by the slurping of the vampires as they bled the child dry.

DRAKE SAT IN his recliner, nursing along his iced coffee, his gaze switching between Jessica and Rodriguez. He found this an interesting turn of events, and not necessarily an unpleasant one.

When Jessica had called him earlier that morning asking if she could drop by, Drake had agreed, hoping for a little morning delight. When Jessica arrived a half hour later, he was surprised to see Rodriguez standing there with her. He invited them in, made them a pot of hot coffee, and spent the next hour listening to Rodriguez relate how he came to believe in the undead. About the security camera footage showing the attack at the morgue that had killed Dekker and Jessica’s photographer. About what happened to him after he released Drake and the others during the raid on the nest. About the turning of Michael Fletcher at the funeral home and how he dispatched the vampire. And, finally, his request to join the hunters.

It wasn’t an unreasonable request. After what Rodriguez had witnessed, he would have to either admit the existence of the undead or commit himself to an asylum. Drake liked the idea of having another hunter in the ranks. A former cop with tactical training, Rodriguez would make a valuable addition to the team. First, he needed to make sure Rodriguez had the determination to be a hunter.

Leaning forward in the recliner, Drake placed his iced coffee on the end table and focused his attention on Rodriguez. “I don’t mean to sound like I distrust what you told me, but I have to ask. Do you really believe in vampires?”

Rodriguez looked confused. “Well, yeah. That’s what we’ve been talking about for the past hour, hasn’t it?”

“If you’re going to hunt them, you have to believe in them completely. There can’t be any room for doubt.”

“If there’s a more rational explanation, I’ve yet to hear it.”

“You think you can kill these things, even if they’re in human form?”

“I had no problem killing that thing in the funeral home.”

Drake nodded. Rodriguez had handled himself pretty effectively in dispatching Fletcher after he turned.

“What are the chances of you going back to the force and working with us from inside?”

“None. If I was dealing just with Roach, that might work. Problem is, Preston’s manipulating the show. He knows exactly what we’re facing, and is trying to cover it up.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a major asshole.” Rodriguez became embarrassed and turned to Jessica. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve heard worse from my editor.”

Rodriguez continued. “Because Preston and I both know about them, I’m a threat to keeping this covered up. Even if he agrees to let me back on the force, I’ll probably be assigned somewhere that’ll give me no access to anything related to vampires.”

“Good point.” Drake paused. “You don’t have to join this fight. Why do you want to become a hunter?”

“You’re a former cop, so you understand. I took an oath to protect and to serve. Under the current circumstances, I can’t think of a better way to do that than to clear this city of the undead.” Rodriguez leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “So, am I in or not?”

Drake thought about Rodriguez’ question, though he really did not need to. Rodriguez would be a valuable asset to the team, and he would be insane not to say yes. Drake stood and offered his hand.

“Welcome aboard.”

Rodriguez stood and shook it. “Thanks, man. I appreciate this.”

Drake chuckled. “Talk to me in a week and tell me if you still appreciate it.”

“So, what’s next?”

“Meet me at the office Tuesday around eight. We’ll be going on a hunt that night, and you can join us.”

CROUCHING, MELINDA SLID through the hole in the chain-link fence and entered the rear schoolyard. Fortunately she had found this entrance to the grounds because it gave her easy and secret access to the abandoned school she had chosen for her coven. When the city closed down this building years ago, they erected a chain-link fence to keep out trespassers. Not that it did any good, for someone had cut a hole in the rear perimeter fence behind a large bush to keep it hidden from view, more than likely by teenagers who wanted access to the school to party. It didn’t matter to her.

Pausing just inside the fence, she scanned the grounds for signs of life. It would be hard to explain why an eleven-year-old girl rummaged around a derelict school at three in the morning. No one was around. Everyone who lived in the nearby houses appeared to be in bed. Moving quickly, she crossed the school yard, passing by the rusted swing sets and climbing bars, and rushed up the rear stairs. When she first checked out this location as a potential coven two nights ago, she had found one of the double rear doors closed but ajar. Pushing the door aside, she stepped inside.

Melinda made her way downstairs. Being a decades-old structure, this building contained the perfect hiding place for her coven—a Cold War-era fallout shelter. No windows. No direct access to the outside. Soundproof. And large enough to hold up to two hundred people. She would establish her coven here, and with luck it would remain unnoticed by the humans. She would develop the coven until it became the largest and most ferocious in Washington. Then Melinda would show Chiang Shih that she was the cunt’s most important master.

Gyrating her lower jaw, Melinda could still feel where Chiang Shih had broken it during the other night’s altercation. Fucking bitch. What the hell did she know about hunting? Her orders to establish covens and feed them with the dregs of society showed just how out of touch Chiang Shih was with today’s reality. Washington D.C. was not Medieval Europe, where the undead could feast on anyone they liked, hiding behind the humans’ fear and superstitions. Today the humans had around-the-clock cable news, Amber Alerts, city-wide security cameras, and a greater tolerance for accepting the unbelievable. Yet Chiang Shih remained in denial about all that. It had been decades since the bitch had hunted prey, preferring to let her Nubian lapdog Walker fetch food for her. Chiang Shih no longer had to live like a vampire. Maybe if she acted—

The door to the classroom she had just passed banged open, starling Melinda. Three teenage boys in matching denim jackets rushed out. One of them pinned her arms behind her back while the others grabbed one leg each. They dragged her back into the classroom.

“What do we got here?” asked the teenager who pinned her arms.

“Looks like some sweet thing wants to go to school,” said the teenager wearing a bandana.

“No sweet girl would be walking around this place at three in the morning,” added the bald teenager.

“In any case, we’re gonna give her an education.” The teenager holding Melinda’s arms ran his tongue up the side of her face.

Melinda feigned at putting up a struggle, yelling at them to let her go and thrashing around just enough to keep up appearances.

The teenagers threw Melinda on the floor. The one pinning her arms moved to the side and pressed a knee down on her right arm. Bandana boy grabbed her left arm, sitting on her hand and holding down her forearm. The bald teenager shoved her legs aside, yanked her skirt over her hips, and tore off her panties. Melinda kicked at him, catching him in the shoulder.

“Calm down, bitch.” Baldy slugged her, his knuckles connecting with her recently-fractured jaw. Pain shot through her body. He unzipped his pants and pulled out his dick, all four inches of it.

“Go ahead, man,” chided bandana boy. “Stick the bitch.”

Crawling on top of Melinda, the bald teenager mounted her, shoving his dick in to the hilt. He raped her, humping furiously. Melinda smiled. She would enjoy watching this one die.

“Hey, guys,” he said. “She likes it.”

Melinda looked up at him. “Is it in yet?”

“Fuck you!” The bald teenager maneuvered himself to get a better angle, then began to rape her more violently. “How do you like this, bitch? We’re gonna fuck you like there’s no tomorrow.”

“For you, there isn’t.”

Melinda morphed into her vampiric form. The bald teenager yelled and tried to pull out, but she tightened her vaginal lips, holding him in place. Before either of the other two could react, Melinda immobilized them. She reached over to the teenager kneeling on her arm and drew her talons across his Achilles tendons, gouging four deep gashes in the skin. He rolled off her arm onto the floor, screaming. At the same time, with her other hand, she plunged her talons into bandana boy’s pelvis, tightened her grip, and tore off his cock and scrotum. Bandana boy fell face first onto the classroom floor, holding his bloody crotch and weeping. The bald teenager frantically tried to pull himself free, without success. Melinda clasped him on both sides of his head. With a snarl, she plunged her fangs into his throat, biting down and feeding. His scream became a gurgle. Melinda drank just enough blood so that the teenager would bleed out and die, ensuring he would come back as one of the undead. When she finished, Melinda released her bite and relaxed her vaginal muscles. The teenager crumbled to one side, what little life he had left draining from his body.

Melinda stood. Blood dripped from her mouth and chin. She reverted into her human form and checked out the other two teenagers, selecting her next victim. The rapidly growing pool of blood surrounding bandana boy’s abdomen told her she only had a few minutes left. She reached down, grabbed him by his hair, and yanked him to his feet. He whimpered and shut his eyes. Melinda plunged her fangs into his neck, again feeding just long enough to turn him. The teenager died in her hands. She tossed him aside, and then turned her attention to victim number three.

The surviving teenager crawled across the floor toward the door, panting, leaving a trail of blood from his injured ankle. Melinda followed. When she caught up with him, she placed the sole of her shoe on the gashed tendons and stomped down. He cried out. Rolling onto his back, the teenager raised his leg and cradled his ankle.

“Please,” he pleaded, his breath coming in painful gasps. “I don’t want to die.”

Melinda knelt beside him. She stroked his forehead, pushing sweaty locks of hair out of his face. “I’m sorry, but you are going to die.”

The teenager began to cry.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be quick. Then you’ll come back as one of us. Which is much more than you deserve.”

Melinda sunk her fangs into his neck and drank. When his thrashing and whimpering died out, she stopped sucking and let the body slide to the floor. Standing up, she looked around at the carnage. Not bad for one night’s work. Three assholes recruited to her coven. Three malcontent shits that, once let loose on Washington, would fuck up the city big time. Chiang Shih could stick that up her ancient, puckered ass.

Melinda grabbed her last victim under his arms and dragged him across the classroom. She would have just enough time to get these three down to the fallout shelter and get back to her hotel before sunrise.

12

REESE WENT THROUGH the by-now all too familiar routine for reading Ferrar’s memoirs. Show up when the museum opens. Putter around for fifteen to twenty minutes until the other researchers arrived. Then wait until everyone became engrossed in their own projects before retrieving the basswood case, removing the Bible, and sliding the hand-written memoirs from their pouch. Thumbing through the pages until he came to the location where he had last left off, Reese resumed translating.

22 October 1485

After much prayer and contemplation, I have decided on how to deal with the vampirus. As a man of the world I pondered how to deal with creatures that are the spawns of Satan? How do you ensure the salvation of something that has no soul?

As a man of God I am reminded that it is my duty to offer redemption to anyone, even those who reject Him.

I discussed my plans with the remaining guards, since they will assist me in implementing them. As expected, reactions were mixed. Two of my guards refused outright, declaring what I proposed was blasphemy and accusing me of blurring the line between what is holy and what is sacrilege—a charge, I fear, which may not be unfounded. The other guards agreed to assist but, although none of them said as much, I know they have reservations. I pray that in trying to save the vampirus’ souls, I have not condemned my guards’ souls to damnation.

I have the vampirus’ auto de fe scheduled for just before dawn tomorrow morning.

23 October 1485

It is finally over.

Our preparations began shortly after midnight. I brought in twelve extra guards, swearing them to secrecy under the threat of excommunication. We prayed together and took Holy Communion—a pathetically futile gesture against what we witnessed.

We started by setting up the quemadero, five pillars in all, one for each vampirus. I opted against a public burning, using instead the prison courtyard. Once the place of burning was ready, we retrieved the vampirus.

To ensure our safety, we brought the creatures out to the courtyard one at a time, each in their basin filled with holy water. Once all five basins were outside, we waited until ten minutes before sunrise to lessen the chance of an escape. As sunlight began to flood the morning sky, my guards moved quickly. In three-man teams, they removed the coffins from the basins. As one team member held a bucket of holy water at the ready, the other two lifted the lid off the coffin, removed the vampirus, and lashed it to a pillar. Most of the creatures submitted with minimal resistance. One, however, tried to overpower its guards and escape, stopping only when the bucket of holy water was tossed into its features. It bellowed hideously as the holy water seared its face, but it allowed itself to be lashed to its pillar. With minutes left to sunrise, the guards set each pillar on fire.

God, in his infinite mercy, granted these creatures one last chance at salvation through cleansing by fire and sunlight. I stood before each vampirus, blessing whatever remnant of humanity resided in their bodies and offering each to receive the sign of the cross which they had each denied. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, they each rejected their final chance at salvation. The vampirus blasphemed me and my guards, threatening us with acts of vengeance none was in a position to enforce.

Only Emilio Carius remained passive, seemingly oblivious to the flames that seared his legs. Only as the sun burst over the prison roof and washed across the courtyard did Emilio Carius speak to me with a solemn warning.

“You will not defeat us. Like your Christians, we grow in number every day. But evil is stronger than good, and in the end we will prevail.”

At that moment, the first rays of sunlight struck the other four vampirus. Never have I heard such woeful cries. It sounded like a chorus of anguish from the depths of hell itself. As the sunlight inched down their bodies, their skin charred and peeled, coming off in ashen flakes. The muscles, eyes, gums, and tongues disintegrated in a similar manner. Then their skulls darkened, blistered, and crumbled, their howls dying out as their throats turned to dust. As more and more of their bodies became exposed to the sun, the rate of disintegration increased until, within minutes, the four vampirus were reduced to nothing more than piles of ash.

Emilio Carius was spared this fate because of an abutment on the prison roof that cast him in the shadows. The flames rose up around his body, roasting him alive. When the fire ignited his legs, Carius cried out with a pitiful wail and lashed out against his restraints. The body transformed from human to demon. Its skin became the color of death. Fangs replaced teeth, and claws replaced fingers. The face looked like that of an animal, with a furrowed forehead and fiery red eyes sunk deep into their sockets. In this monstrous form, blisters welled up and erupted along its extremities and face, and its abdomen swelled.

Carius turned to me, his eyes trying to penetrate my soul. For a moment, I thought my time to die had come. He lunged at me, straining against the ropes securing him to the pillar, and would have easily snapped them had he not been so weak. The stress of trying to get free caused his abdomen to rupture, spilling his organs and intestines into the fire. His thrashing stopped as the pain became too intense for even this creature to endure. Carius slumped forward against his restraints. His body soon crumbled like the others. Skin and muscle, flesh and bone peeled away in flakes that mixed with the fiery embers drifting to the heavens.

Ten minutes after sunrise, all five vampirus had been reduced to ash.

Most of my guards had not witnessed these death knells, for at the first ungodly wails of anguish they had fallen to their knees to beseech our Lord and Savior for salvation. Once the hellish moment had passed, I gathered my guards together, heard their confessions one final time, offered absolutions, and reminded them of their vow never to speak of these events

But though the incident may never be spoken of, I know it will remain forever in our nightmares.

26 October 1485

It took me three days to work up enough courage to return to the courtyard where we burned the vampirus. I could still hear their wails. I could still smell their charred flesh. I could still see them crumbling into ash. It is an image that will haunt me for the rest of my mortal life.

I gathered the ashes from around the five pillars and placed them into a silver urn, filling the remaining space with holy water and mixing the two. I sealed the lid with wax from votive candles. The archbishop blessed the urn, which was then encased in the foundation stones of a church being built in a village near Barcelona where no one will ever find it.

The personal property of Emilio Carius and the other vampirus, including their residences, was confiscated and destroyed by fire.

Everything, that is, except the Vampyrnomicon. I agonized over what to do with that damnable book. If it falls into the hands of The Master, then man may well bear witness to the end of days. However, the book provides the key to destroying The Master and ridding the world of these creatures forever. My decision could just as easily condemn humanity as well as save it.

Perhaps it was human weakness on my part, or maybe prescience, but in the end I opted to keep the Vampyrnomicon safe yet well hidden until such time as circumstances dictate man’s next course of action. As such, I wrapped the book in a monk’s shroud, placed it in a silver box, and locked it shut. The box was entrusted to Father Olmos, a respected priest from Saragossa Cathedral who was tasked with carrying the Vampyrnomicon to the east and ensuring it was safely ensconced from the evil that plagued the west.

As for myself, I intend to retire from the priesthood. There is no way I can offer my parish the promise of eternal salvation when I am no longer certain that mankind might not one day fall prey to universal damnation. The archbishop of Saragossa has written me a letter of introduction to his friend, the abbot of the monastery at Mont St. Michel, requesting that I be allowed to stay there and live out my days in peaceful contemplation.

May God keep me, bless me, and grant me eternal salvation. Amen.

13 May 1486

I never intended to write again in this journal, but I feel the need to include one final entry.

This afternoon, I received a visit from a young priest from the east who called on me on behalf of Father Olmos. The young priest informed me that, according to Father Olmos, the Vampyrnomicon resides in the Dambovita citadel and is safely in the bosom of the defender of the faith. He assures me that the book will never be found by man or vampirus, for Father Olmos is the only individual who knows the exact location of the book. He has formed the Protectors of the Treasures of Solomon’s Temple, a small group of devotedly religious men who will protect and preserve the secrets of the Vampyrnomicon. Father Olmos will pass the information down to only one other person who can carry the secret after he has passed on. That individual, in turn, will pass on the secret to a trusted confidant, and so on in perpetuity, until the book is needed to save humanity.

For the first time since crossing paths with Emilio Carius, I feel a sense of peace and confidence in the future.

God has shown mercy on my tortured soul.

Reese flipped the last page over to see if anything had been written on the back, in particular notations explaining the location of the Dambovita citadel, the identity of the defender of the faith, or any information on the Protectors of the Treasures of Solomon’s Temple. Nothing. Damn. These clues were useless. A bunch of cryptic descriptions more than five hundred years old that made no sense, and several claims about the importance of the Vampyrnomicon but nothing about its content.

All right, Reese told himself. Calm down and think. The clues purposefully were kept cryptic so no one could find the Vampyrnomicon except those who intended to use it to defeat the undead. He needed to solve those clues, and he could not do that sitting in this research room. He required access to the Internet and his personal library back at Salem State. Assuming that the whole story of the Vampyrnomicon was not just the ramblings of a priest who had gone mad. Assuming that Ferrar’s clues were, in fact, decipherable. And assuming that the book had not been lost or destroyed over the last five hundred years. A hell of a lot of assumptions to base a war against the undead on.

Reese jotted down a few innocuous notes about the location of the Vampyrnomicon. He would conduct some research on the Internet after meeting Drake and Jessica for dinner.

“I’M SURPRISED YOU like this place,” said Jessica loudly to compensate for the background noise as she thumbed through the menu.

“Why’s that?” Drake slid off his leather jacket and draped it over the back of the chair.

“They don’t serve bourbon. Only beer.”

As Drake sat down, he took the menu out of her hands, flipped it to the last page, and handed it back. He tapped the section marked alcoholic beverages. “Maker’s Mark Whiskey. The next best thing.”

“Only you would order whiskey at a beer hall.”

“I’m ordering a beer.”

“Well, that’s a switch.”

“Whiskey doesn’t go well with fish and chips.” Drake leaned back and placed his arm on the back of Jessica’s chair. “I’ll have my bourbon back at the apartment when I have a cigar later.”

Jessica referred to the Brickskeller on 22nd Street near Rock Creek Park, a favorite haunt of the Georgetown college crowds and any Washington connoisseur of good beer. Most patrons came here to select among the thousand-plus brands listed on the menu. Others enjoyed the atmosphere because the basement maze of low-ceilinged dining rooms, the walls of each adorned with empty beer bottles from most every brew known to man, reminded one of a cross between a Smithsonian Institute exhibit and a Munich beer garden. Drake chose this spot because he and Reese enjoyed good pub food, of which the Brickskeller had some of the best in Washington.

When the waitress came by to take their order, Drake ordered a German lager and Jessica ordered an Irish Guinness. He asked her to come back for their food order after their friend arrived. Once the waitress left, Jessica looked at her watch.

“What time was Reese supposed to meet us?”

“Nine.”

“It’s already a quarter past.”

“Not a problem. Reese sometimes gets so involved in his work he loses track of time. If he’s not here by nine thirty, we’ll go ahead and order dinner.”

The two chatted about nothing in particular for ten minutes before Drake saw Reese stick his head into the doorway, craning his neck to look around. Drake stood and waved. Catching site of his friend, Reese made his way across the room.

Drake and Jessica stood, the former holding out his hand. “Glad you could make it.”

Reese shook Drake’s hand, then Jessica’s. “Sorry I’m late.”

“I thought you might have gotten lucky.”

“I did.” Reese did not get Drake’s joke. As he sat down, he became animated. “I found the location of the Vampyrnomicon.”

“You know where it is?” asked Jessica.

“Not the exact location, but close enough.” Reese curbed his enthusiasm and tried to explain. “Ferrar wrote about Emilio Carius, the vampire he was interrogating. Carius had the Vampyrnomicon in his possession when taken by the Inquisition. Ferrar read it.”

“What’s in it?” asked Drake.

Reese shrugged. “Ferrar never said. He only mentioned that if the vampires got hold of the book, it could mean the end of humanity. If humans got hold of the book, they could use it to defeat the vampires once and for all.”

“Damn,” whispered Jessica under her breath.

“That’s an understatement.” He lowered his voice so no one else could hear. “So where’s the Vampyrnomicon now?”

“Ferrar sent the book to the east, but he didn’t say where. The only indication was a set of cryptic clues as to its whereabouts.”

“Can you figure them out?”

“In time, probably.” Reese slid out if his jacket. Turning around, he draped it over the back of his chair. “That’s why I’m late. When I finished at the Freer, I went to the National Library and did some research, but I didn’t come up with anything.”

“What’s next?” asked Jessica.

“I’m going back to the Freer tomorrow to take more detailed notes. Once I have everything I need, I can start my research in earnest, and hopefully figure out where that book is.”

The waitress showed up with Drake and Jessica’s drinks. She took the rest of the order and left.

Reese slapped the palms of his hands against his knees. “Now, is this food really as good as you claim?”

SITTING IN HIS Oldsmobile parked on 22nd Street across from the Brickskeller, Akers adjusted the volume control on his listening device for the third time in as many minutes. The background noise nearly drowned out Drake and Jessica, making it difficult for him to hear their conversation. From what he could make out, though, they were not discussing anything important. Jessica’s editor, a rabbit, and some guy named Rodriguez. Oh, Christ. If he had to listen to much more of this dribble, he would ask Chiang Shih to tear out his throat. He leaned back against the headrest.

After ten minutes, another familiar voice joined the conversation. It belonged to that college professor. Great. Now he could listen to them debate the importance of beer in the Middle Ages.

“I found the location of the Vampyrnomicon.”

Akers sat upright in his seat. Jackpot.

“You know where it is?”

“Not the exact location, but close enough.”

Reaching into the glove compartment, Akers pulled out a pen and pad of paper, jotting down notes on what they discussed. After a few minutes, the conversation turned from the Vampyrnomicon to the merits of pub food. Akers looked at his notes. The professor had not provided much information, but he knew how to find the book. Chiang Shih would want to know this.

Taking out his cell phone, Akers flipped it open and dialed Walker’s number.

WALKER ANSWERED HIS cell phone. “Yes?”

“It’s me.”

“Be careful what you say.”

“I know,” said Akers. “Our friends have figured out how to find what they’re looking for.”

“Really?” The rise in Walker’s voice caught Chiang Shih’s attention. She looked over at him quizzically. He raised a hand to prevent her from asking. “Hang on. I’m putting you on speaker phone.”

Walker moved closer to Chiang Shih as he switched his cell phone over to speaker mode. He placed it on the table in front of her. “Please repeat that last comment.”

“Our friends have figured out how to find what they’re looking for.”

“How do you know this?” asked Chiang Shih.

“The information is in some memoirs in a book at the museum. It’s in the form of clues the professor says he can solve.”

“We need to get our hands on that book,” said Walker.

“We will,” assured Chiang Shih. “But we can’t overplay our hand. The book isn’t going anywhere, so we have time to form a plan.” To Akers. “You’ve done well. You’ll be properly rewarded.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

Walker leaned forward and spoke into the phone. “Good job. I’ll be in touch.”

He ended the call, then turned his attention to Chiang Shih. “What now?”

“We need to find a way to get that book.”

“Maybe Akers can request admission to the library for research.”

“It would be easier, but he doesn’t have the credentials.”

“Damn.”

“Don’t worry,” said Chiang Shih. “We’ll brainstorm with the others once they get here.”

AKERS CLOSED THE cell phone and contemplated shutting down the listening device, but decided otherwise. It was still relatively early, and the hunters and the professor had only just begun dinner. He figured he would hang around and listen in for a while longer. With luck, he might collect something useful about their future plans.

THE THREE FRIENDS spent the next two hours dining, talking, and laughing, losing track of time. When the waitress brought their bill, Reese looked at his watch.

“It’s after eleven.”

Jessica looked at hers. “I’ll be useless at work tomorrow.”

“I guess brandy and cigars back at my place are out of the question, then?”

Jessica and Reese looked at him and both sarcastically replied, “Yeah.”

Reese reached for his wallet, but Drake stopped him. “My treat, remember?”

“No arguments here.”

As Drake counted out the money to pay the bill, Jessica took her coat from off of her chair and slid it on. She went to get Drake’s jacket and noticed the small object the size of a watch battery attached to his collar.

“What’s that on the collar of your jacket?”

Drake held it up to get a better look. He pried off the object and examined it closely. “I have no idea.”

“Let me see,” asked Reese. Drake handed it over. Reese placed it on his palm, looking at one side before flipping it over to look at the other. “It’s a listening device.”

“Who would have planted it?” asked Jessica. “The police?”

“The police wouldn’t be that sloppy about it.” Reese handed it back.

“So who?”

Drake had an unsettling feeling that he knew the answer. “The vampires.”

“Oh, fuck.” A look of fear crept into Jessica’s eyes. “What now?”

“First, we cut off their access.” Drake held the listening device over a glass half-filled with water. He leaned closer to be sure he was heard. “If it’s a war you bloodsuckers want, then bring it on.”

Drake dropped the listening device into the glass. He watched it sink to the bottom.

“Now we get Ferrar’s memoirs before they do.”

“I’ll do that first thing tomorrow morning,” said Reese.

“We go tonight.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to let me handle it in the morning?”

“They won’t be there tomorrow morning. Now that the vampires know we’re on to them, they’ll make their move tonight.”

“You can’t be certain of that,” argued Reese.

“Do you want to take the risk that they’ll get them before we do?”

Reese thought for a moment, then nodded his head in agreement.

“How are we going to get into the museum after hours?” asked Jessica.

“I don’t know. But I know someone who might.”

“Rodriguez?”

Drake nodded. He removed the SUV keys from his leather jacket and gave them to Jessica. “You drive.”

“Where are we going?”

“Back to the office. I’m going to call the others and have them meet us there.”

AKERS DOSED OFF twice during the monotonously inane conversation. He breathed a sigh of relief when he overheard them haggling over who would pay. Shifting his seat back into the upright position, he started the Oldsmobile. With luck, in a few hours he would be home in bed and sound asleep.

“What’s that on the collar of your jacket?”

Fuck. Akers listened with growing concern as Drake found the device. He had not anticipated this, though he should have. Don’t panic, he warned himself. Maybe they won’t figure out what it is, or who planted it.

“If it’s a war you bloodsuckers want, then bring it on.”

Shit. Shifting into DRIVE, Akers pulled away from the curb as fast as possible. Once he cleared the Brickskeller, he flipped open the cell phone and dialed Walker’s number again.

“YES” ASKED WALKER.

“The hunters found the listening device,” Akers rambled. “They know we planted it. They’re on to us.”

“Calm down. I’m putting you on speaker.” Walker placed the cell phone on speaker mode and set it down on the table in front of Chiang Shih. “Start over. Slowly.”

“The hunter found the listening device I placed on his jacket. They know we planted it. I’m sorry. I failed you.”

“No need to apologize,” said Chiang Shih. “They were bound to discover it sooner or later.”

“What do we do now?” asked Walker.

“We get that book from the museum.”

“Tonight?”

Chiang Shih nodded. “If we don’t steal it tonight, the professor will tomorrow.”

“How do you plan on doing this?”

“Trust me.” Chiang Shih leaned toward the phone. “Are you still there?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I need you to steal a van. A commercial one without windows. Meet me here in two hours. Can you do that?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. But aren’t you concerned about my bringing a stolen vehicle to your apartment building?”

“An unavoidable risk. See you in two hours.” Chiang Shih broke the connection and turned to Walker. “As the others arrive, send them back to prepare their covens. Akers will be picking them up in a few hours.”

“Where are we going?”

“To get that book from the museum.”

13

JIM HAD BEEN working late on the holy water-laced tear gas when he received the call from Drake stating they were all to meet at the office. Drake did not go into details on the phone. He did not have to. The call could only mean that an emergency hunt was on, so Jim prepared their weapons. By the time Drake and the others arrived, he had laid out their arsenal on the work bench.

ALISON HAD TURNED in early for the night when the ringing phone interrupted her sleep. Once over the initial stupor of having been wakened, she got dressed and headed for the office, arriving thirty minutes after Drake, Jessica, and Reese.

THE LAST TO be called, Rodriguez and his family were on their way home from visiting friends in Ballston just across the Potomac in Virginia. Hanging up his cell phone, he concocted a story for his wife about being called in to fill a shift for a fellow cop who called in sick with the flu, suddenly thankful that he had decided not to tell his spouse about his change of vocation. After dropping off his wife and daughter at their home in Georgetown, he backtracked to the office, following Alison’s arrival by five minutes.

ONCE EVERYONE HAD gathered, Drake briefed them on how the vampires had bugged him and now knew the location of Ferrar’s memoirs. Since the undead would do anything to get their hands on them, the hunters were going to break into the Freer Gallery and steal them first. Drake could tell by the worried faces around the workbench that no one was pleased with the prospects of tonight’s raid. He knew they were worried about running into vampires. Drake’s concern centered on breaking into the museum because the security system would go off the moment they set foot inside the building, which would bring half the D.C. police down on their heads. He needed to prevent that at all costs.

“Rodriguez,” asked Drake. “Is there any way you can bypass the Freer’s security and get us into the museum?”

“No. The Smithsonian’s museums are on a private current. The police don’t have access to it.”

“We’re screwed,” said Jim.

“Not necessarily,” said Rodriguez. “I know some of the nightshift guards at the Freer. Depending on who’s on duty, I might be able to bullshit our way past him.”

“And if you can’t bullshit him?” The tone of Jim’s voice indicated he had little confidence in Rodriguez’ chances of success.

“Then we overpower the guard.” Drake looked at the others. They stared at him, incredulous.

“You’re kidding, right?” asked Alison.

“What do you suggest?” Before anyone could answer, Drake cut them off. “Look. I know this isn’t like what we’re used to. But we have to get those memoirs. If the vampires find them, they could take over the world.”

“You don’t really believe that?” asked Jim.

“It’s always been part of their lore,” answered Reese. “Ferrar stated in his memoirs that he read the Vampyrnomicon, and that the legend is true.”

Jim lowered his head. “Shit.”

Drake reached out and patted Jim’s shoulder to reassure him, then returned his attention to the group. “One other thing. When you stock up, leave the Heaven’s Fire here.”

“That’s our most effective weapon,” protested Alison.

“Can’t risk it. We’d burn out half the Freer.” Drake turned to Jim. “Do you have anything else we can use?”

“Sorry, boss. I’ve been spending all my time perfecting the holy water-laced tear gas.”

“Does it work?”

“Ninety percent of the time.”

“That’s good enough for me. Let’s bring it.”

“What weapon do I get?” asked Reese.

“You’re not going.”

Reese looked shocked, like a child told he would not be joining the rest of the family at Disneyland. “Why not?”

Drake tried to be diplomatic. “You’re not a hunter.”

“But I’m the only one who knows where the Bible’s located.”

“Tell me where it is.”

“No.” Drake began to protest, but Reese cut him off, showing forcefulness not typical of his mild-mannered demeanor. “You’re the one saying time is of the essence. I know exactly where to go, what to look for, and how to gain access to it. You’ll waste too much time trying to find it.” Reese’s tone softened, pleading. “Besides, you can’t cut me out now. Please.”

Drake relented because he knew how he would feel in Reese’s position. He just hoped he would not regret it. “Fine. I don’t have time to argue.”

“Can I go, too?” asked Jessica.

“Sorry, but this one can’t make the papers.”

“I don’t want to go as a journalist. I want to help.”

“What can you do?” asked Alison cattily.

“I can help Reese get the Bible while you do what you do best.”

Jim chuckled. “Get arrested?”

Drake glanced at Jim, a strange look on his face. Jim grew uncomfortable. “Sorry, boss. It was just a joke.”

“Actually, it’s a great idea.”

Drake stepped over to the far corner of the work area, flipped open his cell phone, and dialed. He spoke quietly so the others could not hear. Everyone looked at Alison for an answer, but she shrugged. A minute later, Drake closed the cell phone and rejoined the group.

“What was that about?” asked Alison.

“Making sure our asses are covered.” Drake picked up a flask and handed it to Reese. “Here’s your weapon.”

Reese stared at the flask, confused. “What am I supposed to do? Invite them for a drink?”

“It’s holy water. Throw it on them if they get too close.”

“Not much of a weapon.”

“It’ll slow them down enough for one of us to take care of them.”

“And me?” asked Jessica.

“Do you know how to use a gun?”

“No.”

Drake handed Jessica a flask.

The time for talk was over. “Jim, load the weapons in the duffle bag and put it in the SUV. We head out in five minutes.”

SMITH DISCONNECTED HIS call from Drake, then dialed the phone number of his employer. Being so late at night, it took eight rings before he answered.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end sounded groggy.

“Sir, sorry to bother you at this hour.”

A grunt as his employer sat up in bed. “Let me guess. Drake’s been arrested again?”

“Not yet.”

AKERS CRUISED DOWN Massachusetts Avenue, looking for Treja and his coven. Or more precisely, partially looking for them. He spent half his time eyeing his rearview mirror, watching those crouched in the back of the van, unnerved by the five sets of blood-red eyes that stared at him. Ever since picking up the first of the covens, he felt as though the undead viewed him as a meal on wheels.

“There he is,” said Chiang Shih from the front seat.

Treja stood along the curb. As Akers slowed the van, Treja turned to the alley behind him and motioned with his hand for something to join him. A vampire in a leather mini-skirt and blood-stained red silk tank top darted out of the alley and raced over to the van. Walker opened the side door, ushered the two inside, and slid it shut. Akers was about to pull out onto Massachusetts Avenue when Chiang Shih placed a hand over his. She turned to the vampires in the rear of the van.

“I want you to memorize this human. He’s with us. If any of you harm him, you’ll answer to me. Is that understood?”

A chorus of affirmative but disappointed grunts echoed their response.

“Thank you,” whispered Akers.

Chiang Shih nodded in acknowledgement and leaned back in her seat. “Drive.”

“Where to?”

“The Freer Gallery.”

“PARK HERE,” ORDERED Rodriguez.

Jim pulled the SUV over and parked on Jefferson Avenue in front of the Freer Gallery. Everyone climbed out and began loading up from the duffel bag. Drake opted for his traditional armament—two Glock 23s each with a magazine containing nine rounds of holy water-tipped .40 caliber shells and three stakes stored in the pouch sewn inside his leather jacket. Alison took a pair of stakes, as did Jim. Jim also carried his crossbow and a satchel bag containing two canisters of holy water-laced tear gas. In addition to their flasks of holy water, Drake gave Jessica and Reese one stake each. He turned to Rodriguez.

“What’s your weapon of choice?”

“I got this.” Rodriguez removed a stun gun from his coat pocket.

“You’d have better luck spitting holy water at them.” Drake took the stun gun from Rodriguez and dropped it into the outer pocket of his leather jacket. He pulled open the duffel bag to reveal a third Glock, a sawed-off shotgun, and a 12-guage shotgun. “Take your pick.”

“Can’t. I lost my permit to carry in D.C. when the force suspended me.” When Drake laughed, Rodriguez became miffed. “What’s so funny?”

Drake feigned a Mexican bandito accent. “Permits? We don’t need no stinkin’ permits.”

“You don’t have papers for these?”

Drake patted Rodriguez on the shoulder. “Stop thinking like a cop. You’re playing by a different set of rules now.”

Rodriguez nodded. “Cool.”

Removing the Glock from the duffel bag, Drake handed it to Rodriguez. As Rodriguez tucked the weapon between his pants and the small of his back, Drake zipped up the bag and closed the SUV’s hatchback. He turned to the others.

“This time it’s simple. We go in, get the memoirs, and get out. If things go south, we’ll hold off the vampires while Jessica and Reese get the memoirs to safety. Any questions?”

None.

“Let’s rock.”

The hunters made their way around the museum and approached the Independence Avenue entrance. Climbing the steps to the glass doors, Drake and Rodriguez peered inside.

“What are we looking for?” asked Drake.

“The night guard.” Rodriguez loudly rapped on the glass with his knuckles, repeating the process every five seconds until a kid in his mid-twenties dressed in a security guard uniform emerged from the small corridor to the left of the interior marble stairs, his right hand on his service revolver. He approached the door cautiously. Then his eyes widened in recognition. The kid removed his hand from the revolver and quickened his pace.

“He knows you,” said Drake.

“Bill’s a good kid, but not very experienced. I should be able to bluff our way inside. Just follow my lead.”

Bill unlocked the front door and opened it wide enough to stick out his head. “Hey, man. What’s up?”

“The station received an anonymous phone call claiming there’s a bomb planted in the Freer. This is one of our bomb teams. Let us in so we can check the place out.”

Bill looked at each of them in turn, checking out their lack of uniforms, and looked beyond them onto Independence Avenue. The uncertainty on his face indicated he did not buy the story. Drake slowly moved his hand to the stun gun in his pocket.

“Where are your vehicles?”

“Parked in back. We want to avoid a media circus.”

Bill thought a moment. “Makes sense.”

“Bill, we have to get the team in there to check out the threat.” Rodriguez took on a tone firm but not threatening. “If you have to call someone to verify this, go ahead. Just hurry up.”

Though still not certain he was doing the right thing, Bill opened the door and ushered them inside. As he locked it behind him, Bill asked, “What can I do to help?”

“Turn off the inside alarms so we don’t accidentally trigger them.”

“Can do.”

“And we’ll need a master key to gain access to any locked areas.”

“Give me a minute to turn off the alarms and I’ll go with you.”

“Sorry, can’t allow that. Too dangerous. Besides, we’re expecting backup. I need you to stay by the doors and let them in.”

Bill paused, the uncertainty returning, but by now he had committed himself. Removing from around his neck the lanyard with the master card key, he handed it to Rodriguez. “This will work on all the offices. The laminated card gives you all the pass codes to gain access. The elevator at the top of the stairs will take you to all floors.”

“Great.” Rodriguez hung the lanyard around his neck. “I’ll keep you posted on our progress.”

The hunters rushed up the marble stairs and into the museum. The elevator sat in an alcove on the left. They took it to the basement, which opened onto the archives area. As everyone stepped off, Reese ran over to the collection manager’s cubicle and searched her desk for the key to the bookshelves. He found it hanging on her schedule board.

“Got it.” Reese pulled the key off the hook, holding it up triumphantly.

“You stay here,” Drake said to the others. He and Reese headed into archives until they came to the book room. Drake slid the card over the electronic lock and punched in the three-number code. The shining of the green access light and click of the electronic lock told them it worked. Reese opened the door, switched on the lights, and crossed over to the storage shelf that contained Ferrar’s books. Using the key, Reese opened the cabinet and rummaged through the basswood cases until he found the one containing the ceremonial Bible. He brought it over to the table and lifted off the lid. The book sat in its protective cradle.

“Is that Ferrar’s Bible?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s haul ass.”

AKERS STOPPED THE van on Independence Avenue directly in front of the Freer Museum. Chiang Shih stepped out and proceeded toward the entrance. The van’s side door slid open and the masters emerged onto the sidewalk, falling in behind their mistress. Their covens followed, racing to keep up. Shutting off the engine and leaving the keys in the ignition, Akers brought up the rear.

Standing outside the rear entrance at the top of the stairs, Bill watched with growing curiosity. At first, he thought they were the backup for Rodriguez’ team, but quickly ruled out that thought when he saw the little girl and the group in monster costumes. He didn’t need this shit tonight.

“Can I help you?” Bill called out to the tall Asian woman in the lead.

They ignored him and continued to approach.

Bill descended the steps to cut them off. He placed a hand on his service revolver. “This is private property. You’ll have to leave.”

Still no response.

Bill began to draw his weapon.

Chiang Shih surged forward, placed her hands on either side of Bill’s head, and, with a single move, twisted it around. The rupturing of vertebrae drowned out his final gasp. Chiang Shih continued walking, dragging Bill’s lifeless body up the stairs. When she approached the glass door, she flung the body against it. Bill’s corpse shattered the glass and continued through into the lobby, slamming against the base of the interior stairs in a bloody heap. The sound of broken glass raining down was replaced by the klaxon of an alarm. Bright white lights on each alarm box flashed.

Chiang Shih paused and turned to Melinda. “Stay here and make sure no one gets in.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Stepping through the shattered glass door, Chiang Shih led the others into the lobby. She motioned for Akers to join her, pointing to the narrow corridor to the left of the marble stairs. “The guard room is down there. Turn off this damned alarm.”

As Akers rushed off to find the controls, the vampires spread out, Chiang Shih and her masters standing four abreast, and the covens amassed behind them.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Drake looked around the research room, focusing on the flashing light on the alarm box.

Reese jumped at the sound of the klaxon. “What’s that?”

“Trouble,” replied Drake. “Come on. Let’s move it.”

Reese grabbed the Bible, tucked it under his arm, and followed Drake back into the archives area.

The others waited by the elevator, looking apprehensive.

“Please tell me you set that off,” said Alison.

“No such luck.”

“Let’s haul ass, guys,” said Rodriguez. “The cops will be here any minute.”

Drake led the group into the elevator and back to the main floor. When they reached the top of the marble stairs, the hunters came to a stop. At the base of the stairs stood six snuffies and, in front of them, four human-looking individuals.

Alison nudged Drake and pointed to the disfigured woman. “That’s the master I fought at Wolf Trap.”

“So we can assume the rest are also masters.”

The deformed master saw the hunters at the same instant. She morphed into her vampiric form and snarled. It drew the attention of the others. The Asian-looking vampire stared at them, then noticed Reese holding the Bible. A sneer crossed her lips.

“I don’t care what you do with the humans,” she announced. “Just bring me that book.”

“What do we do now?” asked Alison.

Drake could only think of one response. “Run.”

He pushed Jessica down the corridor leading to the exhibit halls. The snuffies let out a collective, inhuman cry and gave chase, leaving Chiang Shih in the lobby.

Drake knew they could not outrun them, but he never intended to. Leading the group to the opposite end of the gallery, he headed for the Spanish Inquisition exhibit. As they entered the outer exhibit room, he stopped and turned to face the horde. They were ten yards away and closing fast. Drake withdrew one of his Glocks, aimed it down the corridor, and emptied the magazine in their direction. The barrage had the desired effect. Knowing what damage the holy water rounds could inflict, the masters dropped to the floor or jumped to one side. The snuffies, not knowing any better, bore the brunt of the attack. The hooker took two rounds in the chest, the bald vampire caught one in the abdomen, and the teenage runaway had its arm grazed. Not enough to kill them, but it stopped them and the others in their charge and bought his team a few precious seconds. Drake rushed ahead and ducked into the exhibit hall containing the torture devices and the glass display cases filled with medieval weaponry.

Alison and Rodriguez already had begun to close the ornately-carved heavy wooden doors. Jim stood by holding the end of a hose he had unwound from the firefighting station. When the doors slammed shut, Jim passed the nozzles behind the twin handles, threading it through them before tying it off in a knot. No sooner had he secured the knot when the doors pushed inward, straining against the hose.

“That’ll hold ’em for a few seconds,” said Jim.

“That’s all we need.” Drake took the bag of holy water-laced tear gas canisters from Jim and handed it to Reese. “There’s an emergency exit in the corner. You and Jessica use it and get the Bible to safety.”

Jessica stepped forward. “I’m staying wi—”

Another loud bang rattled the twin doors, this time accompanied by the cracking of wood. The doors held, but fractures formed around the handles.

“Go!” ordered Drake. “We’ll hold them off as long as we can.”

Before Jessica could argue, Reese grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the emergency exit. She hesitated, but when Drake turned his back on her she reluctantly followed the professor. The two pushed through the metal door into a narrow, poorly-lit stairwell leading down.

Jim leaned close to Alison. “Hold them off as long as we can? With what?”

The sound of breaking glass caught the hunters’ attention. They turned to see Drake reach through the shattered glass top of a display case and lift out a halberd. He grasped the weapon in each hand, ready for battle.

“Lock and load, gang. We’re going to go medieval on their asses. Literally.”

AKERS SEARCHED AROUND the security control panel in the guard room until he found the switch for the alarm. He flipped it to the OFF position. The klaxon went silent, leaving in its place an eerie stillness.

Checking the monitors to see where the others had gone, he saw them gathered outside the doors to the Spanish Inquisition exhibit hall. The monitor for inside the hall showed the hunters gathering in a semi-circle around the doors. No fucking way did he want to get involved in that fight. He planned on watching the massacre from here, but then noticed on a third monitor the blonde reporter and the professor running down an emergency exit stairwell. And they carried the Bible with them. He checked the monitor’s location against the museum’s floor plan. The emergency exit led to the basement. He considered warning Chiang Shih, but by then the two would have gotten away. Not if he could head them off, though.

Racing out of the guard room, Akers ran past the elevators and headed for the main stairwell leading to the basement.

THE SIX VAMPIRES pressed against the twin doors to the exhibit hall, trying to force them open. Chiang Shih walked up, furious that they had not caught the hunters yet. She shoved them aside and stepped up to the doors, pausing for a second before kicking at the handles with her boot. The force ripped the handles out of their mountings. As the doors flew open, the undead swarmed into the exhibit hall.

Directly into a rain of death.

The vampire with no throat and a blood-soaked denim jacket rushed in first. It did not see Drake swing the halberd until the blade sliced through its neck, decapitating it. The punkish-looking vampire followed close behind, only to catch a bolt from Jim’s crossbow in its heart. Neither hunter watched their death throes because the remaining snuffies and masters raced past their fallen comrades and swarmed over the humans.

CHIANG SHIH STOOD by the door, surveying the exhibit hall as her minions attacked. She saw the hunters, but not the reporter and that meddlesome professor. Instinct told her that these two had the Bible. Grabbing the hooker and the runaway vampires by their arms, she prevented them from joining the fight.

“What’s wrong?” asked the hooker.

“The reporter and the professor aren’t here. Find them. Bring me their heads and the Bible.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The two scurried around the outskirts of the battle and headed for the emergency exit. Chiang Shih turned and headed back to the lobby.

DRAKE BROUGHT THE halberd around and swung it at another vampire with no throat, only this time with less accurate aim. Having seen the fate that befell its companion, the throatless snuffy tried to turn out of the way, but was not fast enough. The halberd blade sliced through its midsection a foot below the neck, amputating the snuffy’s right arm and gashing open its chest and ribcage. Howling in pain, it retreated back to the doors.

Before Drake could bring the halberd back for a third swing, Walker lunged forward. Drake steadied the halberd and thrust it forward, driving the spike head into Walkers chest. He missed the master’s heart, instead imbedding the spike into its stomach. Walker bellowed and transformed. Drake withdrew the spike and tried to jump back, but Walker grabbed the shaft and yanked the weapon out of Drake’s hands. Keeping his eyes fixed on the hunter, Walker turned the halberd around and brandished it for combat. His hideous features broke into a sardonic smile as he approached Drake. Backing away, Drake reached under his jacket and pulled out a stake. Walker approached slowly, taunting the hunter. Every few seconds he would move as if about to swing the halberd, then stop, laughing as he watched the hunter jump. After toying with Drake for several seconds, Walker swung the halberd in earnest. Drake ducked as the blade sliced through the air inches above his head. Before Walker could recover, Drake charged, aiming the stake at the master’s heart. The stake punctured Walker’s side, bouncing its way between two ribs, which deflected it away from the heart.

Roaring in anger and pain, Walker dug the stake out of his side and flung it at Drake. By now, the hunter had retreated several feet and pulled out a second stake, preparing for another attack. Walker refused to give him the chance. Holding the halberd like a lance, he rushed Drake. The hunter back stepped until he bumped into a display case. Raising the halberd above his head, Walker brought it down, hoping to cleave the hunter in two. Drake dropped and rolled to one side as the blade smashed the case, showering him in glass shards and fragments of wood. Drake got up when Walker swung the halberd at him again. Drake was too close, and the handle struck him on the side of the head. The force of the blow, however, stunned him. Drake fell to the floor on his stomach, disoriented.

Walker slipped one foot under Drake’s shoulder and flipped the hunter onto his back. “Not so tough now, are you?”

Stepping around to Drake’s side, Walker placed his foot on Drake’s chest to hold him down. He turned the halberd around so the spike faced down, and lifted it above Drake’s head.

“See you in Hell, hunter.”

A BALD VAMPIRE wearing a denim jacket ran into the exhibit hall and rushed Rodriguez. Rodriguez jabbed his lance, but it moved quicker than anticipated. It slapped the lance head aside and leapt at him, baring its fangs. Rodriguez raised the handle to block his face and slammed it between the vampire’s jaws like a bridle. The snuffy bit into the wood as it continued its attack, pushing Rodriguez backwards. Letting himself fall, Rodriguez lifted his left foot, placed the sole on the vampire’s abdomen, and, as he toppled over, kicked out. The vampire catapulted over him and crashed into a floor-mounted display case, shattering it. Shards of glass fell onto and around Rodriguez. Rodriguez rolled over and stood, but because he still clutched the lance he moved slowly. Once upright, he broke the handle over his knee, creating two weapons. He held the broken handle in his right hand as a jagged stake, and in the other he clutched the lance head. The vampire crouched by the remnants of the display case, chunks of broken glass imbedded in its back. Blood dripped onto the floor. It kept a wary eye on Rodriguez as it reached around and plucked the jagged pieces out of its skin, dropping each to the floor with a snarl. When the snuffy couldn’t reach the pieces in the center, it turned its back to Rodriguez and shook violently, like a wet dog. The remaining shards sailed through the air. Half a dozen threatened to hit Rodriguez, who covered his face with his arms.

The vampire used that moment to attack. It slammed into Rodriguez, throwing the hunter back several feet onto the floor, and knocking the wind out of his lungs and the makeshift weapons out of his hands. Stunned, Rodriguez felt around for the stake and the lance head. The vampire raced over, lifted Rodriguez off of the floor, and hurled him into the shattered display case. Rodriguez winced as the broken glass cut into his back. Before he could get up, it jumped onto his abdomen, hissed, and lunged for his throat. Rodriguez grabbed the vampire by the neck and tried to push it away, but the snuffy was too strong.

Slowly, inch by inch, the vampire pushed its fangs toward Rodriguez’ neck.

TREJA DASHED INTO the exhibit hall and stopped short, nearly impaling himself on the point of the sword Alison held out in front of her. She thrust, aiming at his heart. He jumped back, sidestepped her, and vaulted over a nearby display case. The glass already had been broken and a sword removed. Treja reached in and grabbed one of the remaining swords, then kicked over the case. Alison moved back several feet. Treja leapt over it, landing in front of her. Alison thrust again, but Treja caught the blade with his sword and deflected the attack. Flipping his sword up and to the left, Treja cut a one-inch gash along Alison’s right cheek. She gasped.

Treja grinned. “Poor choice of weapons, girl. I’m a master swordsman.”

He stepped toward Alison. She jumped back out of the way. He sensed her cockiness draining away and laughed.

“I’m going to enjoy cutting you up.”

Alison attempted another thrust, but Treja deflected the attack. He sliced sideways, cutting across the body of her leather coat. She stepped back, and Treja followed.

“First, I’ll slice off your ears and nose.”

Treja slashed at her face. Alison ducked to the side. The blade barely missed her.

“Then your eyes.”

He slashed at her face again. Alison jumped back, losing her balance.

“Then your tits.”

Treja made two crossing slashes at Alison’s chest, the latter of which sliced open the breast of her jacket.

“And when I’m through toying with you, I’ll gut you like a pig.”

Treja lunged, the sword pointed at Alison’s stomach. This time, she deflected the blade and stepped into the thrust. The blades of the swords slid along each other until the hilts connected. The two adversaries stood face to face. Now Alison smiled.

“I’m a pretty good swordsman myself.”

“Not as good as me.”

“That’s true.” Alison placed her right foot on Treja’s upper leg and shoved, propelling them away from each other. As she did, Alison sliced the blade downward, from left to right, gashing Treja’s chest. He growled angrily. The growl became a cry of pain. And fear. Treja looked down at the wound. Pain was no stranger to him, but this wound burned. Wisps of smoke wafted from the gash. He lifted his head to see Alison smiling at him.

“My sword is covered with holy water.”

Treja backed up to avoid the weapon. Alison followed, launching a series of thrusts. Treja blocked each move, but did not counterattack, his gaze focused on the deadly blade. He kept retreating until he bumped into the stretching rack. Looking over his shoulder to see what blocked his escape, he momentarily averted his gaze from Alison. Alison sliced her sword horizontally, aiming for Treja’s neck. Treja moved back, but could only go so far because of the rack blocking his way. The blade sliced across his throat, creating a barely perceptible slit. For a moment nothing happened, and Alison thought she missed. Then white smoke drifted from the wound, followed by a flow of blood. The slit opened, revealing the extent of the damage. Alison had cut clean through to the larynx. Treja dropped his sword and brought up a hand to cover the gash. Sidestepping around the rack, he backed away toward the exit.

Alison followed, brandishing the sword in front of her.

“Now let’s see who gets gutted like a pig.”

TONI FOLLOWED THE punkish-looking vampire into the exhibit hall, which was fortunate for her since it absorbed the bow from the crossbow. Toni paused, trying to determine from which direction the shot had come from. Then she saw the child reloading his weapon. Their eyes locked. He reached down, felt for a replacement bow, and removed one. When he looked down to load the bow, Toni morphed into her vampiric form and attacked. She brushed aside the disintegrating vampire, turning it into a swirling pile of ash. The child pulled back the slide and raised the crossbow. Since Toni was too close to take careful aim, he squeezed off a bow and hoped for the best. Toni plucked the bow in mid-flight. She pounced on him before he could react. Toni swiped her right hand at his head. He ducked, avoiding the blow. Still crouching, he turned to one side and darted away, but did not get very far. Toni swiped her left hand at him. Three talons caught him in the left shoulder and swept downward to the right, tearing three long gashes across his back. He fell forward and slammed head-first into a display case, slid down the glass, and crumbled face first to the floor. Toni strolled over to him. He did not move. Blood filled the gashes and overflowed onto his back, soaking his clothes. She towered above him, raising her right hand over her head, ready to plunge her talons into the back of his skull.

Toni heard Treja gasp. She turned to see him retreating from the huntress, clasping his throat, blood flowing between his fingers. The huntress pursued him, lashing at him with a sword. She had her back to Toni.

Smashing the glass of the nearby display case, Toni removed two daggers. Brandishing one in each hand, she lunged at Alison from behind.

MELINDA HEARD THE sounds of police sirens approaching down Independence Avenue and figured they were heading for the Freer. In anticipation, she moved away from the front entrance and closer to the sidewalk. Falling to her knees, she willed herself to cry. By the time the squad car came to a stop behind the white van, she had worked herself into a state of feigned anxiety.

Two cops stepped out of the squad car, each placing a hand on their service revolvers. At first, neither of them noticed Melinda, their attention fixed on the van. A lanky Asian stood by the van’s left rear quarter and provided cover while his partner, a middle-aged guy with a sizeable paunch that strained against his blue shirt, moved over to the passenger side window and looked inside the vehicle with his flashlight.

“Help me,” Melinda wailed.

The two cops raced over to her. The Asian cop knelt down. His fat partner took a few steps beyond them and stopped, searching the area for any immediate danger, his gaze drawn to the shattered glass door of the museum.

“My name’s Tran,” said the Asian cop, trying to comfort her. “Are you okay?”

She sobbed and nodded her head.

“Tell me what happened.”

“Three mean-looking men grabbed my mom. They broke the door and took her in there.” Melinda pointed to the gallery. “I’m afraid they’re going to hurt her.”

“Everything will be fine,” reassured Tran.

“What were you and your mother doing out here at this hour?” asked the fat cop.

“Pleeeease,” sobbed Melinda. “Help my mom.”

“We will.” Tran shot his partner a disapproving glance and mouthed for his partner to call for backup.

The fat cop reached up and pressed the talk button on the microphone attached to his shoulder strap. “Headquarters. This is unit twelve. We have a situation down here by the Freer Gallery. Looks like the alarm was tripped by—”

As the fat cop called in for support, Melinda wiped the tears from her face. She looked up at Tran, a distraught little girl who desperately needed comforting. “Will my mother be all right?”

“Yes.”

Melinda wrapped her arms around Tran and hugged him tight. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Cross your heart?”

“Cross my heart.”

“And hope to die?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Tran never knew what happened. The hands that hugged him suddenly tore into his back, digging into the flesh and muscles. He tried to pull away, and when he did chunks of skin cleaved off his back. Tran opened his mouth to call for help, but Melinda held him tighter, forcing the air out of his lungs. She plunged her fangs into his neck, pressed her cold lips against his skin, and drank his blood.

“—need a trauma unit for the girl. Hang on a minute.”

Hearing the noise behind him, the fat cop turned around. His eyes widened in shock. “What the fuck?”

“What’s wrong?” asked the dispatcher.

He did not answer. Nor did he remove his hand from the talk button. “Get the fuck off him!”

Melinda ignored him and continued to feed off of Tran.

“Unit twelve, what’s going on?” asked the dispatcher, more frantic this time.

The fat cop pulled his service revolver from its holster. He lowered it toward Melinda’s back, his aim shaky.

“Leave him alone or I’ll shoot.”

A loud crunch echoed off the stairs and glass doors as Melinda twisted Tran’s head at a ninety-degree angle to the right, snapping his spine. Tran’s body went limp.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

The fat cop panicked, squeezing the trigger repeatedly until he emptied the chamber. All six rounds were fired erratically, slamming into Melinda’s back in a scattered pattern rather than a tight cluster. The wounds had no effect. She stood and faced him.

“You’re too fat to be a cop,” Melinda snarled. “You need to lose weight.”

Melinda slashed her taloned fingers across the cop’s expansive stomach. A long slit formed horizontally across his shirt and widened, revealing a razor-thin gash. The gash widened, starting at his navel and spreading outward, slowly at first but soon increasing speed until his entire abdomen broke open. The cop’s viscera twisted out of his body like some hideous octopus squirming along the ocean floor, and dropped to the pavement with a sickening thud. He stared at them, leaking blood and gore onto the ground. With a final, stunned gasp, the cop’s eyes rolled into his head and he collapsed in front of Melinda. Only then did his finger move off of the microphone talk button.

Transforming back into her human form, Melinda waded through the pile of organs and intestines, leaving a trail of bloody footprints back to the museum entrance. Once inside, she made her way to the rear of the small corridor leading to the guard room where she could remain out of sight. She crouched down and waited for the police backup to arrive.

BREAKING OUT OF of the emergency stairwell into the basement, Jessica and Reese looked around for the exit. They found it ten feet down the corridor to the right. Jessica raced to it, pressed the bar to unlock the door, and slammed into the metal.

“Shit, it won’t open.”

Reese tapped her shoulder and pointed to a red sign attached to the center. It stated that federal law required the door to be unlocked during business hours, but that it would remain locked when the museum was closed.

Jessica sighed. “What do we do now?”

“Find another way out.”

AKERS STOOD AT the bottom of the stairwell on the basement landing that led either to the museum archives or the remainder of the basement, utility rooms, and access areas building maintenance, trying to remember the basement floor plan he had studied in the guard room. He pushed open the door to the maintenance area and headed off down the dimly-lit corridor. If he calculated correctly, the emergency exit that led from the exhibit hall should be at the end of the upcoming corridor on the right. He just hoped that the professor and the reporter had not already—

Jessica and Reese turned the corner and ran into Akers. Jessica let out a squeaky gasp and splashed him with liquid from a flask. At first he feared it might be acid. Instead of searing pain, he felt wetness.

“What the fuck?” he asked, wiping his hand across his face. “What was that for?”

“Sorry.” Jessica sounded embarrassed. “I thought you were…. Never mind.”

“Who are you?” asked Reese.

“The night cleaning crew,” Akers lied. “I was down here working when all hell broke loose upstairs. I was trying to find a way out when I ran into you two.”

“You won’t get out that way.” Jessica pointed over her shoulder at the locked emergency door.

“Any suggestions?” asked Reese.

“Yeah,” said Akers coming up with a scheme to trap the hunters. “Follow me.”

Jessica raced after him. Reese followed, but not as compliantly. “Where are we going?”

“There’s a stairwell over here that leads to the first floor and to the roof.”

He led them back to the main stairwell. Opening the door, he stepped aside and held it open for the others.

“Aren’t you joining us?” asked Reese.

“After you.”

Reese pulled Jessica out of the doorway and stepped back a few feet himself, clutching the Bible tighter against his chest. “You know the way. You lead.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. We don’t have time fo—”

A vicious growl emanated from the direction they had just come. The hooker vampire stood at the intersection of corridors where Jessica and Reese had run into Akers. It bore its fangs and charged. The runaway vampire turned the corner a second later and joined the attack.

“Shit,” muttered Reese.

“Hurry.” Akers shoved Jessica into the stairwell. This time, Reese followed.

Akers slammed the door shut behind them.

The hooker slid up to the stairwell, slamming her fist against the door. “You fool. You let them escape.”

Akers shook his head. “This stairwell has only two exits. The first floor and the roof. They have nowhere to go.”

The runaway reached the door. “Let’s get them.”

“No,” said Akers. “You keep them trapped in there. I’ll get Chiang Shih.”

REESE TURNED TO make sure Akers made it through. Instead, he saw the little bastard slam the door on them. He looked around to assess the situation. The door to his right led to the archives, but he knew there was no other exit from that area that did not lead back into the underground corridors and to the two vampires they just escaped. Besides, being the employee stairwell, all the doors allowing entrance to the office spaces required a key card and access code, neither of which he had. That left only one alternative. Reese began to climb the stairs.

“Come on.”

“Where?” asked Jessica.

“The roof. The sun will be rising soon. It’s our safest bet.”

THE RINGING OF the telephone on the nightstand shattered the stillness, startling Roach out of his sleep. Late night calls were commonplace in his line of work. That did not mean he had to enjoy them. Sitting up in bed and leaning back against the head board, Roach picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Sorry to wake you.” Preston sounded obnoxiously chipper for this hour. “But we have a clusterfuck of a situation on our hands.”

What else is new? Roach thought. “Fill me in.”

“Someone tripped the alarm at the Freer Gallery less than an hour ago.”

“Big deal. It happens all the time.”

“Dispatch called the night security guard, but got no answer. So they sent out a unit. They reported finding a little girl out front who claimed that three men had dragged her mother into the museum. Halfway through the call, the dispatcher heard an animal’s howl, one of the cops emptying his revolver, and a scream. Then the connection went dead.”

The latter caught Roach’s attention. “Dispatch all available units to the Freer.”

“I already did. I’m heading over there myself. I thought you’d want to meet me.”

“Damn straight.” Roach jumped out of bed and headed for the closet. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t have any units enter the museum unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Roger that.”

RODRIGUEZ PUSHED BACK against the bald vampire, his hands wrapped around its neck. His muscles strained and his arms grew weak. The vampire’s head inched closer to his neck. He could feel its cold breath against his skin. At best, Rodriguez had seconds to live.

Something glistened on the floor and caught Rodriguez’ attention. He turned his head to see a large, triangular-shaped piece of glass from the broken display case. A long shot, but at the moment he had only one. Stiffening his left arm against its neck, Rodriguez let go with his right and reached for the shard. As expected, he could not hold it back with just one hand. Rodriguez’ arm collapsed, and the vampire fell on him. He cried out as it plunged its fangs into his neck, and his stomach went sick as he felt the thing begin sucking his blood. Feeling around for the shard, his fingertips brushed against it. Rodriguez clutched the shard and drove it into the vampire’s neck. The pain that ripped through his hand nearly caused him to black out as the razor-sharp edges dug two huge slices along his palm and fingers.

The shard hurt the vampire far worse. It embedded in the vampire’s neck, entering on the left, ripping through the larynx, and coming out the other side. The vampire sat upright, clutching at its throat and gurgling. With a single yank, it pulled the shard out of its neck and tossed it aside. Blood fountained from the wound. It stumbled to its feet, trying to escape. Rodriguez rolled to his right and knocked the vampire’s legs out from under it. As it sprawled to the floor, Rodriguez scrambled to his feet. Grabbing the vampire by its jacket collar, he lifted it off the floor, dragged it over to the broken display case, and dropped it neck first onto a vertical pane of broken glass. Placing one hand on its collar and the other on the back of its head, Rodriguez sawed its neck back and forth along the glass. With each pull, the glass dug deeper and deeper into its neck. The snuffy panicked, flailing its arms over its head. Rodriguez sawed more furiously, pushing down harder with each thrust. Suddenly, the edge of the glass ripped through the back of the vampire’s neck. Its head dropped to the floor, exploding into a ball of ash. Blood gushed out of the severed neck, splashing onto the display case. Its body began to crumble at the neck, then spread across the shoulders and down the torso and arms.

Rodriguez stood in disbelief. He had come to believe in the existence of the undead, but this was different. He actually had seen one up close, actually had killed one. Now that he had experienced the hunt, there could be no going back.

He looked around the exhibit hall for another one to kill.

HAVING SLASHED OPEN Treja’s throat, Alison was about to advance on the master and finish it off when something slammed into her from behind, sending her sprawling. She slid across the debris-cluttered floor and banged into the rack. Though stunned, intuition told her not to waste precious seconds trying to regain her senses. Alison struggled to her feet, placing one hand on the rack for support.

Toni stepped up and stabbed one of the daggers through her palm, impaling Alison’s hand to the wood. The pain radiated from the wound, up her arm, and through her body. She cried out despite herself.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” asked Toni as she stepped around in front of Alison.

“Fuck off.”

“Get over it. Your wounds will heal.” Toni cackled as she crouched down in front of Alison. Her voice seethed with hatred. “My scars, on the other hand, are permanent. Thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome,” Alison gasped through the pain. “Let me know if I can make you any uglier.”

Toni raised the other dagger in front of Alison’s face, twisting it back and forth so the light reflected off of the blade. “Joke all you want, huntress. It’s payback time.”

“Then make it quick.”

The demented laugh again. Toni placed the tip of the dagger against Alison’s cheek and ran it up and under her right eye, just lightly enough so as not to break skin.

“I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to carve you up until you’re as hideous as me.”

Toni stood, grabbed Alison by the hair, and yanked her head back.

STUCK ON HIS back with Walker’s foot pressed against his chest, Drake could not move. After the physical pounding he had endured the past few minutes, he did not have the energy to roll to the side and push away the master. However, with the halberd’s spike dangling over his face, he needed to think of something or his day would get really bad really quick. He reached into his leather jacket pocket.

“See you in Hell, hunter.”

“Don’t wait for me.”

Drake pulled out the stun gun, depressed the trigger, and shoved it into Walker’s crotch. Even the undead can feel 1000 kilovolts coursing through their testicles. Walker’s body convulsed and his eyes rolled into his head. Drake felt the pressure on his chest lessen. Walker released his grip on the halberd. Drake rolled to the side just as the spike fell to the floor, burying itself into the wood. Continuing his roll, Drake knocked Walker’s leg out from under him, throwing the master to the floor. Once he felt reasonably certain of being out of imminent danger, Drake struggled to his feet.

Walker flopped around, holding his crotch and emitting an agonized groan through clenched fangs. Good. Now to finish him off. Drake removed the remaining Glock still loaded with a full clip and stumbled over to the master.

He heard Alison cry out.

Turning, he saw Alison kneeling by the rack, her hand stuck to the wooden frame by a dagger. The deformed master hovered around her, flashing a dagger in front of Alison’s face and running the tip along her skin. Then she stood and yanked Alison’s head back.

Drake raised the Glock and fired off six rounds at Toni. The first two missed and the third barely grazed her arm. The fourth struck Toni square in the forehead. The hollow point collapsed on impact with her skull, the flattened metal chunk gouging its way through her brain. Tiny streams of holy water trailed behind it, searing every exposed surface it touched. Exiting through the rear of Toni’s skull, the round punched a fist-sized hole through the bone and dragged shredded tissue and brain matter with it. Toni collapsed to the floor, thrashing around, clutching her ravaged head, and wailing.

Satisfied the female master posed no threat to Alison, Drake swung the Glock back to the master he had been fighting, only to find he had moved.

AS THE EFFECTS of the stun gun began to wear off and Walker could again concentrate on the battle, the magnitude of their situation suddenly struck him. Three masters and four vampires easily should have been able to take down four humans, but that had not happened. Their losses were extraordinarily heavy. Three dead, with one vampire and two masters wounded to the point of not being able to fight effectively. Which left only himself. In his condition, he did not feel confident he could win against the three humans still left standing. It infuriated him that in all his centuries as a master, he had never lost in combat before today. To humans, no less. But to die needlessly was also a disgrace. The coven would encounter the hunters again, and next time the humans would not be so lucky.

Walker staggered over to Toni to get her to safety.

DRAKE SCANNED THE area and saw Walker making his way across the exhibit hall. He only had three rounds left in the magazine, which should be enough to stop him. He centered his sights on the master when a growl to his right got his attention. Drake glanced over to his right to see the master with the sliced open neck and the throatless, one-armed vampire flanking him. Drake swung his Glock in their direction. The two stopped but refused to back down. Sizing up the situation, Alison reached out for a broken piece of display case leg on the floor beside her, stretching because of her immobilized hand. The dagger strained against her skin, but she grabbed the makeshift weapon and brandish it like a stake. Rodriguez stumbled over to Drake and pulled the halberd out of the floor. He stood beside the hunter, weak and unsteady, but ready for the final fight.

“Let me gather my wounded and leave,” bellowed Walker.

“This isn’t over.”

“Yes it is. For now.” Walker shuffled over to Toni, who still rolled around on the floor, clutching her head and moaning. “None of us are in any condition to continue.”

As much as Drake hated to admit it, the master was right. He, Alison, and Rodriguez could barely stand let alone fight. Jim lay on the other side of the hall, unconscious, or worse, lying in a growing pool of blood. While Alison might advise that discretion is the better part of valor, the burning in his gut told him that he who fought and ran away would live to fight another day. He hated running. He enjoyed living more.

Drake lowered the Glock and held it by his side.

Walker bent over and attempted to pick up Toni. In his weakened condition and with her thrashing around, he could not lift her. Despite his own wounds, Treja limped over and assisted. Each master took one of Toni’s arms, placed it over their shoulders, and dragged her across the exhibit hall to the exit. The snuffy followed, one hand on its amputated arm, warily watching the hunters. At the exit, Walker paused and turned back to the hunters. He offered Drake a single, distinct nod. Part thanks, part respect. The masters disappeared into the outer hall, with the armless snuffy bringing up the rear.

Drake waited until they were gone then said to Rodriguez, “Help Alison. I’ll check on Jim.”

As he approached Jim, Drake grew increasingly nervous. The kid lay face down, immobile, his back and the surrounding floor soaked with blood. When he knelt beside Jim, he saw that the kid had three gashes, each more than twelve inches long, running horizontally across his back. The gashes on the left were so deep that portions of his shoulder blade were visible. Fearing the worse, Drake clasped his wrist and felt for a pulse. He found it, weak but steady. Drake felt tears well up in his eyes. Jim would live, but would hurt like hell in the morning.

Alison knelt beside Drake, wrapping a cloth around her wounded left hand. She tucked the loose end under the material by her thumb, then leaned forward and placed two fingers on Jim’s neck.

“Is he…?” Alison couldn’t finish the question, fearing the answer.

“He’s alive.”

“Thank God.”

“We’ll have to get him some medical attention fast.”

“And you.” Alison brushed a lock of sweaty hair off his forehead, then began to pat down the loose strands.

“I’m fine. Just a couple of hundred bruises.” Drake looked over his shoulder at Rodriguez. “How’d you do? Any injuries?”

“Nothing a few bottles of wine and a week’s sleep won’t cure.” He crouched down to join the others. “I hate to break up this love fest, but we still have two problems.”

Alison pulled back her hand self-consciously. “What?”

“How are we going to get an EMT crew in here if the vampires are still running around the building?”

“Damn.” Drake chastised himself for not thinking about that.

“And does anyone know what happened to Jessica and Reese?”

AKERS MADE HIS way to the main floor via a service stairwell. He found Chiang Shih at the top of the marble stairs leading down to the rear entrance. She stared out into the street, oblivious to his presence. A look of defeat etched across her face. When Akers joined her, he understood why. The lower lobby was a kaleidoscope of blue and red lights coming from half a dozen D.C. Police cars blocking Independence Avenue. He discerned at least a dozen cops with weapons of various calibers partially hidden behind their vehicles, and reasoned a further score of weapons were aimed at them that he could not see.

Even worse from the vampire’s perspective, an azure sky with streaks of red tinted the eastern horizon.

“We failed,” Chiang Shih said solemnly. “The hunters escaped with the Bible.”

“No they didn’t.”

Chiang Shih whipped her head toward Akers, the brunette strands whirling around her neck. “What do you mean?”

“I trapped the professor and the reporter in the stairwell leading to the roof. They have the Bible with them.”

Akers watched Chiang Shih’s defeatism turn into anticipation. She started down the stairwell, covering only a few steps before jumping over the railing into the private access corridor. Within seconds, she disappeared through the door leading to the guard room.

Glancing back out the doors, Akers decided to disappear deep into the museum and sneak out later when things quieted down.

HAVING PARKED OUTSIDE the police cordon, Roach made his way through the mass of vehicles until he reached Preston. His aide stood by a squad car behind and to the left of a white van parked in front of the museum. As he approached, he saw a score of cops all with weapons at the ready and aimed at the building, using the vehicles as cover. Two cops, each with a 12-guage shotgun, hunched down beside the pedestals at the bottom of the stairs that supported the brass lampposts, their weapons trained on the entrance. Only when he stepped up beside Preston did he see the shattered glass of the front door, the crumbled corpse of the security guard in the lobby, and two bodies on the sidewalk.

“Jesus,” Roach said under his breath.

“Tell me about it.” Preston motioned to the two bodies out front. “We found them like that when we arrived.”

“What happened?”

“Something mangled them.”

“What do you mean ‘mangled’?”

“Just what I said.” Preston pointed to the closest body. “Tran had his throat torn out. And Johnson was disemboweled. There’s also a body inside the museum that’s banged up pretty bad. It looks like it might be the night guard.”

“Hasn’t anyone checked it out?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Look at the top of the stairs.” Preston had an insolent edge to his voice that pissed off Roach.

As Roach leaned forward and peered through the glass doors of the Freer, for the first time he noticed the figure lurking inside the museum. From this distance and in the dim light, it looked female.

“Any idea who she is?”

Preston shook his head. “I doubt she’s friendly.”

“Let’s find out.” Roach looked around at the squad cars. “How many units do we have in position?”

“Six out back here and five in front. Just over thirty men in total, including tactical.”

“Tell them to get ready. All units will move in five minutes on my com—”

“Sir.” A young female officer interrupted Roach. She held out a cellular telephone. “The mayor’s on the line and wants to speak with you.”

Roach took the phone and listened, letting the mayor do all the talking. Roach did not feel like arguing, and he knew the mayor would not listen anyways. After a minute, the mayor ended the conversation. Roach closed the phone and threw it against the side of a nearby squad car.

“What’s the bad news?” asked Preston.

“The mayor has ordered us not to enter the museum.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s already someone inside checking the place out.”

Preston shook his head. “Matthews.”

“That’s my bet.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We wait.”

THE RUNAWAY VAMPIRE animatedly paced back and forth in front of the stairwell door. Every few seconds, it stared at the metal surface as if it could see through to the other side. Finally, it grabbed the knob and pulled the door open.

The hooker vampire grabbed its arm. “What are you doing?”

“The humans are going to get away.”

“We were told to wait here for the Mistress.”

“You wait.” The teenager yanked its arm out of the hooker’s grasp. “I’m going to get that Bible.”

Uncertain what to do, the hooker abandoned her post and went off in the opposite direction to find the Mistress.

ON THE FIRST floor landing, Reese crept up to the door and looked through the window. A child stood at the end of the corridor, staring around the corner and out of the window. She seemed harmless enough, but Reese did not trust the situation enough to open the door.

Jessica sidled up beside him and whispered into his ear. “What do you see?”

“A possible vampire.”

Jessica stood on her toes and stared through the glass. “That little girl?”

“Yeah.”

“You gotta be kidding?”

“Do you want to open the door and take the chance?”

Jessica backed down.

They heard the basement door to the stairwell open. Reese pushed Jessica toward the stairs leading to the roof. As they started up, he caught a glimpse of the runaway vampire three landings below, climbing the stairs two at a time.

“Take this.” Reese shoved the Bible into Jessica’s hands.

“What are you going to do?”

Reese did not answer. Instead, as they ran up the stairs, he reached into the bag and removed one of the canisters filled with holy water-laced tear gas. Looking down the stairwell, he saw the runaway already had passed the first floor and rapidly closed the distance. When Reese reached the landing at the next level, he crouched, placed the canister on the floor, and pulled the pin. White smoke belched from the nozzle. Reese ran up to the next landing and spun around. Tear gas covered the stairwell and drifted upwards.

As he watched the canister dispense its contents, the runaway stopped on the landing and glared at Reese, oblivious to the tear gas that billowed around it. It took a deep breath and hissed at the human. Almost immediately, its defiance became anguish. The vampire whimpered as the tear gas enveloped it, burning the skin and searing the lungs where it had been inhaled. It dropped to its knees and broke into a fit of violent coughing, with each hack spitting out chunks of lung. Clawing at its chest, the snuffy tore through its clothes and gouged at flesh and muscle. The vampire stiffened and vomited blood. Once. Twice. Three times. On the third heave, a stream of ash accompanied the bloody puke as the snuffy disintegrated from the inside out.

Removing the last canister from the bag, Reese armed it and tossed it down the stairwell. It landed by the door on the first floor, spewing tear gas. By the time Reese caught up with Jessica, she had reached the door leading out onto the roof.

“Did it work?” she asked.

“Like a charm.” Reese took back the Bible and opened the door to the roof. “Let’s go.”

The roof was split into two levels—an inner, lower level that overlooked the central courtyard, and a second, raised level that ran along the building’s outer wall. Knocked down scaffolding poles and a pile of wooden planks stacked six feet high sat on the upper roof near the southeast corner, the remnants of recent renovation work. A ladder lay propped up against the southern wall between the two levels. Reese held the latter with his free hand while Jessica climbed to the upper roof. He followed, having to climb one rung at a time because he still clutched the Bible.

The two surveyed the area. Nearly a dozen police cars and ambulances clogged Independence Avenue, with two pairs of squad cars each blocking the intersections at 12th Street and 9th Street. The best sight, however, was the eastern horizon where red and orange spotted the horizon, signaling an imminent sunrise.

“We’ll be safe in a few minutes,” Reese said confidently.

“Don’t be so sure.” Jessica reached into her pocket for her cell phone and sorted through her address book.

“Who are you calling?”

“Drake.” Jessica pressed the button that dialed his number.

THE RINGING OF his cell phone caught Drake off guard. He pulled it out of his pocket to check the incoming number. When he saw it came from Jessica, he answered the call.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“For now. We’re on the roof. Two vampires are trying to get us. Reese took one down with the tear gas, but there’s at least one still out there. Can you help us?”

Drake looked at the rest of the hunters, torn between his friends in possible danger and a badly wounded comrade.

Alison saw the conflict in his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Jessica and Reese are stuck up on the roof with at least one vampire trying to get to them.” As he spoke, his gaze remained focused on Jim.

“Go,” suggested Alison. “There’s nothing you can do for Jim. We’ll take care of him.”

Drake still hesitated.

“Hurry,” Alison told him.

“I’ll be right there,” Drake told Jessica, then rushed out of the exhibit hall.

CHIANG SHIH STORMED into the employee lobby, rushing past Melinda. The sudden appearance of the Mistress startled her.

“What’s going on?” asked the young master as she fell in behind the Mistress.

“The professor and the reporter are on the roof. They have the Bible.”

“Good. We’ve got them now.”

“I’ll take care of them.” Chiang Shih did not break her stride. “It’s almost sunrise. Find the others and get out of here while you can.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine. We’ll meet later tonight at your hotel. Now go.”

Melinda turned and headed back for the lobby.

Chiang Shih continued down to the stairwell, kicked open the door, and ascended toward the roof. The holy water-laced tear gas enveloped her. Ten seconds later, she emerged from the cloud onto the landing that led out to the roof, unaffected by the tear gas.

MELINDA REACHED THE upper lobby to find Walker and the others hovering half way down the marble stairs, watching the police outside. She started to speak but stopped, stunned by the extent of the wounds on her fellow masters. Never had she seen so much carnage wreaked upon her own kind. Outside, the humans had noticed them huddled on the stairs and were surging closer to the building or taking up firing position behind their cars. Escape would not be easy. Even worse, considering the brightness of the eastern horizon, the time left for them to make their move could be counted in minutes.

“What are we waiting for?” she asked.

“Are you blind?” Walker snapped at Melinda, venting on her his frustration with the rapidly deteriorating situation. “We can’t fight our way through them. Not in our condition.”

“And we can’t stay here.”

“What do you suggest?”

“That we make a break for it. The humans can’t stop us.” Melinda pointed to the brightening sky. “Unless you just want to stay here and die.”

“You’re right.” Walker straightened, reinvigorated with confidence. “Listen everyone. We have to make it to the van and get out of here as quickly as possible. Ignore the humans and concentrate on escaping. Understood?”

The others nodded or grunted their understanding.

“Then let’s move.”

Hoisting Toni over his left shoulder, Walker ran down the steps, pulled open the door, and exited the museum. Treja and Melinda followed close behind, while the hooker and one-armed vampires brought up the rear. One of the humans ordered them to stop, but they ignored him. The voice yelled out a second warning, which again went unheeded. When Walker reached the bottom of the stairs, the voice yelled, “Fire!”

A hail of bullets slammed into them, most striking Walker. They tore into his chest and arms. By itself, any one shot would not be very damaging. Together, the pain was agonizing, especially in his weakened condition. His legs wobbled, and for a moment he thought he would stumble. Still, he pushed on, closing the distance between himself and the van.

When more than a hundred bullets failed to slow the vampires’ advance, two cops moved in for a better shot. They would live to regret their move. One raced out from behind the line of squad cars into Walker’s path, aiming his revolver and ordering the master to stop. Walker backhanded the cop across the face with his right hand, breaking his jaw and sending him somersaulting into the bushes. The second cop emerged from behind one of the pedestals at the bottom of the stairs and blocked Treja, firing his shotgun. Twelve-gauge rounds tore into the master’s chest, but had little effect. Treja grabbed the weapon in his left hand and slammed his right palm into the cop’s chest, cracking the body armor nearly in half and fracturing half a dozen ribs. The cop collapsed to the sidewalk, rolling around in pain. Treja continued toward the van, only now he used the shotgun to fire back at the police.

The return fire from Treja produced the desired results. Most of the police ducked behind their squad cars for cover, giving the vampires a precious few seconds to reach the van unmolested. As Treja stepped up to passenger door, he pumped the last three rounds into the squad cars blocking 12th Street, dropped the shotgun, and climbed into the van. Walker slid open the side door and tossed Toni inside. The others climbed in and closed the door behind them. Walker circled around to the driver’s door. Although the surrounding buildings momentarily shielded the street from its rays, he saw the sun reflected off of the windows on the eastern facade of the Department of Agriculture building. Their time had run out. He had to reach the portion of 12th Street that ran beneath the Mall. At most, they had seconds left.

As Walker climbed into the van, a young gung-ho cop ran up behind him and attempted to bring him down. Walker did not have time to fuck around with this human. Grabbing the human by his face, Walker slammed his head into the side of the van with such force that the cop’s skull dented the metal. He flung the human aside and crawled into the van. The remaining cops resumed their gunfire. Scores of bullets pummeled the van, punching through metal, shattering glass, puncturing tires. Walker ignored the pain as the rounds thudded into his body. He started the engine, shifted into drive, and slammed his foot on the accelerator. The van lurched forward, heading for the two squad cars blocking 12th Street. The cops behind the vehicles fired off a few desultory rounds before diving out of the way. Although not going very fast, the van crashed into the left front fender of the nearest squad car with enough force to push it out of the way, allowing them to break through.

The rays of the sun flowed down 12th Street and filled the front of the van, falling across Walker’s hands and left cheek. His skin sizzled. He turned the steering wheel to the right and raced down the ramp until it merged into the shadows. Walker looked at his hands. The tops of the fingers and knuckles were seared black, and flakes of burnt skin had begun peeling off. At least the pain subsided. When Walker glanced into the rearview mirror, he saw the line of sunlight creeping down the ramp. At street level, two squad cars maneuvered through the wreckage left by their busting out. He needed to hurry.

Walker brought the van to a halt by a drainage sewer at the bottom of the ramp. He jumped out, ran over to the metal grate, and yanked it off. The opening measured only two feet square, but provided enough room for them to escape through. The others climbed out of the van and gathered around. Melinda went through the drain first, followed by Treja and the two vampires. Walker passed Toni through to them and followed.

By the time the two squad cars arrived at the opening to the storm drain, the undead had disappeared into the depths of the sewers to mend their wounds and hide out until darkness fell once again.

DRAKE REACHED THE first-floor door to the stairwell just as all hell broke loose outside. He surmised it probably had something to do with the masters that had retreated from the exhibit hall. He hoped they would not make it very far.

Whipping open the door, he noticed holy water-laced tear gas filled the stairwell. He couldn’t wait for it to dissipate. Taking a deep breath, Drake ran into the stairwell and climbed the stairs two at a time.

FROM THEIR PERCH on top of the museum’s roof, Jessica and Reese were so enthralled with watching the battle play out before them that neither noticed Chiang Shih emerge from the stairwell onto the lower roof. With a single, effortless leap, she jumped onto the outer roof, landing with a heavy thud. Startled, the two humans jumped back.

“Who are you?” asked Jessica.

“I’m Chiang Shih.” She walked toward them. “Give me the Bible and I’ll let you live.”

Reese glanced over to the east. The sun already had risen, but still remained hidden behind the Department of Energy building across Independence Avenue.

“Don’t count on the sun, human. It won’t help you.”

Jessica pulled out her stake and attacked the master, aiming for her heart. Without breaking stride, Chiang Shih grabbed Jessica’s wrist in her right hand, wrested away the stake with her left, and shoved the human to one side. Jessica tumbled off the edge of the roof and fell onto the lower level, hitting the cement face first. She lay there, unmoving.

Chiang Shih quickened her pace. Reese backed away, trying to escape while keeping an eye on the approaching master, and nearly stumbled over the pile of scaffolding poles. Chiang Shih used that opportunity to rush forward. Reese ran backwards and slammed into the stack of wooden planks. Before he could react, Chiang Shih lunged. Clutching his neck in her right hand, she pinned him against the wood and tightened her grip.

“You should have given me that Bible when you had the chance.” She squeezed hard, causing Reese to gasp. “Now I’m going to kill you.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Still pinning Reese to the planks, Chiang Shih spun around. Drake stood beside the stack of poles. He clutched one in his hands, holding it horizontally and aimed at her chest. Drake charged. Chiang Shih tossed Reese to one side and tried to stop the attack, but was not quick enough. The end of the pole struck her in the chest, piercing through the skin and penetrating the heart. Drake continued pushing, driving Chiang Shih back into the planks. The shock nearly knocked the pole out of his hands. With a final burst of strength, he shoved the pole deeper until it became imbedded between the wood. Chiang Shih could not move.

At that moment, the sun crested over the Department of Energy building, flowing across the roof of the Freer Gallery and washing over Chiang Shih. She arched her back and opened her mouth. Drake anticipated an anguished howl to accompany her death throes.

Instead, she laughed. A deep, hearty laugh.

Even more startling, the sunlight had no effect.

Chiang Shih walked forward. Her imbedded torso moved along the pole until it slid free. Instantly, the wound healed over. Drake attempted to back away, but the master surged forward. She lodged her right hand under his neck and squeezed, closing his larynx and cutting off his supply of oxygen. She pulled Drake close until their faces were only inches apart.

“I’m going to enjoy watching you die,” she hissed.

“Daywalker.”

Chiang Shih looked over her shoulder. Reese stood along the northern edge of the roof. In one hand he held the Bible by its binder and, in the other, a lighter. He flicked on the lighter and placed the flame against the Bible’s bottom edge. Wisps of white smoke welled up from the pages, the edges of which began to char. The flames leapt from the lighter to the book and burned their way along the cover. Chiang Shih hissed at Reese.

“Your choice,” said Reese as he switched the lighter to the Bible’s other corner, setting it on fire, too. “The hunter or the Vampyrnomicon.”

Releasing her grip, Chiang Shih let Drake fall to the roof, where he gasped for air. She charged at Reese. He waited until she had closed to within a few yards, then flung the Bible off the roof so it would land in the memorial garden beside the museum. Reese dropped down to present a smaller target, though he didn’t need to. Chiang Shih’s attention was focused on the Bible. She jumped off the roof, caught the Bible in mid-air, and landed in a crouch in the garden below. Patting down the Bible, it took only a few seconds to extinguish the flames. The edges were burned and most of the pages singed, but when she opened it she could still read the text.

When Drake and Reese stepped up to the edge of the roof and looked over, Chiang Shih glared up at them with a hatred the intensity of which made Drake’s blood run cold. For a second, he feared she might come after them. Fortunately, the police closing in from the front and rear of the museum threatened her possession of the Bible. She spat a defiant hiss at the two men and disappeared into the garden. Within seconds, she disappeared from sight.

“Looks like we won,” said Reese.

“For now. But this is far from over.” Drake patted his friend on the shoulder. “Thanks for saving me. I just wish you didn’t have to give them the location of the Vampyrnomicon to do it.”

“You’re not that important.” Reese smiled and pulled aside the flap of his jacket. He reached into the inner pocket and slid out the folded memoirs. “I pulled them out while she was strangling you.”

“You brilliant son of a bitch.” Drake wrapped his arm around Reese’s shoulder. “We’ll make a hunter out of you yet.”

From the lower roof, a painful moan rose to greet them. Slowly regaining consciousness, Jessica rolled onto her back and tried to get up, cursing the entire time.

“Come on,” Drake said to his friend. “Let’s check on the others.”

14

WITHIN FIFTEEN MINUTES of the last vampire having fled the Freer Gallery, paramedics and police swarmed through the building and the surrounding streets looking for the intruders and the wounded. Excluding the two cops and the night guard who had been murdered near the rear entrance, the humans had fared pretty well. Five D.C. Police officers would be treated at nearby hospitals—the three who were assaulted by the undead and two who had taken 12-guage fragments during the shootout with Treja. None of them would spend more than a full day in the hospital before being released.

The hunters made out only slightly worse. Jim’s wounds looked far worse than they were. The paramedics triaged him with an IV, a blood transfusion, and a healthy dose of painkillers. By the time the ambulance got Jim to the hospital, he was coherent enough to ask the doctors who prepped him for surgery if he would be able to bench press two hundred pounds after the operation, and when they responded yes he wisecracked that he could not bench press two hundred pounds now. The bad humor reassured Drake that his tech wizard would pull through all right.

Drake drove Alison and the others to the same hospital where the paramedics had taken Jim. The emergency room staff stitched up Alison’s hand and gave her painkillers. She had lucked out. The dagger the master had driven into her hand missed the bones. It would hurt like hell, but would heal within a few weeks and leave behind no appreciable scar or loss of movement. The rest of the hunters suffered from a variety of bruises and abrasions that only just now were beginning to hint at the pain that awaited them tomorrow morning. Only Reese made it through the ordeal unscathed. But the battle had taken a toll on his psyche. Once the adrenaline had shut down, he became morose, replaying in his mind the horrors he had witnessed earlier that night. Reese had not spoken a word during the ride over to the hospital or in the private waiting room.

Smith met the hunters at the hospital, fully expecting he would have to run interference with the police. Surprisingly, there were no arrests this time. After what the police had witnessed, they would have been hard pressed to find any charges to bring against Drake and his crew. Roach and Preston showed up to check on their wounded men. Drake overheard them arguing outside the ER about how they intended to explain what had happened. Roach pulled rank, stating that the official story would be that a gang of addicts broke into the Freer Gallery to steal paintings to sell for drug money, and the explanation for their seeming imperviousness would be due to their wearing body armor and being hopped up on meth. Preston stormed off, muttering something about a bullshit story that no one would buy. Not that Drake could blame Preston. The story sounded absurd. He could tell by Roach’s tone that not even he believed it.

Now, two hours after the battle, as they passed the time in the hospital’s private waiting room to find out how Jim’s surgery went, Drake found the events hard to believe himself as he related them to Smith. Alison, Jessica, and Rodriguez sat around the two men, each nursing along a soda or cup of coffee and filling in gaps in the story when necessary. Reese sat in a chair off to one side, his head lowered, unusually quiet.

When Drake finished telling about the Asian master impervious to sunlight and stakes, Smith was speechless. The stunned look on his face echoed their concerns.

“Let me get this straight,” Smith finally said. “This uber vampire you encountered on the roof wasn’t fazed by the sunlight?”

“Not a bit,” replied Drake. “She literally laughed it off.”

“And being staked didn’t kill her?”

“It didn’t even slow her down. I drove that poll right through her heart, but she pulled herself off of it and healed instantly.”

“Christ,” muttered Smith. “What type of vampire are we dealing with?”

“A daemonium merdianum.” The answer came from Reese who had not spoken in over an hour.

“A what?” asked Smith.

“A daemonium merdianum.” Reese looked up at the others. “Literally, it means noon-day devil. More commonly known as a daywalker. A vampire that can survive in the sunlight.”

Drake became short tempered, partly because of his aching body. “You knew about these daywalkers and never warned us?”

“One daywalker. And until tonight, I thought it was just a legend.”

Jessica rotated her shoulder. “For a legend, it packed one hell of a punch.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.” Reese stood and joined the others. “The legends describe the daywalker as the first vampire, the one from which all the others were created.”

“How old is she?” asked Alison.

“No one knows. Some accounts place her as far back as the pharaohs. Most place her birth sometime during the late Roman Empire. I’ve never put stock in any of them because daywalkers have never been mentioned in any of the vampire-written literature. All accounts have come from medieval hunters. Even these differ except for one main theme. The daywalker is the strongest, smartest, and most evil of all masters. Sunlight and holy water don’t bother it. The traditional ways of killing a vampire won’t work on it. And it has instantaneous regenerative powers.”

“In English,” prompted Rodriguez.

“Cut off its arm, it’ll grow back in seconds. Smash in its head, it’ll heal immediately.”

“So there’s no way to kill it?” asked Smith.

“According to legend, there’s only one way to kill the daywalker.”

“How?” asked Alison.

“I don’t know how, but I know where I can find the answer”

Drake shook his head. “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but where?”

“The Vampyrnomicon.”

“DAMN THE HUNTERS!” Chiang Shih tore the Bible in half lengthwise and flung the pieces across Walker’s hotel room.

“Calm down,” admonished Walker from his seat on the sofa. “The last thing we need is the hotel staff coming up here to check on the noise.”

Chiang Shih glared at him, but knew he was right. They had suffered too many setbacks and could not afford to expose themselves.

After escaping from the Freer Gallery and eluding the police, Chiang Shih had made her way to the hotel and let herself in, then spent all day reading through the infernal book for a clue on where to find the Vampyrnomicon. Akers had met her in the afternoon after having snuck out of the Freer among the throngs of police and paramedics. The masters joined her later that evening, sneaking in through the hotel’s rear entrance so as not to be seen. Only after reading through the entire Bible did she notice the makeshift pocket in the front cover, surmising what must have been hidden there.

“Let’s face it,” said Treja in a gravelly voice. His slashed throat had healed, but the holy water left a permanent scar on his neck and damage to the larynx. “We underestimated these hunters.”

“They’re the best we’ve gone up against,” admitted Melinda.

“Second best,” Walker disagreed.

“Enough,” Chiang Shih spat out the word. “What’s done is done. Next time we meet the hunters, it’ll be on our terms. And they’ll live just long enough to regret yesterday.”

“What do we do now?” asked Melinda.

“We need to get our hands on the Vampyrnomicon.”

“We could take the memoirs from them,” suggested Walker.

“They’ve either destroyed them or hidden them in a place we’ll never find them. Besides, I want the professor to find the Vampyrnomicon. Let him do all the work. We can take it from him once he’s found it.”

“Do you want me to keep an eye on him?” Akers asked.

“They’ve already seen you.” Chiang Shih noticed that Akers grew agitated. “Don’t worry. You’ve done an excellent job, and when this is over, you’ll be justly rewarded.”

A look of relief spread across the human’s face. “Thank you.”

“I have other plans for you.” Chiang Shih leaned back against the television stand and faced the others. “Until we find the Vampyrnomicon, nothing has changed. We’ll continue to build up the covens and amass an army of the undead.”

Walker looked uncomfortable at bringing up the next subject. “What about Antoinette’s coven?”

“You take it over since you haven’t started one of your own.”

“And what about Antoinette?”

Antoinette. Chiang Shih’s spirits sank. Pushing herself off of the television stand, she crossed the living room and stepped into the bedroom. Walker followed close behind. Toni lie spread eagle on the bed. Her arms and legs were secured to the baseboard with chains to prevent her from thrashing around, both to limit the noise and prevent Toni from hurting herself. A pillow case had been stuffed into her mouth and secured with duct tape wrapped several times around her head. The regeneration process had been extremely painful, causing her to flay around and cry out. The first few hours while they hid out in the sewers had been the worst. Thankfully, as the healing progressed, the violent spasms diminished. They stopped entirely a few hours ago, so the chains and gag were precautionary.

The healing process may have been over, but complete recovery would be impossible. The skull and brain had grown back, but the holy water had prevented a perfect regeneration. Toni bore a bullet-hole-sized scar on her head, and her hair would not grow back over the exit wound. However, it was too early to determine her mental state. The healing powers ensured the destroyed tissue would grow back, but the holy water that seared through her brain caused massive and irreparable damage. They had no idea yet of the extent. Toni might survive only to remain in a vegetative state, a burden on the coven that would have to be eliminated. Or she might become an uncontrollable psychopath.

Walker sighed. “I should have put her out of her misery in the sewer when I had the chance.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Walker seemed taken aback by Chiang Shih’s callousness. “She’s in agony.”

“I know. But it’s a sacrifice Antoinette would be willing to make.” Chiang Shih’s voice betrayed no emotion.

“And what if she comes out of this viciously deranged?”

“I hope she does.”

“Why?”

Chiang Shih went over to the bed and sat beside Toni, gently stroking her head. “When we wage our war to take over this city, Antoinette will be my secret weapon against the hunters.”

A PIPING HOT bath, two cups of hot herbal tea, and a pair of painkillers prescribed by the hospital helped ease some of Alison’s aches, but not by much. Like soaking up Hurricane Katrina with a sponge. As she crawled into bed with a glass of iced water and a bottle of aspirin, every muscle in her body protested. She could hardly wait until the morning when her muscles had a full night to stiffen.

Her muscles would not be the only thing worse in the morning. The more she thought about this new situation, with two new masters and a daywalker to contend with, the less confident she felt. Every time they took down a snuffy or a master, it seemed as though twice as many replaced them. Not the type of odds that inspired confidence.

She had decided to retire as a hunter.

Too bad she would not follow through on that plan. How could she? Her original intent to retire had been predicated on their wiping out the nest. As last night proved, that was far from the case. The hunters faced their worst threat ever. She would not turn her back on her duty. Or on Drake.

If any good came out of this turn of events, it seemed to have snapped Drake back to his old self. The overcautious, careful man who had been threatening the hunters’ cohesion disappeared at the Freer Gallery. In his place returned the man who battled vampires like someone possessed. The man willing to take whatever risks were necessary to kill the undead. The man who led their crusade to rid the world of evil. The man she had fallen in love with.

As poor as the odds were of their eliminating these new masters and the daywalker, and coming out of this alive, she could not… would not abandon Drake now. They would see this battle through together to the end. No matter how the last blow of the last battle played out, she would be by Drake’s side when it happened.

Removing two aspirin from the bottle, Alison popped them in her mouth and washed them down with ice water. Rolling onto her side, she settled into the pillows and drifted off to sleep. Despite the bleak outlook the hunters faced, she saw one silver lining among the clouds, as thin as it may be. It had not escaped Alison’s attention that, during the battle in the exhibit hall, when the female master was about to carve her up, Drake opted to save her rather than take down the master that threatened him.

HALFWAY ACROSS THE city, Drake also took some painkillers, although he washed down his pills with a swig of bourbon. He had been hoping to use Van Helsing as his personal heating pad, and when he settled down in the reclining chair had placed his furry companion on his chest. That lasted all of fifteen seconds before Van Helsing became restless, gave Drake a nose nudge, and jumped off to romp through the apartment. As Van Helsing raced from one room to another, Drake stared out the window, absentmindedly watching the lightning on the horizon.

Last night’s battle left him with a feeling of pessimism he desperately wanted to conceal from the others. Truth be known, none of them should have survived their encounter with the masters. That they did had less to do with their own fighting prowess than with the vampires having underestimated their enemy. These masters miscalculated the hunters’ skills, and that overconfidence had cost them dearly. Sure, the vampires had gotten their asses reamed, but their asses were still intact. Their wounds would heal a hell of a lot faster than the hunters’. Drake was under no illusions. The masters would not underestimate Drake and his team again.

Next time, they would be looking to settle the score.

Fortunately, if what Reese said about the Vampyrnomicon proved to be true, then once they got hold of the book they would be able to defeat the vampires. The problem would be finding it. According to Ferrar’s memoirs, the Vampyrnomicon was hidden in the Dambovita citadel, a place no one had heard of. To retrieve the book they needed to figure out the location of this enigmatic citadel, assuming that such a place actually existed. And assuming that the Vampyrnomicon had not been moved, lost, or destroyed since the fifteenth century. And assuming that the entire story was not just some bullshit legend. Too many assumptions, but sadly they had little else. Reese believed in it, which was good enough for Drake. If the Vampyrnomicon still existed, Reese would find it.

Until then, Drake’s more immediate problem centered on how to fight an army of the undead whose numbers grew larger and more powerful every day, and which was led by an indestructible master.

As Drake mulled over that depressing thought, Van Helsing hopped over to the glass doors leading onto the balcony. He telescoped, standing on his hind legs to get a better view outside. When the lightning flashed across the northwest horizon, Van Helsing batted the glass with his front paws, warning off the intruder. Then the thunder rolled in, rattling the windows. Van Helsing turned and bolted for the safety of the master bedroom. The antic gave Drake a good laugh.

And his battle strategy.

The hunters did not have to stand and fight the undead, which meant engaging them on their terms. Drake would change tactics. No more hunting them down while they prowled and battling them to the death. Now they would seek out the covens, hit them during the day when they were most vulnerable, then get out before the vampires could counterattack. It would give the hunters the initiative and, with luck, keep the undead on the ropes long enough for Reese to find the Vampyrnomicon. Then the odds would be a little more even.

A muffled thump preceded Van Helsing hopping onto Drake’s lap. The rabbit maneuvered himself into a comfortable position before lying down on his chest. Drake grinned. He could worry about hunting vampires tomorrow. Right now, he had something more important to contend with. Drake took Van Helsing’s ears between his thumb, index, and forefingers and massaged. Clicking in happiness, Van Helsing lowered his head and snuggled into Drake. Drake petted his companion until both of them fell asleep.

Outside, the gathering storm clouds moved in over Washington.

Acknowledgements

A lot of people graciously gave their time to talk with me while researching and writing this book. I want to make sure they are recognized for their efforts; however, any errors or flaws in this book are mine.

This is the fourth time that Vampyrnomicon has gone to print. The first three times were with Shadowfire Press in 2009, Pill Hill Press in 2010, and Emby Press in 2014. Over the years, a lot of people have worked on this novel; sadly, I can’t thank all of them here. However, for this edition I do want to express my deepest gratitude to Judy Knuth who proof read the final draft and helped me perfect this version of the book.

Let me also thank Michele Quander-Collins, director of Public Affairs, and Hiram Tanner, both of the D.C. Water and Sewer Authority, for arranging a tour of the sewers underneath Washington D.C.; Steven Medley, foreman of the stream cleaning team, for granting permission to accompany one of his crews; and Dave Young, Kevin Tucker, Tyrone Johnson, and Mark Coghill for taking me into the sewers on one of their inspections. Not only did I gain some invaluable background information, I had one hell of a time.

Tim Kirk of the Freer Museum’s Collections Management Division gave up a morning to provide a behind-the-scenes tour of the museum’s archive section and to answer all my questions about how to preserve historical texts.

Maureen Larsen of the Adams-Green Funeral Home in Herndon, Virginia provided great insights into the embalming process, which included a tour of the home’s embalming room, and agreed to read the finished chapter for accuracy. I owe the realism of that scene to her.

DOMINION

Scott M. Baker

THE VAMPIRE HUNTERS TRILOGY

BOOK III

DOMINION

A Schattenseite Book

Dominion
by Scott M. Baker

Copyright © 2016. All Rights Reserved.

No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or transmitted in form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the authors.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

1

13 FEBRUARY 1484. Three kilometers west of Bas-Courtils, France. The carriage swayed from side to side in a gentle rocking motion as it raced along the desolate road. An occasional snort from one of the mares sounded through the darkness, briefly interrupting the clopping hoofs of the four-horse team and the creaking of the wooden wheels against the dirt. Combined, the sensations would have been lulling for the passengers were they not about to enter hell.

Leaning to one side, Stewart Cushing used his right hand to push aside the curtain draped over the carriage window. Night had long since descended. With the carriage’s candles extinguished, the only light came from a full moon that bathed the countryside in an eerie luminescence. It set aglow the low-lying fog that hugged the marshland and reflected back into the night sky, generating enough light for him to distinguish the only man-made structure for miles around. The structure sat atop the cliffs of a small island a few kilometers off the coast, its spire and abbey walls towering over the village sprawled around the base of the cliff.

Mont St. Michel.

How ironic, thought Cushing, that this church was named after Saint Michael, the patron saint who led the forces of light against the forces of darkness.

Jacques Renaud leaned closer to Cushing so he could also look out the carriage window. The moonlight reflected off the folds of his cowled robe.

“This is insane,” Jacques mumbled to himself. “We should have waited until morning, Father.”

“You don’t need to call me Father. I’m no longer a priest.” The Vatican frowned on members of the clergy who beheaded a bishop, even if he was one of the undead.

Renaud was correct on one count, though. It was insane to come out to Mont St. Michel at night. The original plan called for them to depart Avranches, the closest city to the abbey, shortly before dawn so as to arrive by early morning. But difficulties in crossing the Channel and traveling through Normandy delayed their arrival at the city until dusk. The locals implored them to wait until morning, a plea Cushing ignored. As much as common sense warned him to hold off until dawn, his sense of duty compelled him to leave right away rather than risk missing their quarry. It already had been a week since the abbot of the island’s Benedictine monastery sent Cushing a letter informing him that vampires were heading for the city and begging him for assistance. Any further delay could allow the terrible secret to be revealed. Time was of the essence. While Renaud had prepared their weapons, Cushing had found a coach driver brave enough, or perhaps crazy enough, to take them to Mont St. Michel. As the sun settled below the horizon, the three set off.

Now, several hours later, their carriage approached the island enclave, which more than likely was infested with the undead.

Mont St. Michel disappeared behind a copse of trees. Cushing allowed the curtain to fall back over the window, plunging the interior into darkness. Across from him, Renaud crossed himself and murmured the Lord’s Prayer, his recitation barely audible over the clacking of the wheels. Cushing admired Renaud’s faith. It would do the young priest little good when battling the undead, but with a cleansed soul he would find it easier to get into heaven.

The carriage made a sharp turn to the right, lurching precariously to one side. A moment later, it slowed to a stop. Cushing opened the carriage door and stuck out his head. The only sound came from the horses that stomped their hoofs and snorted.

“Have we arrived?” asked Cushing.

“We’re as close as I’m going,” answered the driver, a burly man with half his teeth missing. He pulled back on the reigns, trying to calm the horses. “They’re afraid. They won’t go any farther.”

Cushing nodded. The horses showed more common sense than he did. He stepped out onto the road, doing so with difficulty because of his crippled right leg, then turned back to the cabin. “It’s time.”

Renaud crossed himself again. Grabbing their bag of weapons, he exited the carriage, closing the door behind him.

Cushing moved over to the driver and looked up at him. “How much farther?”

“Less than a kilometer to the coast.” The driver pointed to a road on their right that diverged at a ninety-degree angle from the one they were on. “Then another two or three kilometers across the bay. But you better hurry.”

“Why?”

“The tide will be coming in soon. When it does, the island will be cut off except by boat.”

“Will you wait for us?”

“Non. The horses are too skittish.” As if on cue, the team lead yanked at its harness. The driver pulled back on the reigns again, calming them slightly. “I’m heading back to Avranches. I’ll return at dawn and wait until an hour before dusk.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do. Though I doubt you’ll make it till morning.” Flicking the reigns, the driver started the horses moving and maneuvered them into a nearby clearing, circling around to reverse direction. As the carriage passed by the two men, the driver called out, “Que Dieu soit avec vous.”

Neither man responded. As Renaud knelt by the bag and withdrew what they needed, Cushing limped down the pitch black road toward the coast. After a few hundred meters, the tree line came to an end. Ahead of him stretched the bay, and a few kilometers off the coast the island monastery of Mont St. Michel. He studied it, hoping to detect any signs of life, but found none. No movement on the streets winding up the Cliffside to the abbey. No sounds, not even of animals. Except for the city’s oil streetlamps and a few candles illuminating some of the abbey’s windows, the island seemed as desolate as a tomb.

Renaud stepped up beside Cushing and handed him a crossbow. “Here’s your weapon, Father.”

Cushing did not correct him. Taking the crossbow, he turned to face the young man. Renaud had draped a wooden crucifix around his neck, partially covered by the folds of his robe.

“You realize symbols of faith have no effect on vampires?”

“I know, Father.” Renaud clasped the crucifix in his right hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed the cross. “It’s to remind me that if I die while doing God’s work, I’ll be guaranteed entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven.”

Cushing admired the child’s naivety. He wanted to tell him there were no guarantees in this line of work, except perhaps an early and violent death, but spared him from reality.

Leading the way, Cushing walked down to the shoreline and onto the bed of the bay. The tides had receded hours ago, giving the sand time to dry and allowing them to cross without fear of quicksand. However, it did little to assuage Cushing’s concern. Out here on the open expanse of the bay they were in full view of anyone watching from Mont St. Michel, and completely vulnerable to attack. He kept the crossbow level, his forefinger gently wrapped around the trigger, ready to fire in an instant. He listened for any sound that might indicate approaching danger, anticipating that death would swoop down on them at any moment. The only thing that lashed out at them was a sea breeze, and the only sounds they heard waves breaking in the distance.

After fifteen anxious minutes, the two reached the wall surrounding the city. It towered meters above them, running to either side until the structure disappeared into the dark. Cushing reconstructed in his mind the map he had studied before departing Avranches, looking for the southern tower that marked the entrance into the city. He finally spotted it twenty meters to his left, a stone sentinel looming out of the night. Making his way along the wall, he circled the rounded structure and the dry abutment of land that allowed access into the city.

Cushing stopped short, not prepared for the sight that greeted him. Renaud failed to notice Cushing and walked into him. He turned to apologize, and instead began mumbling the Lord’s Prayer.

King’s Gate, the fortified entrance to Mont St. Michel, had been torn open like a wooden box. The drawbridge lay extended over the moat, the chains used to raise it severed from their moorings and left dangling. The jagged metal ends of the broken links indicated they had been snapped. The portcullis had been lowered across the entrance, but had failed to keep out the attackers. Something had torn lose the metal rungs and bent them outward. Rivulets of dried blood extended from the tower windows and the gate’s ramparts, and pools of blood congealed around the ravaged portcullis.

“We’re too late,” said Renaud.

“I know.”

“We should go back.”

Cushing shook his head. “We need to know what happened here, and to free those souls consigned to hell.”

Bending over, Cushing maneuvered through the portcullis, careful not to gouge himself on the jagged metal edges. He looked to see if Renaud followed. The young priest hesitated, his hands trembling, his eyes glazed over in fear. Cushing had resigned himself to continuing on alone when Renaud moved forward, following his mentor through the opening.

The two men slowly made their way up Grande Rue, weapons at the ready. A few streetlamps that had not yet run out of oil lit their way. They tried the door of each residence along the street, Cushing checking those on the right and Renaud those on the left. Most were unlocked. Each residence had been abandoned. Unfinished meals remained on tables, infested by maggots and flies. Furniture lay in disarray. Except for the insects, nowhere did they see signs of life.

At a slight bend in Grand Rue they passed by an elevated cemetery bordering the back wall of the parish church. As they circled around the front, Cushing raised a finger to his lips, indicating for Renaud to keep silent, and then motioned toward the building. Visible through the stained glass windows was the flickering of candles. Renaud nodded his understanding.

The two men ascended the stairs to the small courtyard in front of the church. Cushing rotated in a full circle, his crossbow pointed in front of him in case they walked into a trap. Nothing. Not that it made him feel any safer. He walked up the few stairs leading to the front door, with Renaud close behind him. Placing one hand on the doorknob, Cushing gave the area one final glance for any signs of immediate danger, and then pushed the door open.

An overwhelming stench billowed out. Cushing swallowed hard, forcing the rising vomitus back down his throat. Renaud stepped back and bent over, retching violently. Each man waited several seconds for their senses to adjust to the smell before entering.

A charnel house waited for them inside the parish church. More bodies than Cushing could count filled the interior. Stacks ten corpses high and three rows deep lined the walls, with another score of bodies scattered across the floor. At first, Cushing thought some of them might still be living because he detected movement. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light from the votive candles, he realized the movement resulted from the hordes of maggots and swarms of flies that covered the dead. On a closer look, he saw that the corpses’ legs jutted out at awkward angles, most likely having been broken to prevent the victims from escaping. Their skin was white and shriveled, indicating the bodies had been drained of blood. Considering that very little blood covered the floor, Cushing could only imagine the feeding frenzy that must have occurred.

At least now he knew what had become of the citizens of Mont St. Michel.

Taking the bag from Renaud and placing it on the floor, Cushing removed a dagger and stepped over to the closest victim. Kneeling down on his good leg, he rolled the body onto its front, lifted its head by the hair, and placed the blade against its throat.

“My God,” gasped Renaud. “What are you doing?”

“These people have all been fed on by vampires. If we don’t properly dispose of them, by this time tomorrow they’ll come back as vampires themselves.”

Turning back to the task at hand, Cushing began sawing through the neck, slicing through skin and tissue. When he reached the spine, Cushing placed down the dagger, rested his knees against both shoulder blades, grasped the head in both hands, and twisted. The sickening crack of bones echoed throughout the church. Cushing tossed the severed head into a vacant corner and turned to Renaud.

“Are you going to help?”

Renaud stood silent, pale and trembling. Cushing could not be certain if the young priest would pass out or run away. After a few seconds, Renaud reached into the bag and withdrew a sword. He stepped over to the nearest stack of corpses, picking the body at the top of the outermost stack. Raising the sword over his head, Renaud brought it down onto the corpse’s neck, severing the head in a single blow.

It took the men nearly four hours to complete their grisly task. Ideally, they would have staked each body through the heart and set it on fire to ensure that it would not come back as one of the undead, however, Cushing did not have enough stakes for the former, and he hesitated over the latter for fear of setting off a conflagration that might burn out half the city. He would need to be satisfied that by beheading the bodies he had done enough to ensure they would not arise. In either case, it had cost him valuable time.

Renaud followed Cushing out of the parish church and into the courtyard. Gore splattered the front of his robe. He dragged the sword behind him, the blade tip banging down each step. His eyes stared blankly into the distance, focused on nothing in particular.

“Jacques,” Cushing whispered.

The young priest staggered by, oblivious to his mentor.

“Jacques.” Cushing said it more forcefully.

This time Renaud responded. He stopped in front of Cushing and glanced around, finally focusing on the older man as if he had never seen him before. “What?”

“Why don’t you wait here?”

“You need my help.”

“I can manage.” Cushing led Renaud back to the stairs of the parish church and helped him to sit. “You stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

“I am tired.” Renaud plopped down and dropped the sword. It made a loud clang as it hit the stone. “Call me if you need help.”

“I will.”

Cushing limped back inside the church to recover the bag Renaud had left behind. Kneeling down for so many hours to behead the undead had taken its toll on his crippled leg, causing it to throb constantly. No matter, for he needed to complete his task despite the pain. He pulled out a pair of stakes, slid them between his pants and the small of his back, and slung the bag over his shoulder. Exiting the church, he passed by Renaud without saying a word. The young priest sat stoically on the step, as silent and emotionless as a cathedral’s gargoyle. Cushing continued across the courtyard. Once on Grand Rue, he made his way toward the abbey.

Grand Rue turned into a flight of stairs that wound up the Cliffside and circled around the base of the abbey. Romanesque walls towered one hundred feet into the night, forming an unscalable and impenetrable fortress protecting the monastery at its summit. He knew from the architectural drawings he had studied that there were only two ways to gain access. The first, for pulling supplies up the side of the cliff, consisted of an access ramp at a seventy-five-degree angle along the abbey’s southern façade, a small stone slide he knew he would never be able to climb. The other was the narrow stairway that wound up the southeastern façade between the exterior wall and the abbey’s outer wall. Access to this stairway was through a pair of thick wooden doors built into the base of the Chatelet Towers, twin fortifications towering thirty feet in height that guarded the abbey’s entrance.

As Cushing approached Chatelet Towers, he noticed the wooden doors were open. Not exactly open, though. The doors lay on the stone staircase where they landed after being knocked off their hinges. Beneath them, he could see the remains of the crossbeam, snapped in half like a twig. Kneeling beside the nearest door, he saw that deep scratch marks had been gouged into the wood.

He looked out the entranceway to the east. An azure sky stretched across the horizon, backlighting the tree line along the shore, and the undersides of the clouds glowed yellow. Dawn approached.

Summoning his courage, Cushing ascended the stairway one step at a time to favor his leg, keeping his back against the outer wall. Every few seconds he paused to scan the tops of the walls for vampires. Twice he stumbled because he failed to watch where he was going, the second time with enough force that he snapped the crossbow’s bow string. Discarding the now useless weapon, Cushing unslung the bag and withdrew the broadsword. It felt uncomfortable in his hands, more bulky and heavy than he would have preferred. Not his weapon of choice, but it would be effective in disposing of the undead. Slinging the bag back over his shoulder and clutching the broadsword in both hands, Cushing continued his ascent.

At the top of the stairs, a guardhouse commanded the entry into the abbey compound. Like everything else about the city, it was abandoned and left open. He quickly maneuvered through it and out the door on the opposite wall, emerging into the courtyard beyond. Off to his left and one hundred meters beneath him spread the vast expanse of the bay. In the distance, the tidewaters already had begun their slow march inland. Within a few hours, he would be trapped on the island. Off to his right was the Romanesque façade of the abbey. He crossed the courtyard and stood in front of the center wooden door and pushed against it. It creaked open. Adjusting his grip on the broadsword, Cushing stepped inside.

The cavernous interior dwarfed Cushing. Even though he moved as slowly and silently as possible, his footsteps echoed off the walls. The increasing amount of sunlight coming in through the Gothic choir at the abbey’s east end, with its expansive windows extending to the heavens between enormous support columns, still failed to light the entire abbey, leaving the corners and transepts dangerously obscured in shadows. Cushing followed the center aisle, staying in what little light existed, his eyes constantly scanning for any signs of the undead. Thankfully, he saw nothing. Only after he had walked halfway down the length of the abbey did he notice the flickering light of candles through the half-closed door of a small room off to his right. Cutting through a row of pews, Cushing made his way to the room, pushed open the door with his left hand, and cautiously stepped inside.

A semi-circle of floor-mounted candelabras surrounded a life-size statue of Christ on the cross. The crucifix was inverted with the top mounted in the ground and the figure of Christ upside down. As Cushing’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realized the figure on the crucifix was not a statue of the Savior but a human. The man was secured to the crucifix by one nail hammered through each wrist and foot, and a final nail driven through his scrotum, impaling his genitalia to the sedile, the small seat attached halfway down the front of the cross. As if such torment were not enough, the man had been skinned alive, a torture carried out with great precision to minimize the loss of blood and prolong his suffering. Plasma still glistened off the exposed muscles. These wounds were fresh, a few hours at most. If only he had not been delayed in leaving Avranches.

Placing the broadsword and bag onto the floor, Cushing knelt beside the figure. He went to close the eyelids, but they had been sliced off, along with the lips, nose, and ears. No recognizable features remained. Not that it mattered, however, for Cushing knew full well who the person was. Only one person lived at Mont St. Michel who the vampires had any interest in. Only one person warranted such cruelty from the undead.

Antonio Ferrar, the Spanish Inquisitor who had stolen the Vampyrnomicon.

Cushing reached out and made the sign of the cross over Ferrar’s skinned forehead. “Dear Lord, forgive this man, your humble servant, of his sins. Protect and keep him—”

A belabored breath interrupted Cushing’s prayer. He looked at Ferrar, whose head rolled to the side. The unblinking eyes focused on him, and the jaw opened. Cushing fell backwards and spider-walked a few meters away. Ferrar’s mouth moved animatedly as he tried to summon the energy to talk. He finally spoke in a series of gasps.

“I… didn’t…tell… them.”

Cushing crawled back toward Ferrar, desperately fighting back the terror welling up inside of him. “You didn’t tell them what?”

“I… didn’t…tell… them.”

“About the Vampyrnomicon?”

Ferrar made a motion that passed for a nod. “About… the… book.”

“Where is the Vampyrnomicon?”

“I… didn’t…tell… them.”

“You did well.” Cushing moved to rub Ferrar’s forehead but stopped short, knowing the physical contact would be agony.

“I… didn’t…tell… them.”

“You can tell me.”

“I… can’t.”

“Yes you can.”

Ferrar shook his head.

“I have to know where the Vampyrnomicon is hidden so I can make sure it’s safe.”

“Nooooo.” Ferrar’s body went limp.

Cushing could not tell if Ferrar was dead or just unconscious. Not that it mattered, as long as he no longer suffered. He began to recite a silent prayer.

“Now we’ll never find the Vampyrnomicon.”

The voice, deep and husky, came from the far corner of the room. Grabbing the broadsword, Cushing sprang to his feet and spun around to face the intruder. A Nubian over six feet tall slowly emerged from the shadows. Though he kept his head slightly lowered, his eyes remained fixed on Cushing, eyes that glowed red. Cushing stared into them and felt his soul go cold. For a moment, he imagined they were portals into the fires of hell. The vampire paused beside Ferrar and glanced down at the man’s ravaged features.

“He never told us anything, no matter how much we tortured him. Even when I offered to let him join us as a master and relieve his suffering, he refused. A part of me admires him. His will is strong.”

“His faith is strong.”

The vampire ignored the taunt. It turned to face Cushing. “I hoped he’d tell you where the Vampyrnomicon is hidden. It was the only reason we allowed you to get this far. Now we have no reason to keep you alive.”

The black man morphed into his vampiric form. With his fangs bared, he lunged at Cushing. Rather than stand and fight, Cushing raced backward, the broadsword held out in front of him. He knew it was a feeble defense, but he only wanted to hold off the vampire long enough to escape. When Cushing reached the door, he felt behind him for the knob. The vampire quickened its pace, closing to within a meter. Cushing’s fingers found the knob, and with a flick of the arm he flung open the door. By now the sun had risen enough that its rays poured through the abbey’s massive Gothic windows, illuminating most of the nave in its brilliance. The vampire paused and averted his eyes, which bought Cushing the time he needed. He rushed out of the room and into the center of the abbey, stopping only when he reached the beam of sunlight pouring in through the Gothic choir windows. The beam extended the width of the center aisle and ran the length of the abbey, stopping three meters short of the door leading outside. Standing in the sunlight, Cushing felt safe until he looked around the abbey.

Only then did Cushing notice that a dozen vampires lined the interior walls of the abbey, each safely ensconced in the shadows, their eyes fixed on him. Most of them had gathered around the door to the room he had just left and the choir area. Only two vampires stood between him and the exit. They could make it to the door before he could, but he felt confident in being able to take down these two and make his escape before the others caught up with him.

Unfortunately, the other vampires reached the same conclusion. They slowly advanced toward him while remaining in the shadows. From the doorway of the room where Ferrar had been tortured, the Nubian stood centered in the opening, silhouetted by the candles.

“Get him,” ordered the vampire.

The horde of undead surged forward, racing down the abbey within the confines of the shadows. Turning around, Cushing bolted for the door as fast as his crippled leg would allow. The two closest vampires were two meters ahead of him on either side of the abbey, and in his peripheral vision he saw the other vampires gaining rapidly. As he approached the exit, Cushing brought the broadsword back, ready to strike. Just as he did, the closest of the vampires cut in front of him, placing itself between the end of the beam of sunlight and the door. Cushing swung the broadsword as he approached. The blade sliced through the vampire’s neck, lobbing its head to one side. Blood geysered from the neck and splattered the abbey floor. Cushing shoved the disintegrating body aside as he passed, exploding it in a puff of ash.

He paused at the door just long enough to pull it open. The sun-filled courtyard was a few meters away. Cushing lunged forward just as a powerful, cold arm wrapped itself around his neck and tried to pull him back into the abbey. He heard the vampire snarl, and felt its cold breath against his neck. Knowing he did not have enough strength to break free, Cushing bent his knees and fell forward. Caught off guard, the vampire fell forward with Cushing, its arms still wrapped around his neck. The two rolled out of the abbey and into the courtyard.

When the sunlight washed over the vampire, it howled. Despite being dazed from the fall, Cushing grabbed onto the vampire’s arm and held it in place. The vampire thrashed around frantically, the sunlight already searing its skin. It placed its free hand on Cushing’s back and pushed violently, breaking his grip. Cushing rolled onto his knees and scrambled to his broadsword, which lay a meter away. Picking it up, he stood and spun around to confront the vampire. The vampire staggered back toward the abbey, but made it only a few steps before crashing to its knees a meter shy of the shade. The flesh on its face burned and peeled off in tiny strips. It raised its hands to shield its face, only to have the palms and fingers sear off in strips. An agonized wail rose from its throat, a mournful cry that ended only when Cushing swung the broadsword in a wide arc and sliced off the vampire’s head. As the blade cut throat flesh and bone, the creature crumbled into a pile of ash.

Cushing felt his limbs grow heavy and his muscles become weak. He placed the broadsword’s blade against the ground and rested on the hilt. Having run on adrenaline for nearly six hours, physical and emotional exhaustion threatened him. And he had failed in his mission, for he never found out where Ferrar had hidden the Vampyrnomicon. At least the vampires failed to extract the location from him, so for now its hideous secrets were safe. He had survived, which was far more than he could have hoped for. With a good eight hours of daylight remaining, he had more than enough time to gather Renaud and make his way to the carriage waiting on shore, which would take him back to safety of Avranches. Then he could begin his search for the Vampyrnomicon in earnest. Once he found the book, he would rid the world of this ultimate evil once and for all. He was doing God’s work, and God would not allow him to fail.

Cushing bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Dear Lord, thank you for interceding on my behalf with your Divine intervention and for keeping me safe in the face of Evil.”

“Your prayers are premature, Father.”

Spinning around so fast he nearly fell over, Cushing raised his broadsword in defense, but now the blade felt unusually heavy in his hands. He looked upon the face of an exquisitely beautiful Asian woman. She wore the weathered clothes of a bar maiden’s outfit, an attire completely out of place with her regal looks. Though attractive, Cushing could sense the evil lurking within her. It terrified him.

“W-who are you?”

“My name is Chiang Shih.”

“What do you want?”

“For you to join us.”

“Never!” Cushing raised the broadsword over his shoulder. “I’d rather die.”

“You’ll beg for death.” Chiang Shih smiled sardonically. “Just like Ferrar did.”

Chiang Shih surged forward. Cushing swung the broadsword, aiming for the vampire’s neck. With a movement too quick for him to see, she reached out, grabbed his wrist, and twisted. The bones fragmented under the assault. Bolts of pain shot up his arm and through his body, overriding his senses. Before he could cry out, Chiang Shih’s other hand clasped over his mouth, squeezing his jaw so tight he thought his bones would shatter. Unable to move or speak, and with panic welling up inside of him, Cushing watched as Chiang Shih morphed into her vampiric form.

Cushing stared into the face of hell, his screams of terror muffled.

2

DRAKE MATTHEWS DIDN’T like this. Not one damn bit.

He sat in the driver’s seat of the midnight-black Dodge Ram watching the trio of vampires through the infra-red goggles that Jim had adjusted to detect the ambient heat signatures of the undead. The display practically glowed with heat signatures. A dozen people milled around or rested in their vehicles. Each engine registered its own degree of warmth depending on how long it had been turned off. A panorama of reds, oranges, and yellows splashed across the display screen. And in the midst of it all, three light-blue auras emanated from the vampires in the stolen Grand Marquis parked a few spaces away.

It was not the vampires’ hunting that bothered Drake, but where they had decided to stalk their prey. Breaking from their normal routine of prowling the Mall or Washington’s poor neighborhoods, these three had chosen a rest stop along Interstate 66 a little over twenty miles outside of the District near Manassas. Up until now, the vampires had restricted their preying to within city limits. If they were expanding their hunting grounds into northern Virginia and Maryland, then Drake and his hunters would be hard pressed to stop them.

The hunters had stumbled across these three solely by accident. They had been patrolling a neighborhood in southwest Washington where police had reported an unusual increase in missing persons in the past week. After having cruised the area for over an hour, Drake spotted the vampires stealing a Grand Marquis. They had followed them, hoping they would lead the hunters to a nest. Instead, the vampires drove out to northern Virginia.

“So what’s the plan, Boss?” asked Alison Monroe from the driver’s seat.

“Beats the hell out of me.”

“That’s usually what happens.” Alison flashed Drake a flirtatious grin.

Drake ignored the jab. He fingered the ear-mounted microphone of his two-way radio. “Rodriguez, can you see what our friends are up to?”

“They’re just sitting in their car and checking out the area,” answered Juan Rodriguez. He and Jim Delmarco manned the SUV in the truck stop portion of the rest area, parked just opposite the Grand Marquis. “What do we do now?”

“Just sit tight and wait for them to make the first move.”

“Roger that. We’re here when you need us.”

“Thanks.” Drake removed his goggles and leaned forward in his seat. “What the hell are they up to?”

“COME ON, MAN,” prodded Sean. “I’m hungry.”

“Shut up!” barked Tran from the driver’s seat of the Grand Marquis. “If Melinda finds out we’re doing this, she’ll tear us apart. So just sit tight until I say so.”

Melinda had turned each of them within the past week. He had been the first, having picked her up outside a 7-11 in downtown Washington early one morning, expecting a quickie on the way home, but getting much more than he had bargained for. Sean had been turned next, his reward for attempting to mug Melinda. And finally Ryan, who had joined the coven just two days ago, a homeless junkie who had picked the wrong person to ask a handout from. Once among the undead, Melinda had ordered them to not to prey on humans, promising a horrendous punishment on anyone who disobeyed. But how long could they live off of rats, squirrels, birds, or the occasional stray pet that wandered too near the coven? They were hungry. Hungry for human blood. So Tran had come up with the plan to steal a car, drive far out of the city, feed, and return to the coven before Melinda found out. Now he regretted bringing the others along on this hunt.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” prompted Sean. “There are too many people here. We’re wasting time.”

“Wait.” Ryan leaned forward from the back seat. He pointed to a copse of trees at the far end of the rest area. A middle-aged woman walked in the shadows, with a beagle on a leash prancing around ahead of her.

“Let’s get her.” Sean reached for the door handle.

Tran reached out and clutched the back of his neck. “Wait till she’s isolated and no one’s looking. When you have her, give me a signal. I’ll pull up and you can throw her in the trunk. Understand?”

Sean nodded and zipped up his leather-jacket.

“Good,” snarled Tran. “Don’t fuck this up.”

“THEY’RE ON THE move,” said Rodriguez.

“I see them.” Drake watched as two vampires stepped out of the Grand Marquis, one from the passenger’s side and the other from the back seat. The former placed a black ski-cap over its head and tugged it down so it covered its ears and forehead. The latter zipped up its sweatshirt and pulled the hood over its head. The two crossed behind the row of parked cars until they passed the information center. At that point they split. The hooded vampire continued straight while the one in the leather jacket crossed over the center island into the truck stop and turned left. Looking beyond the two vampires, Drake saw a middle-aged woman walking her dog amongst the trees at the far end of the rest area.

Shit, Drake thought to himself. So much for the idea of following the vampires back to their nest.

“Stay here,” said Drake as he opened the Ram’s door.

“Don’t you want back-up?”

“No.” Drake stepped out onto the pavement and leaned back into the cab. “Be prepared to roll if I need you.”

“Gotcha.” As Drake closed the door, Alison called after him. “Be careful.”

He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.

Drake followed the leather-jacketed vampire through the rest area as it closed in on its intended prey. Off to the left, the sweat-shirted vampire already had reached the trees and was moving toward the woman from behind. They were still thirty feet away and moving slowly so as not to draw attention to themselves. Drake calculated that he could reach them before they attacked. Stepping off the sidewalk into the truck stop, he quickened his pace, focusing his attention on the leather-jacketed vampire.

Rodriguez’ voice crackled over his earpiece. “Do you need back-up?”

“Not yet,” Drake answered softly. “I don’t want to tip them off. Wait until I make contact.”

“Roger that.”

Drake barely walked three yards when an air horn blared behind him. Startled, Drake jumped back onto the sidewalk. An eighteen-wheel car transporter rolled by, its driver slowing as he looked for a parking space. The horn brought unwanted attention onto the hunter. When Drake looked back, the middle-aged woman stood dumbfounded, staring at the two figures nearby, not even realizing until now that they were so close. Worse still, the two vampires had stopped and turned, and looked directly at Drake.

Shit, thought Drake. Now what?

INSIDE THE GRAND Marquis, Tran heard the blare of the truck’s horn and glanced in that direction. He saw a human in a leather jacket jump out of the way of a car transporter. The human turned in the direction of Sean and Ryan and stared at them. Why? Was he just a busybody going to help out an old lady about to be mugged? Or….

A horrible thought came to him. Scanning the rest area, he spotted a midnight-black SUV with two humans inside, their attention focused on the other vampires. He looked in his rearview mirror. One hundred feet behind him a black Dodge Ram was parked by the curb with a female human inside. It took only a second for the realization to dawn on him.

Hunters!

Tran panicked. Even if they survived the encounter with the hunters, which seemed unlikely, they would still incur Melinda’s wrath. Too scared to think clearly, he could come up with only one course of action.

Run.

Starting the Grand Marquis, he shifted into REVERSE and backed out of the parking space, nearly running over a young man. Shifting into DRIVE, Tran burned rubber as he raced out of the rest area.

ALISON KEYED HER microphone. “Boss, our snuffy in the Grand Marquis is on the move. Want me to follow him?”

“No. But be ready to move at a second’s notice.”

“Gotcha.” Alison started the Ram’s engine and waited.

DRAKE SLIPPED TO the left to go around the car transporter as he approached the two vampires. They stood still, their gaze switching between the Grand Marquis racing out of the rest area and Drake. Behind them, the middle-aged woman scooped up her beagle and cradled him tight. She finally realized something terrible was going down, and that she was in the center of it. Drake hoped neither of the vampires would think to take her hostage.

Drake reached under his leather jacket and removed a wooden stake from the inside pouch. As he did, he keyed the microphone to his radio.

“Jim, Rodriguez. I’ll take that back-up now.”

“ROGER THAT.” RODRIGUEZ grabbed a wooden stake out of the glove compartment and opened the door. “Are you ready?”

“No,” answered Jim. He removed the crossbow from the backseat before climbing out of the SUV. “I hate this part of the job.”

Falling in beside Rodriguez, the two hunters followed Drake.

RYAN WATCHED THE Grand Marquis race out of the rest area, its tail lights disappearing down Route 66. “The fucker left us. What are we gonna do now?”

“Can you drive a stick shift?” asked Sean.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Follow me.”

Sean ran toward the car transporter and jumped onto the running board.

“What the fuck?” The driver turned, ready to punch out the carjacker, only to find himself staring into the blood-red eyes of the vampire. “Get away! Don’t hurt me!”

“You’re lucky, human.” Sean swung open the door, reached in, and wrapped taloned fingers around the driver’s collar. “I just want your truck.”

Sean dragged the driver across the seat and flung him out of the cab. The driver tumbled to the pavement, landing on his left arm with a loud crack as the bones shattered. He clutched his arm and writhed on the ground. Sean ignored him, instead climbing into the cab and sliding across into the passenger’s side. Ryan crawled into the driver’s seat. As the latter leaned out to close the door, a bolt from a crossbow flew into the cab and bounced off the windshield, missing his arm by inches. Ryan paused for a second, and then slammed the door shut.

“Drive!” ordered Sean.

The truck still coasted in first gear. Working the clutch and stick, Ryan shifted into second. As the truck picked up speed, the vampire headed for Route 66.

DRAKE SAW THE two vampires rush toward him. From behind, he heard Jim and Rodriguez break into a run. Drake struck a combat stance. Instead of attacking, the vampires carjacked the truck. Drake rushed forward to stop them, but before he could get close enough they overpowered the driver and threw him out of the cab, directly in front of Drake. The sound of his arm breaking could be heard over all the other noise. Drake bent over to help the driver. Jim raced up, aimed his crossbow, and fired. The bolt missed its target and slammed harmlessly against the inner windshield.

The transporter suddenly veered left, its rear wheels threatening to run over the four men. As Jim and Rodriguez jumped aside, Drake grabbed the driver underneath his shoulders and dragged him out of the way. The driver yelped in pain, but at least he was alive.

“Are you all right?” asked Drake.

“No, asshole. My fucking arm is broken.”

“You’ll be fine. We’ll get help.”

The driver groaned as he sat up and squeezed his left shoulder.

Drake looked around. Several people watched from a distance. He called out to the nearest couple. “Call 911.”

No one responded.

“Now!”

That snapped the couple out of their stupor. The young man pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and began dialing.

Jim stepped up to Drake. “What now?”

“We’re going after the truck.”

“You’re joking?”

“We have to stop them. So haul ass.”

Rodriguez headed back to the SUV. Jim followed, mumbling under his breath. A crowd of onlookers slowly drew closer to help the truck driver. Drake backed away a few steps, then turned and raced back to the Ram. He keyed his microphone.

“Alison, get ready. We’re going after the truck.”

“Gotcha.” Alison shifted into DRIVE and rolled forward to meet Drake.

“FUCK!” TRAN HAD driven less than half a mile when he slammed his hand against the steering wheel. How stupid could he be for leaving Ryan and Sean? Not that he cared about them. They were idiots. But abandoning them meant the hunters would kill them. When Melinda found out, nothing the hunters could do to him would be as bad as what she could dream up.

Tran pulled over into the far right lane and stopped. He backtracked towards the rest area, hoping he would arrive in time to help. The Grand Marquis had covered only a few hundred yards when a car transporter pulled out of the rest area and raced down the highway. As it passed, Tran saw Ryan behind the steering wheel and Sean in the passenger seat. The black Ram and the SUV followed close behind.

Tran slammed on his brakes. Shifting into DRIVE, Tran straightened the wheels and set off after the hunters.

LIEUTENANT STEVE BROWN was parked on the median of Route 66, his State Police squad car facing west, his radar directed on the east lane of traffic, hoping to nail a speeder. With the new aggressive driver fees passed by the State legislature, the sole purpose of which was to generate revenue, catching someone driving twenty miles over the speed limit could net the state several hundred dollars. He had hoped to rack up several violations tonight, which would put him in good with his supervisor. Instead, he had handled three breakdowns, one DUI, and a guy who had forgotten to turn on his headlights. In thirty minutes, his shift would be over.

The car radio crackled, to be replaced by Brenda’s voice. “Unit 24. What’s your twenty?”

Brown keyed his microphone. “I’m on 66 westbound at mile marker 47.”

“How far are you from the rest area?”

“It’s about two miles east of me. What’s up?”

“We have multiple reports of a disturbance at the rest stop.”

“What kind of disturbance?”

“I’m not sure.” Brenda sounded flustered. “I’ve received four calls that reported an attempted assault, a gang fight, a hit-and-run, and a carjacking. I’ve already dispatched an ambulance, and am looking for the closest unit to respond.”

“I can be there in about—”

An eighteen-wheel car transporter raced by so fast it rocked his squad car. Brown swung the radar gun toward the tail end of the truck and took a reading. He registered its speed at eighty-eight miles per hour.

“Jesus Christ.”

“What is it?” asked Brenda.

“A truck just passed me doing almost ninety.”

“Was it a car transporter?”

“How’d you know?”

“One of the callers said one had been jacked.”

“I’m on it.” Brown switched on the sirens and flashing lights. He started to pull off the median, but the frantic blaring of a car horn forced him to stop. A midnight-black Dodge Ram raced by, missing his front fender by inches, followed by an SUV. Each traveled just as fast as the truck. Seconds later, a Grand Marquis raced by in pursuit of the other three vehicles. Brown checked to make certain nothing else was coming, and then set off after the four vehicles.

“WE’VE GOT COMPANY,” warned Alison.

“I saw.” Drake looked out the Ram’s rear window just as the State Police car pulled out onto Route 66.

“What are we going to do?”

“Hope he doesn’t get in the way.” Drake turned forward. “Right now we have to stop that truck.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

“I’m working on it.”

RYAN LOOKED IN his side mirror. “The hunters are behind us.”

“I know. Can you go faster?”

“I’m already doing over ninety. We can’t outrun them.”

“I have an idea. Just stay ahead of them.”

Sean opened the door, stepped out onto the running board, and climbed onto the transporter. Crawling up to the top level, he made his way along the line of cars, carefully choosing his footing so he did not fall. The last vehicle in line was a Toyota Corolla. Reaching under the chassis, Sean found the chains holding the car in place and began breaking them one at a time.

JIM WATCHED THE vampire crawl along the top level of the transporter and reach under the last car in line. After a few seconds, the vampire made his way to the opposite side of the carrier and reached under it again.

“What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know. But it can’t be good.” Rodriguez loaded another bolt into his crossbow. “Pull up alongside so I can get a good shot at him.”

“NOW WHAT?” ASKED Alison.

Drake watched the vampire lean under the sides of the Toyota. It stood up and inched its way to the front of the car. “Is he trying to escape?”

“I don’t…” Alison suddenly realized what was about to happen. “Hang on!”

PLACING HIS HANDS on the hood of the Toyota, Sean pushed the car off the transporter. It slammed into the highway at a ninety-degree angle, crushing its trunk. The concussion exploded out the rear and side windows, littering the highway in glass shards. The Toyota teetered for several seconds before the front end dropped forward. It bounced once and veered to the right, blocking the two left lanes.

Having anticipated the vampire’s move, Alison swerved the Ram to the right, easily going around the wrecked Toyota. In doing so, she inadvertently cut in front of Jim. Jim slammed his foot on the brakes. The front end of the SUV dropped as the rear fishtailed. It screeched to a halt beside the Toyota, blocking the two right lanes.

“FUCK!”

WITH ALL four lanes of highway blocked and no time to stop, Brown had few options. He pulled as far as he could against the cement highway divider, pressed his foot down on the accelerator, and braced himself. The squad car clipped the Toyota’s left rear quarter, sending the smaller vehicle spinning across the highway. The impact pushed his squad car into the cement divider. A shower of sparks accompanied the grinding metal as it careened for fifty feet along the cement. Once clear of the wreck, Brown steered back onto the highway. Despite the damage, his squad car was still drivable. Brown sped off after the transporter.

DRAKE KEYED HIS microphone. “Are you two all right?”

“Barely.” Jim’s voice sounded shaky after the close call.

“Good. Now get your ass up here. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

Drake withdrew one of his Glocks from its shoulder holster and rolled down the passenger window. “Get me close. I want to take a shot at that son of a bitch.”

Alison sped up, closing the distance between the two vehicles.

SEAN HAD JUST snapped the holding chains on the next car in line, a Saturn, when he felt the truck veer right. Looking up, he saw that Ryan had moved into the center of the highway to avoid a slow-traveling taxi blocking the far left lane. He bent over again to break the last chain when gunshots rang out. Two bullets slammed into the car door by his head, and a third shattered the window. A black pick-up raced along beside the transporter. One of the hunters leaned out the passenger side window, firing a pistol.

Ryan must have seen it, too, because at that moment the transporter swerved right. The pick-up quickly decelerated and steered left, swinging behind the transporter. Taking advantage of the situation, Sean grabbed the Saturn underneath its chassis and lifted. The chains on the left side of the car grew taught, strained, and snapped under pressure. The Saturn rolled onto its roof and off the transporter.

THIS TIME, ALISON had ample warning. As the vampire tried to roll the Saturn off the transporter, she steered back into the right lane and removed her foot from the accelerator. The Ram quickly lost speed.

The Saturn landed upside down, caving in its roof. Its windows shattered, showering the highway in glass. The car bounced, clipped the cement barrier, and ricocheted back into the transporter. The collision sent the car cartwheeling. Chunks of metal were torn off and strewn across the highway. A rear wheel broke from its axle and slammed into the side of the Ram.

Alison glanced in the side mirror. The tire wobbled across the road and fell onto its side, blocking the center lane.

BROWN SAW THE Saturn being tossed off the transporter and dropped his speed to thirty-five miles per hour. While concentrating on the careening vehicle and renegade tire, he failed to notice the debris field. The squad car raced through the crash site, kicking up chunks of metal. He heard the pieces pinging off the undercarriage, followed by the thump-thump-thump of a tire going flat. The squad car began vibrating and pulling to the left. Brown made it another twenty yards before he had to pull over. He slammed his fist against the dashboard.

Grabbing his microphone, he called Brenda. “This is Unit 27. I’m broken down on Route 66 near the Route 234 exit. Dispatch other units ASAP before these assholes kill someone.”

Sitting there helpless, he watched the transporter race away down Route 66 followed by the Ram and the SUV.

JIM STILL FOLLOWED well behind the transporter when the vampire tossed the Saturn over the side. He stayed in the far right and raced past the stranded squad car. Ahead of him, the Ram accelerated after having slowed down to navigate the debris field.

Jim keyed his microphone. “You guys okay?”

“Don’t worry about us,” responded Alison. “Go after the truck. We’ll catch up.”

As they raced past the Ram, Rodriguez pointed to the vampire on top of the transporter. “Get me close. I think I can take him out with the crossbow.”

“How?”

Rodriguez unbuckled his seat belt, opened the sunroof, and reached up to grab the rim.

“You gotta be kidding?” asked Jim.

“You got a better way? Pull in as close as you can and hold her steady.”

As Jim maneuvered the SUV so it was positioned off the transporter’s right rear quarter, Rodriguez hoisted his upper body up through the sunroof. The vampire bent over the third vehicle in line, a red Camry, one arm reaching under the car as it snapped the holding chains. Its back was to the hunters. Rodriguez switched on the laser sight, lifted the weapon into firing position, and centered the red dot over the vampire’s back near its heart. His finger wrapped around the trigger and began to pull.

Without warning, something slammed into the rear of their SUV. The shock drove Rodriguez forward. He cracked his chest against the forward edge of the sunroof, dropping the crossbow in the process. It clattered down the windshield, bounced off the hood, and fell away to the right.

From down below, Jim called out, “What was that?”

Rodriguez turned around. The vampire who had escaped the rest area in the Grand Marquis was five feet off the SUV’s rear bumper, leering at him. It gunned its engine. The Grand Marquis raced forward, again slamming into their rear bumper. Rodriguez jerked forward, this time cracking his back against the forward edge of the sunroof. Pain spread through his back muscles and across his chest from the previous hit.

With the second bump, the SUV’s rear end wobbled. Jim struggled to keep the vehicle from spinning out, which, at close to ninety miles per hour, would be disastrous.

“Get down here before you get yourself killed.”

Rodriguez readily obliged. He climbed back into the cab and slid into his seat, holding the bruised muscles of his chest. “Damn, that hurts.”

“You get used to it.” Jim glanced in the rearview mirror, anticipating the next ram. The Grand Marquis was gone. “Where the hell did it—”

The Grand Marquis sideswiped them on the right, smashing into the SUV’s front passenger door. Jim tried to hold the SUV steady, but the force of the blow sent him swerving a few feet to the left, just enough to clip the transporter’s right rear fender. A metallic screech filled the cabin as the two vehicles ground together. The side mirror shattered, tore from its mounting, and fell onto the highway. Jim swerved to the right, hoping to clip the Grand Marquis, but the vampire had already pulled ahead and passed by the transporter.

As a result of the quick maneuver, Jim felt himself losing control of the SUV. He took his foot off the accelerator, allowing the vehicle to rapidly bleed off speed. Gripping the steering wheel tight, he eventually regained control, but by now was a quarter of a mile behind the transporter. Speeding up again, he tried to close the distance.

AS ALISON CLOSED in on the transporter, she watched the bumping match between Jim and the Grand Marquis, being careful to stay far enough back to avoid any accidents or spin-outs. When Jim lost control and fell behind, she saw the opportunity and took advantage of it. Alison pushed her foot down on the accelerator, swung in on the right side of the transporter, and passed it to speed off after the Grand Marquis. Both vehicles raced ahead of the transporter.

Alison keyed her microphone. “Heads up, guys. The highway up here narrows to two lanes.”

SEAN CROSSED BEHIND the Camry when the SUV collided with the transporter, the jolt nearly knocking him off. He regained his footing, circled around to the other side of the Camry, and began snapping the remaining holding chains. With the car no longer secured, he began pushing it along the top tier toward the end of the ramp. He noticed that the highway had narrowed to two lanes. Excellent. With luck, this should take the hunters out of the chase for good.

Mustering his strength, Sean gave the Camry a shove. The car rolled down the ramp and sailed off the back end.

WHEN JIM SAW the vampire pushing the Camry along the ramp, he backed off and fell two hundred feet behind. The car sailed off the transporter, landing on all four tires. Momentum carried it another few yards down the highway before the front wheels turned, swerving it to the right. It finally stopped when its rear end collided with the guardrail on the right side of the highway, sitting at a forty-five-degree angle across both lanes.

Jim slammed his foot on the accelerator while shifting into second gear. He aimed the Ram’s right front end at the Camry’s left fender, and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

Rodriguez involuntarily leaned back in his seat. “Oh, fu—”

The SUV plowed into the Camry at eighty-eight miles per hour. Thankfully, the SUV had the advantage of speed and weight. It crashed through the car, caving in the entire front and shoving it aside. The Camry spun around and bounced off the guardrail, finally coming to rest so that it blocked the highway.

Jim shifted back into DRIVE and continued the chase.

RYAN WATCHED THE Grand Marquis and the hunter’s Ram pass him on the right and pull ahead of the transporter. Checking his side mirror, he saw the SUV behind him still giving chase. He watched as Sean rolled the Camry off the back and into the path of the hunters. It crashed into the guardrail and blocked the highway, but the hunters smashed through and closed the distance. Damn it, it was impossible to shake these humans.

Off to the left, a large orange sign announced the beginning of a work zone. Up ahead, Ryan noticed that a line of jersey barriers on the right slowly narrowed the highway into one lane. The barriers on the left came to an end, being replaced by a narrow gravel-bedded breakdown lane. The extra space gave Ryan much-needed room to maneuver the transporter at these high speeds.

The situation also gave Ryan the opportunity to finally take care of the hunters in the Ram. Wedged between the Grand Marquis and the transporter, and with the jersey barriers to their right and only a narrow breakdown lane to the left, they had nowhere to go.

Increasing speed, Ryan closed the gap with the Ram.

ALISON HEARD THE truck’s diesel engine drawing near. Looking into the rear view mirror, she saw the truck’s grill closing in on them.

“Oh, shit!”

Drake turned to the rear, his eyes widening at the realization of their situation. “We’re fucked now.”

“Not yet.” Alison pressed her foot onto the accelerator. “Hang on.”

SEAN HAD JUST finished snapping the holding chains for the forward-most vehicle in line, a Prius, and had moved around to its front to push it down the ramp when he felt the transporter surge forward. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the truck bearing down on the Ram. He knew this could only end badly.

TRAN ALSO HEARD the increased roar of the diesel engine. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he saw the transporter closing in on the hunters, and the humans speeding up to get away. They had the hunters hemmed in.

Without considering the potential consequences to himself, Tran slammed his foot on the Grand Marquis’ brakes.

HAVING PUT A few extra yards between them and the transporter, Alison veered the Ram into the left breakdown lane, being extremely careful not to roll it down the embankment, and removed her foot from the accelerator. Just as she did, the Grand Marquis screeched to a halt.

The transporter raced past them and smashed into the Grand Marquis. The car disintegrated. Ruptured by the collision, the fuel tank burst into flames, incinerating Tran. Unable to stop, the transporter rolled over the remains. Jagged metal shredded its tires and punctured its fuel tanks. Gasoline flowed onto the Grand Marquis and was ignited by the flames. Twin fireballs engulfed the cab, tearing it and Ryan apart.

Sean tried to jump free, but did not move fast enough. No longer held in place by its holding chains, the Prius rolled forward due to the force of the collision and slammed him against the transporter’s cab. He tried to push himself free, but the wheels were lodged on the front edge of the transporter, pinning him. Reaching under the Prius, he grabbed the bumper and began to lift the car off himself when the truck’s twin fuel tanks exploded. Sean bellowed as the fire burned through his clothes and seared at his skin.

The transporter detached from the truck’s hook, the front end slamming into the highway. Because of the high speed, the transporter continued on, tearing up chunks of asphalt and crushing the remnants of the cab. Sean fell into the void. The transporter rolled over him, ripping his burning body to shreds and putting a merciful end to his suffering. After a few seconds, the transporter came to an abrupt halt. Behind it lay three hundred feet of churned up and melted highway covered with burning wreckage.

Alison and Drake were silent, both aware of how close they had come to being part of the carnage. Only then did Alison notice her heart pounding in her chest and her hands shaking.

Drake placed a tender hand on her forearm. “Are you okay?”

Alison nodded. She inhaled deeply to steady her nerves. “I think so.”

“Good.”

The SUV pulled to a stop alongside the Ram. Jim rolled down his window and leaned out. His look of concern dissipated when he saw that the two were still alive. He motioned for Drake to roll down his window.

“Are you guys all right?”

“Ask me in an hour,” Alison responded.

“We’re fine,” said Drake.

Jim leaned further out the window. “Hey, boss. Alison’s right.”

“About what?”

“You don’t pay us enough for this shit.”

3

DRAKE ALMOST SIGHED with relief when Alison pulled the Dodge Ram into the empty parking space in front of his building. It had been another long evening. Another ferocious battle with the undead. Another hard-won victory. And another near brush with death. All in a night’s work.

Despite being physically drained, he forced a smile. “Do you want to come up for a cup of coffee?”

“Coffee?” teased Alison. “It’s four in the morning.”

“How about if I throw in a shot of bourbon?”

“Now you’re talking.” Alison turned off the ignition, removed the keys, and slipped them into her pocket.

They filled the elevator ride to the thirteenth floor with small talk interspersed with moments of exhausted silence. Drake led the way from the elevator to his apartment, plodding along on tired legs. He barely had enough energy to close the door and switch on the lights.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll brew some coffee.”

“Do you mind if I say hello to Van Helsing?”

“He’d like that. Just don’t give him any treats. He’s getting pudgy.”

Alison flashed Drake a smile. “I won’t.”

As Alison made her way to the den where Van Helsing’s cage was located, Drake stepped into the kitchen. He gathered together everything he needed – two mugs, an unopened bag of Dunkin Donuts coffee, and his bottle of Baker’s Bourbon. Unfortunately, the coffee maker had not been cleaned since its last use, so he had to scrub the pot and filter holder before setting it up. Ten minutes after he began, coffee started to drip into the pot.

Moving into the den, Drake found Alison kneeling in front of Van Helsing’s cage. The rabbit stood on his hind legs, his front paws placed against the rungs, his body twisted to the right, munching away. When he finished chewing, he stuck his nose and mouth between the rungs and sniffed frantically. Alison removed a raisin from a bag and fed it to Van Helsing. He greedily snatched it from her fingers and started munching again.

“So much for not feeding him treats,” admonished Drake good-naturedly.

“Sorry.” Alison looked up at Drake. “I couldn’t resist. He begged for one.”

“If there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s beg.” Drake knelt down beside Alison. Removing one of the raisins, he placed it between his lips and stuck them against the cage. Van Helsing snatched the raisin, ate it quickly, and then sniffed around Drake’s lips for another treat. Drake held up his empty hand to show there were no more treats, at which point the rabbit hopped to the opposite end of the cage and proceeded to groom himself.

Alison chuckled. “Talk about fickle.”

“Nope. Treats and a bath. He has his priorities straight.” Drake opened the cage door and stood. “Come on. Coffee’s ready.”

Back in the kitchen, coffee half-filled the pot. As Alison took a seat at the kitchen counter, Drake filled the two mugs before adding a very generous shot of bourbon to each. He placed one of the mugs in front of Alison and lifted his in a toast.

“To a long life.”

A frown furrowed Alison’s face. “Doubtful given our line of work.”

“Okay. Then here’s to success.”

Alison raised her mug and gently tapped Drake’s. Bringing it to her lips, she blew on the coffee, took a sip, and coughed. “Did you put any coffee in here?”

“Too strong?”

Alison took a second sip. “No wonder you sleep so well at night.”

“I sleep well because I have a clear conscience.” Drake took another drink. “You know what would go well with this?”

“Let me guess. A cigar.”

“Intelligent and good looking. Let’s move into the living room.”

The two exited the kitchen. As they stepped into the living room, they startled Van Helsing who rested in the middle of the floor. The rabbit bolted across the living room and through the den, his nails clicking on the tile floor as he entered the kitchen.

Paying no attention, Drake stepped over to the humidor and removed a Macanudo, offering one to Alison. She shook her head and slid onto the sofa. Drake took his usual spot in the recliner. He clipped the end off of the cigar, lit it with a match, took a puff, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. As the bluish-white eddy billowed upward, he took a long drink of coffee.

He noticed Alison staring into her mug with a despondent expression. It bothered him to see her this way. When they had first met six months ago with the Boston Police, she had been a vibrant young woman full of life and vitality. Then they began hunting vampires. Surprisingly, she was a natural at it, much better than he ever could hope to be. If it had not been for Alison, he would have been dead long ago.

The first vampire had been the Night Stalker in Boston. They had succeeded in destroying it, only to be thrown under the bus by the police chief and mayor who had fired him rather than admit that the serial killer the city feared had been one of the undead. Alison had resigned in solidarity. The two of them probably would have been arrested if Smith had not intervened on their behalf, offering to get all charges against them dropped if they agreed to move to Washington and hunt vampires there.

The nest he and Alison had faced here had been much larger than anticipated, over a dozen vampires headed by two masters more powerful and vicious than the one encountered in Boston. They eventually had destroyed all the vampires except for one master that had escaped. She had showed up again a week ago at the Freer Gallery, this time with a new set of snuffies, three more masters, and the daywalker Chiang Shih, an uber-vampire not affected by sunlight or holy water and that possessed amazing regenerative powers. Caught off guard and outnumbered two-to-one, the hunters should have been slaughtered. They were not. In fact, they gave out much worse than they got, eliminating or seriously wounding several vampires.

That was the good news.

The bad news was now that the vampires knew what to expect, they would be ready the next time.

Alison’s innocence had become the main victim of this never ending struggle against the undead. She should be dating, falling in love, and starting a family. She should be enjoying life and looking forward to the future. Instead, she sat across from him, a seasoned and battle-hardened veteran. The way Alison looked into her mug reminded Drake of the thousand-yard stare.

“Are you okay?” he asked with an uncharacteristic tenderness.

“Just tired.” Alison took a long drink of coffee, this time not complaining about the bourbon.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Your toast.”

“About a long life?”

“About success.” Alison looked up at Drake. “Do you really think we’ll succeed?”

“Of course.”

“You’re talking to me, not Jim.” Alison appeared to grow increasingly frustrated as she spoke. Drake hoped it was at the situation they found themselves in and not with him. “I’ve been with you from the beginning. We took down that master in Boston, and nearly got killed in the process. And how were we thanked? We got sent here to take down two masters and an entire nest. Which we did. Now we’re facing God knows how many vampires, several masters, and an indestructible daywalker. Every time we win one, we wind up facing an even greater threat than before. So I’ll ask again. Do you really think we’ll succeed?”

“Yes,” Drake replied. “We’re going to find the nest and destroy it, and the masters, once and for all.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because good always triumphs over evil.”

“You’re an idealist.”

“I’m an optimist. Besides, we now have the ultimate weapon against the vampires.”

“You mean the Vampyrnomicon?”

Drake nodded.

“Some weapon.” Alison looked back into her coffee mug. “We don’t even know where the damn thing is.”

“Not yet. But Reese has Ferrar’s memoirs, and once he deciphers the clues we’ll know where to find it.”

“Assuming Ferrar’s memoirs are accurate. And assuming the Vampyrnomicon hasn’t been moved or destroyed.”

Drake leaned forward in his recliner, still holding the cigar in his right hand and the mug in his left, his forearms resting on his knees. He chose his tone carefully, not wanting to sound accusatory. “You’re usually the positive one of the group, Alison. What’s wrong?”

She averted her gaze from Drake and hesitated. After a few seconds, she finally broke the silence with a sigh.

“Sorry, boss. I know you rely on me. But sometimes I get tired of doing nothing but hunting the undead.”

“That’s nothing to apologize for.”

“I want it to end.”

Drake did not want to ask the next question because he feared the answer. “Does this mean you’re resigning?”

“No.”

Alison had responded quickly, which told Drake she was serious about sticking it out. He needed her skills as a hunter. He wanted her friendship in their mission. And he still hoped that someday, once the vampires had been defeated, that maybe they could become lovers.

Drake took a puff on his cigar as he slid back into the recliner. “You know I couldn’t do this job without you?”

“You wouldn’t have lasted a week without me.” A hint of the old humor had returned to Alison’s tone.

“And for what it’s worth, we’re fighting the good fight.”

“I know that. So far we’ve fought a damn good fight. And we’ve been lucky.” Alison fixed her eyes on Drake. He saw real concern in them. “But when is that luck going to run out? And when it does, which one of us will draw the short straw?”

Now Drake avoided eye contact. He had avoided asking that question ever since they began hunting vampires. They already had used up more than their fair share of good luck, and were definitely running on borrowed time. He always assumed that one of them would not make it out alive. He just never had contemplated who, when, or how.

Movement off to his lower left caught Drake’s attention. Leaning forward, he saw Van Helsing in front of the recliner, standing on his hind legs and begging to join him. Drake put down his mug and his cigar, bent over, scooped up Van Helsing, and placed the rabbit in his lap. Van Helsing crouched down, resting his chin on Drake’s leg and presenting himself to be petted. Drake obliged. Taking Van Helsing’s lop ears between his thumb and index finger, he gently massaged. Van Helsing closed his eyes and began to gently grind his teeth, a rabbit version of a purr.

“Alison, if anything happens to me, promise you’ll take care of Van Helsing.”

“If anything happens to you it’s because I wasn’t around to save your ass.”

“I’m serious.” Drake switched from massaging the ears to petting the top of Van Helsing’s head. “If I’m not here, I’m afraid he’ll wind up in a shelter where they’ll put him down. After what he’s been through, I can’t let that happen.”

“You really love that little guy, don’t you?”

Van Helsing twisted his head and looked up at Drake with his big brown eyes, almost as if he also wanted to hear the answer.

“Yeah,” responded Drake. “I do.”

Alison gave Drake a tender look. “Don’t worry, boss. I’ll take care of Van Helsing. As you always say, no one should die alone.”

Drake smiled. None of them spoke or moved, and merely enjoyed each other’s company.

RODRIGUEZ QUIETLY OPENED the door to his Georgetown townhouse and skulked into the hallway so as not to disturb his family, gingerly closing the door behind him. The lock snapped into place as the door settled into the jam. Though not loud, to him it sounded like a gunshot going off. He waited for his wife, Sophia, to call out, but he heard no response. Not surprising. At a little after four in the morning, she would be sound asleep. And most likely pissed off that he had worked so late.

Punching in the code that activated the house alarm, Rodriguez waited until the flashing green light turned solid, signifying the alarm was enabled. He tentatively made his way upstairs in the dark, turning left at the landing.

The door to the master bedroom was ajar, with a bluish light flashing from inside. Sophia must have fallen asleep with the television on. Pushing the door open, he saw that the regular programming had ended, replaced by an infomercial in which a blonde in way-too-much makeup and a middle-aged man in over-coiffured hair carried on a vapid conversation about how, if you purchased their five-CD program for only one hundred dollars, you too would learn the secrets for making a million dollars. Easy, thought Rodriguez as he picked up the remote control and pressed the MUTE button. Just find ten thousand idiots watching TV at four in the morning who were stupid enough to send in a hundred dollars.

At the sound of movement, Dolly, their American bull dog, lifted her head from where she lie spread out on the bed beside Sophia. Rodriguez stepped over and scratched behind her ears. She wagged her tail, slapping it heavily against the mattress. Then, following a huge yawn, Dolly lowered her head and went back to sleep.

As Rodriguez took off his coat and street clothes, he looked at Sophia bathed in the light from the television. She was cocooned in the sheets and blanket, which she had wrapped around her. Her long dark hair tussled over her face and pillow, which she hugged close to her chest. God, how he loved that woman. Not just because she was an Italian beauty who would have made Sophia Loren jealous, but because she had remained devoted to him despite everything. Being a cop’s wife was hard, and many women could not handle the strain, either finding solace in the arms of other men or leaving their husbands altogether. Not Sophia. In their ten years of marriage, she had never once complained about the hours left alone, or about having to take care of the house and raise their daughter by herself. She had never complained about the social events he constantly missed because of his work schedule, and had never burdened him with her fear that someday she might receive that phone call informing her that he had lost his life in the line of duty. Sophia always had a hot meal and a warm bed waiting for him when he finally ventured home.

Rodriguez wondered what Sophia would say if she knew about his new line of work. He had not told her about being suspended from the police force because he came to believe in the existence of the undead or about joining forces with Drake’s team as a vampire hunter. How the hell would he explain his career change without having her sign divorce or commitment papers? Instead, he had made up a bullshit story about being assigned to an elite anti-terrorist unit, a job that required him to work nights for a while. Thankfully, Sophia was not the suspicious type, so she believed him. At least for now. He would need to think of a better cover story before too long.

Once undressed, Rodriguez slid on the Redskins t-shirt he used as a night shirt. He slipped out of the master bedroom and down the hall to Vanessa’s bedroom. Her door stood slightly open, so he quietly entered and crossed over to the bed to get a better look at his daughter. She lay curled up in a ball, the covers kicked off her upper body, her arms tightly wrapped around a stuffed pig. Sitting gently on the edge of the bed, Rodriguez admired her.

He loved Vanessa so much. Sofia and Vanessa were the best things to ever happen to him. He loved the way Vanessa looked at him with those adoring eyes, and the way she ran to greet him when he came home at night. He wished she could stay seven years old forever. As she grew older, her adoration for him might fade, but not his desire to protect her. From pedophiles, perverts, and drug dealers. From those who would emotionally or physically harm her just for kicks. From all the evils the world had to offer.

Hell, his entire life could be summed up as the need to protect and to serve, not only his family but his fellow man. It was the reason he had stayed a cop all those years. And it was the reason he gave up his badge to battle the undead.

Reaching down, Rodriguez pulled the covers back up over Vanessa’s shoulders and tucked the ends under her chin. She stirred and rolled onto her side, letting go of the stuffed pig. Her eyes opened and looked around until they fell on her father. She closed them again and smiled.

“Hi, daddy.”

“Hi, sweetheart. Everything okay?”

“Mm-huh.”

“Good.” Rodriguez stroked her hair. Leaning over, he gave her a kiss on the forehead. “You go back to sleep. I’ll be down the hall if you need me.”

“You’ll protect me from the bad men and monsters?” she asked sleepily.

“Of course.”

Vanessa curled back into a ball and scooped up her stuffed pig. She quickly dozed off again. Rodriguez watched her for several minutes, then pushed himself off the mattress and headed for his own bedroom. He sighed. Although Vanessa had asked the question with a childish innocence, Rodriguez meant what he said about protecting her from bad men and monsters. He would do anything to forever rid the world of the vampires. He just prayed the sacrifice would not be too great.

PULLING THE SUV into the driveway of their 15th Street office, Jim slid out of the front seat, crossed over to the brick wall, and punched the five-digit security code into the keypad. A whir sounded from within the building followed by a metallic clacking as the garage door opened. The basement lit up as the overhead fluorescent lights automatically switched on. Jim climbed back into the SUV, shifted into DRIVE, and pulled into the garage. Ten seconds later, the whir and metallic clacking sounded again as the garage door closed shut. By then, Jim had pulled the SUV into a tight U-turn so it faced toward the driveway. He would check it out tomorrow.

Removing the bag of weapons from the back deck, he hefted it over his left shoulder and winced as the throbbing cut into him, the remnants of the night a week ago when the hunters had battled four masters and a dozen vampires at the Freer Gallery for Ferrar’s memoirs. One of the vampires had swiped Jim across the back, leaving three deep gouges across his left shoulder. The wounds had been healing nicely until the Grand Marquis had rammed them earlier tonight, banging him around inside the SUV. He needed to check the bandages.

Jim switched on the lights as he made his way upstairs, beginning with the stairwell leading to the first floor, followed by Alison’s office, the stairwell leading to the second floor, and finally his work area. Nothing seemed as dreary as the office early in the morning when he arrived before anyone else. Except his apartment.

Dropping the bag of weapons onto his workbench, Jim crossed to the small office set up for him in the corner. He slipped out of his coat and stripped off his shirt. Entering the bathroom, he turned his left shoulder to face the mirror and looked behind him at the reflection. A half dozen red spots stained the bandages. Considering how much the wounds hurt, he fully expected to see the bandages soaked in blood. He would take some more pain killers when he got back to his place.

Jim huffed. Scars were the only thing he had to show for his life. The burn tissue on his chest and shoulder, which testified to his lack of popularity in high school when he had been thrown into an exceptionally hot shower by school bullies. And now the scars on his back from last week’s battle, which testified to his lack of prowess as a hunter. Drake always assured him he was an integral part of the team, and if it were not for his skills in developing specialized weapons to fight the vampires they would not have made it this far. None of that negated the fact that this was still Drake’s show. Drake got all the glory, while Jim got an occasional shout out or pat on the back. A poor man’s Q to Drake’s James Bond.

Stepping out of the bathroom and switching off the light, Jim chastised himself for thinking that way. Drake had been good to him, and he should not be jealous. Besides, what really bothered him was that everyone on the team had someone to rely on, either as a close friend or a lover. Drake had both in his affair with Jessica and his friendship with Alison. Rodriguez went home to his wife and kid. That left Jim as the odd man out. Drake and Alison surmised he spent as much time as he did at the office because he was a workaholic. In truth, he preferred to be working rather than sitting alone in an empty apartment.

Jim crossed over to his office sofa and lay down. He would get a few hours rest before checking out the vehicles and weapons, and then head home. After watching some TV and dining on take-out, he would grab a good night’s sleep and be back in the office early the next morning. There were times he wished he had turned down Smith’s offer to join forces with the hunters to stay out of jail.

As he settled in for a nap, Jim remembered what his mother used to tell him in high school whenever he complained about not having a girlfriend. She had advised him to be patient, telling him good things never arrived if they were rushed. He had always tried to adopt that advice, but that was back in the days when he had time on his side. With the way things were going, he would probably lose his life before he lost his virginity.

“I WANT TO know who is responsible for last night.”

Chiang Shih spoke to the three masters seated around her. Though outwardly composed, her voice carried a guttural, animalistic tone that betrayed the fury seething within her. The masters were fully aware of it. They were three fiercest vampires ever to walk the earth, having wrought terror across Europe, the Middle East, and the Americas for centuries. Seated in front of Chiang Shih, they cowed like chastised children, knowing full well that she could tear them apart if she wanted. That fear suited her just fine. Chiang Shih had worked millennia for this, and if she planned to fulfill her destiny she needed discipline among her masters. She would not allow their squabbling and irresponsibility to ruin her chance to finally achieve dominion over the humans.

The key to their success rested with the Vampyrnomicon, the Book of the Undead. The book had been stolen five centuries ago by Antonio Ferrar and had been lost ever since. Now the humans had uncovered Ferrar’s memoirs, which provided clues to its location. Chiang Shih needed to allow the humans to find the Vampyrnomicon and then take it from them. With the book in her possession, she could use its secrets to impose a kingdom of the undead over all mankind. But she could only succeed if her masters obeyed orders and did not draw undue attention to themselves. The most recent lapse of discipline seriously threatened that anonymity, and Chiang Shih would have none of it. She would impose order, even if it meant eliminating her errant minions. As such, she had decided to travel to the Grand Hyatt in Washington where the masters resided. She did not like the idea of possibly being seen and associated with the others, but the nature of the violation required her to address this issue as soon as possible. Since it was early in the morning and they could not travel to her, Chiang Shih made the trip to them.

Chiang Shih stared at the three masters, her anger so intense that each one refused to make eye contact. As well they should. She glared at each in turn, hoping to elicit a confession. In truth, she already knew who had failed her, and wanted to instill fear as well as discipline.

Nelson Walker served as Chiang Shih’s consigliore. The most faithful of all her masters as well as her lover, the two shared an unholy bond that spanned centuries. Together they had expanded the vampires’ presence into Europe in the mid-fourteenth century, bringing with them the Black Death and a reign of terror that lives in folklore to this day. Walker sat directly in front of her, his six-and-a-half-foot frame looking small and diminutive on the sofa. Normally he exuded confidence. Today he stared at the floor, his stern African features softened by apprehension and his dark, intense eyes avoiding her gaze. His intimidation came from fear. Walker had witnessed Chang Shih’s fury only a few times in the past, and knew better than to incur her wrath.

Beside Walker was Santos Treja, known amongst vampires as Treja the Terrible. His swarthy complexion and Mediterranean visage, with black hair down to his shoulders and a well-trimmed goatee, belied the ugliness that had replaced his soul. Treja enjoyed not only stalking his prey, but torturing and raping them prior to feeding. Despite his errant behavior, Treja had proved quite skillful at eliminating hunters. Even more important, Treja ranked among her most loyal masters. He would never disobey one of Chiang Shih’s orders. She had ordered the masters to build up their covens and to keep them from wandering, thereby drawing the humans’ attention. Treja had been doing both admirably. He was not responsible.

That left only Melinda Stanton who, at thirteen, held the distinction of being the youngest master ever to have been sired. An orphan in early seventeenth century Salem, Melinda had been taken in by William Castile, a village elder and a master. He brutalized and sodomized the young girl for three months until she begged to be sired to be put her out of her torment. Castile had obliged, and in the process had created a monster beyond his imagination. Melinda had turned Castile into the village council, which subsequently burned him as a warlock. She then moved to Boston and began feasting, a move that nearly cost the girl her life. That was when Chiang Shih found her. She should have eliminated Melinda at that time because the young vampire did not possess the emotional maturity to handle immortality. Whereas the other masters had eventually adapted to their gift, Melinda exploited it for her own whims. She preyed on children and pedophiles, two segments of society where unexplained disappearances or violent deaths generated considerable attention. Nor did she possess the authority, or even the desire, to keep her covens in line. Melinda had been a liability for centuries. In all that time, Chiang Shih had frequently chastised but rarely disciplined the girl, enabling her irresponsibility. Maybe her complicity in allowing such behavior to continue, or maybe some innate motherly instinct, had prevented her from eliminating Melinda. In any case, Melinda’s lack of discipline now exposed the covens twice in as many weeks.

The first incident had occurred two weeks ago when Melinda had chosen as one of her victims a pedophile who she had fed off of in his home. He had returned as one of the undead the next night while being embalmed at a local funeral home, with a cop and two morticians witnessing the event. Add to that the incident last night when three vampires from her coven had defied Chiang Shih’s orders and had gone hunting in Manassas. Melinda’s inability to conform had become a direct threat to Chiang Shih’s plans.

Melinda occupied an easy chair opposite Walker and Treja. She faced away from Chiang Shih, with her legs drawn up under her chin and her knees pressed into her chest. The girl bowed her head so her shoulder-length blonde hair blocked her face. The body language confirmed her guilt.

Chiang Shih spoke a second time, so deep and guttural it sounded more like a growl than anything human. “I will not ask again. Who is responsible for last night?”

Melinda whimpered and pulled herself tighter into the fetal position.

Walker raised his head and fixed his gaze on Chiang Shih. “I am, Mistress.”

The admission caught Chiang Shih off guard. “It was your coven that went hunting in Manassas?”

“No. But I’m in charge of overseeing all the covens. Ultimately, whatever happens regarding them is my responsibility.”

Chiang Shih admired Walker’s loyalty. He would do anything to ensure the success of the mission, even if it meant accepting punishment for something he had no control over. She also knew that same loyalty would ensure Walker would keep the other masters in line.

“So be it. I expect you to keep things under control. You know the penalty for failure.”

“I will not let you down again, Mistress.”

Chiang Shih looked over at Melinda. The young master finally raised her head, realizing she had been reprieved. Chiang Shih quickly disabused her of that notion. Moving across to Melinda, Chiang Shih knelt in front of her chair and leaned close so their faces were inches apart. She spoke quietly but menacingly.

“Don’t think this absolves you of responsibility for what happened. I know vampires from your coven defied my orders. Thanks to Walker, I’ll let it go this time. But you’ve failed me twice. One more failure and I’ll rip out your throat myself. Understand?”

Melinda nodded twice before hiding her face against her knees again.

Chiang Shih stood and turned her back on the young master. She crossed over to the television stand along the opposite wall and leaned against it. “Where do we stand with the covens?”

After a moment hesitation, Treja looked tentatively between Walker and Melinda. He shrugged. When he spoke, his voice had a gravelly rasp, the result of having his larynx sliced open by the huntress with a sword dipped in holy water.

“I have six vampires at the moment, plus one human who the coven fed off of last night who should turn tomorrow.”

She turned to Walker. “And you?”

“Just two.”

And finally Melinda. “I suppose you don’t have anything better to offer?”

“I had three.”

“The three that went off on their own last night?”

Melinda nodded, her hair swinging back and forth across her face.

Chiang Shih shook her head in disgust. “Those numbers are pathetic. We should have twice as many vampires by now.”

She saw Walker bristle at the implication, although he kept his response respectful. “We would have more vampires in the coven, but we lost four of them when we raided the Freer Gallery.”

Chiang Shih sighed. Walker was absolutely correct. The three covens had been almost completely wiped out when they battled the hunters at the Freer Gallery. It was an embarrassing defeat, but a valuable one, for never again would she underestimate these humans.

“You’re right,” she conceded. “I can’t hold you responsible for all our setbacks. I’m just frustrated at the constant changes in our plans.”

“Understandable,” said Walker. “But except for the lack of vampires in the covens, things are going well. We know for certain the Vampyrnomicon exists. I have someone close to the hunters who will keep track of the professor’s progress. When he finds the book, we’ll be able to take it from him. And we still have plenty of time to build up the covens.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am.” Walker forced a smile.

“Before I go, I want to check on Antoinette.”

“Certainly.” Walker stood, opened the door for Chiang Shih, and led her down the hall and into the adjacent hotel room where they kept Toni isolated.

Antoinette Varela was Chiang Shih’s greatest disappointment. She had always been fond of Antoinette because she had taken naturally to her vampirism, knowing when to lay low and when to intimidate with brutality. Antoinette and her lover, Ion Zielenska, had once cut a swath of terror through Europe rivaled only by Chiang Shih herself. However, all that changed after the destruction of the coven in the Ukraine in 1933. No one could have predicted that the Soviet government’s reaction to the vampire’s first attempt to establish a nation of the undead on earth would be to starve the entire region in order to isolate and kill the undead. But Ion had taken the defeat personally. Afterwards, he had abandoned common sense for a hedonistic lifestyle, concentrating on his indulgences rather than his covens’ security. Antoinette had stayed with Ion, and although she tried to maintain the coven’s integrity, in time she had grown as lax as Ion. That vulnerability had worked against them when they came up against this new breed of hunters. Grossly underestimating Drake Matthews and the others, Ion lost his life while combating them. Antoinette also suffered terribly. During the battle at the Freer Gallery, Drake Matthews had fired a single holy water-laced bullet through her forehead. The wound normally would have regenerated, but the holy water deformed the process and left Antoinette a shell of her former self. The others wanted to eliminate her, but Chiang Shih had other plans.

She stopped Walker just outside of the door to Antoinette’s bedroom. “How is she?”

“The regenerative process is complete, but she’s badly scarred.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Walker hesitated. “She’s cognitive. She recognizes us and can communicate well enough, but her long-term memory is wiped out. It’s like talking with a seven year old.”

“Is she violent?”

“No. But her emotions are volatile. We’re keeping her restrained as a precaution.” Walker paused, uncertain as to whether he should continue.

“Speak your mind.”

“It’s dangerous to keep her alive. She’s too much of a liability.”

“I appreciate your honesty. Let me evaluate her for myself. Alone.”

Walker nodded his understanding and went back into the living room. Chiang Shih opened the door and entered Antoinette’s bedroom.

Chiang Shih fought back the urge to react to the sight that greeted her. Walker had understated Antoinette’s condition when he warned that she had been badly scarred. Hideous would have been a more appropriate description. Antoinette lay in bed propped up on a pile of pillows, her ankles and wrists secured by heavy leather straps tethered to each leg of the bed by chains. Her nightgown lay askew on her chest, revealing pockmarked, leathery skin, the result of when the hunter had shot Antoinette with eighteen hollow point bullets filled with holy water during an attack in the subway. Her lips and gums still bore the deformities she carried from the time she had attempted to turn the huntress, only to discover that the huntress had splashed her neck with holy water.

The truly gruesome wound was on Antoinette’s head. The bullet the hunter had fired into Antoinette at the Freer Gallery had entered through her forehead, leaving a quarter-sized entry wound before exiting out the back, ripping out chunks from the top and back of her head. The skull and skin had regenerated, but remained scarred and leathery, like her chest. None of her hair had grown back, leaving mottled clumps of brunette strands on the sides and upper forehead that drooped down to her shoulders.

Upon sensing the intruder, Toni looked up and snarled, her fangs bared. When she recognized Chiang Shih, Toni immediately became submissive and bowed her head.

“Sorry, Mistress. I didn’t know it was you.”

“That’s okay.” Chiang Shih walked over and propped herself on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m hungry. And I have a headache.”

“That’s understandable. I’m glad to see you’re doing well. I was worried about you.”

“Thank you.” Toni raised her left hand until the restraints tightened. “Can you take these off me?”

“Soon. You were quite violent during your regeneration. We want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself.”

“I’m better now.”

“Let me think about it.” If Chiang Shih possessed any emotion she would have pitied the woman. “Are the others taking care of you?”

“Nelson and Treja are.” Toni’s eyes suddenly glowed red. “But that little bitch taunts me.”

“I’ll see to her.” Chiang Shih reached up and stroked the right side of Toni’s head, purposefully placing her arm near Toni’s mouth to test her response. Thankfully, she did not attempt to feed. “Do you remember who did this to you?”

Toni’s eyes burned furiously and she spat out a single phrase. “The huntress.”

“What’ll you do if you see her?”

“I’ll tear out her insides and feast on them as she dies.”

“Good.” Chiang Shih lowered her hand. “You’ll have your chance soon enough. We’re almost ready to carry out our plans. Do you remember what those plans are?”

Toni grew sullen and lowered her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll have your chance for revenge soon enough.”

Toni sneered.

“If I do remove your restraints, can I trust you to stay in this room until I call for you?”

“But I’m hungry.”

“I’ll have Walker bring you something to eat.”

“A nice, fresh baby?”

Chiang Shih chuckled. “It’ll be something with four legs.”

A look of disappointment washed over Toni.

Chiang Shih placed a hand on Toni’s knee. “I need to know I can trust you to stay in this room until I tell you otherwise.”

Toni became serious. For a moment, a semblance of the former master returned. “I won’t let you down, Mistress.”

“I’m sure you won’t.” Chiang Shih stood and crossed back to the door. She stopped and tuned to Toni. “In the meantime, I’ll talk to Nelson about removing your restraints.”

“Thank you.” Toni rested back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

Out in the living room, Walker was watching television. He stood when Chiang Shih entered. “Well?”

“Remove Antoinette’s restraints but keep her confined to the bedroom. You and Treja bring her food. I don’t want Melinda near her.”

“I still think it’s dangerous keeping her alive.”

“Your objection is noted. But I want her around for the fulfillment of our plans.”

“I’ll follow your orders.” Reluctance tinged his voice.

“I know you will. You’re my most trusted master, and I appreciate that.” Chiang Shih stepped over and kissed Walker. “If Antoinette does go over the edge, you have my permission to eliminate her. I’ll trust your judgment.”

“Thank you.”

“HOW MUCH LONGER?” asked Drake, leaning over Jim’s shoulder.

“It’ll go a lot quicker if you stop bugging me.” Jim sat at Alison’s desk working on her computer. He maneuvered the mouse across the pad and right clicked on the video icon.

“I thought you were an engineer?”

“That doesn’t mean I’m a techie.”

“Man, we got the raw end of the deal.”

“You can do this yourself if you think you can do better.” Jim clicked the mouse hard in frustration.

Alison reached over and gently slapped her boss on the back of the head. “Leave him alone. He’s doing it right. He made the connection. We’re waiting for Reese to sign in.”

Both men looked quizzically at her. Jim paused in mid-click. “You know how to set up a video teleconference?”

“Yup.”

“So why did you let me do it?” asked Jim.

Alison motioned toward Drake. “And listen to his crap? No way.”

Before Jim could respond, Reese’s voice came through the computer speakers. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

Drake leaned into the camera and microphone attachment mounted on top of the computer screen. “We’re here. We have audio, but no visual.”

“Hang on. Let me check the connection.” Reese spoke to someone in the background. The voice that responded sounded female, though the words were unclear. Ten seconds later, the image on the computer’s pop-up video screen flickered and turned to snow, then cleared to show Dr. Harold Reese. In his late-thirties, with reddish-brown hair and matching beard, and a pair of amber-rimmed eyeglasses, Reese looked like a professor of Medieval History. Yet it was his side interest in the history of the supernatural that had brought him to the hunters’ attention. Reese had advised Drake and Alison on the Night Stalker case, and after that became their mentor in how to deal with the undead. Without Reese’s help, the hunters probably would have been dead a long time ago.

Reese’s eyes lit up when he saw his friend. He leaned back and looked under his desk. “That’s it. We have video now.”

“Okay,” a female voice responded. The top of someone’s head emerged from under the desk. With a grunt, the figure crawled out and stood up. When she turned toward the camera, they saw a young woman in her late teens or early twenties, with long wavy brunette hair and stylish wire-rim glasses. “It’s cramped down there.”

Drake snickered. Jim smiled mischievously and lowered his head so Reese would not see.

Reese did notice, but misconstrued what they were chuckling about. “Sorry, guys. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You’re not the one being rude.” Alison glared at her colleagues.

Reese waved the young girl over. She leaned forward to be seen by the camera. The professor reached up and placed his right hand on her shoulder. “This is Rebecca Downing.”

“Hello,” she said through a broad smile.

“Rebecca’s my TA,” added Reese.

This time even Jim snickered aloud.

Alison bent forward to get into camera shot, pinching Drake in the back as she did so. “Rebecca, I’m Alison. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Same here.” Rebecca smiled again. “I don’t mean to be impolite, but I have to get to class.”

“Go ahead,” said Reese. “And thanks again.”

“My pleasure.” Rebecca looked into the camera. “Nice meeting you.”

Reese waited until Rebecca departed. “She’s been a Godsend. When she’s not teaching my classes or fixing my computer, I have her doing research. In fact, I’ve had her looking up the Protectors of the Treasures of Solomon’s Temple.”

Drake suddenly became serious. The Protectors of the Treasures of Solomon’s Temple was the secret society that, according to Antonio Ferrar’s memoirs, last possessed the Vampyrnomicon. If the hunters could get their hands on the Vampyrnomicon, they could defeat the vampires once and for all. “Is that a good idea?

“Rebecca’s been working for me for two years, long before I began helping you. I trust her explicitly.”

That was good enough for Drake. “What did she find?”

“Not much. There’s nothing on line about them, not even the on-line databases of other universities. She’s been going through the books in my library, but all she found was a brief reference in the memoirs of a mullah from Jerusalem noting that two emissaries from the Protectors visited the city in the mid-sixteenth century looking for holy relics that were once stored in the Temple of Solomon.”

“Any idea why they wanted the holy relics?” asked Drake. “Or if they found what they were looking for?”

“Nope.”

“At least we know the Protectors are for real,” said Jim.

“But that doesn’t get us any closer to finding the Vampyrnomicon.” Drake sighed. “Any luck in figuring out where the Dimbovita fortress is located, or who the defender of the Christian faith is?”

Reese shook his head? “Sorry. I’ve been busy researching the daywalker.”

“What did you find?”

“Nothing definitive. I found several references to daywalker or to daemonium merdianum, but all in accounts by vampire hunters or researchers. Nothing in the vampire texts. There were, however, several references to Chiang Shih. Most books use that name generically to refer to vampires in China. Some of the vampire texts talk about Chiang Shih as an individual, all of them referring to her as some sort of super vampire.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that.” Drake remembered confronting Chiang Shih on the roof of the Freer Gallery and driving a metal pole through her heart as sunlight washed over her. Chiang Shih had laughed, pulled herself off of the pole, and regenerated instantly.

“Then this will make your day.” Reese rummaged around on his desk until he found a particular book. He opened it to a page marked off by a yellow sticky note. “This is the book by Emilio Carius, the master that Ferrar interrogated and executed. He makes a single reference to Chiang Shih as daemonium.”

“Daemonium?” asked Alison.

“The demon of demons, or the demon god.”

None of the hunters spoke. There was nothing to say.

Drake broke the silence. “Let me know if you find anything on Dimbovita fortress or the defender of the Christian faith.”

“I will. Talk to you soon.”

“Later.” Drake reached over and severed the video connection.

“What now?” asked Alison.

Drake shrugged. “Nothing’s changed. We still have one uber-vampire, several masters, and God knows how many snuffies to deal with. So we go out, hunt them down, and destroy them.”

JESSICA REYNOLDS BUTTONED up her overcoat against the chill. This was far from a typical news conference. Such events usually were held in the media room at police headquarters. However, because of the nature of today’s event, the Metropolitan District Police were conducting this news conference at the Washington Convention Center. All the local TV news affiliates as well as MSNBC, CNN, and Fox showed up to cover the event. With miles of cables connecting the news trucks with their reporters inside, the access doors to the street had to be left open, which made the convention hall almost as cold as outside.

“So, what do you think?” Beside her, Stewart Niles, Jessica’s photographer, raised his Nikon and aligned his shot with the three figures seated on the podium. “Do they send out their shirts, or do they stuff themselves?”

Jessica snorted. She had not noticed until Stewart mentioned it, but the three men seated on the podium were the definition of stuffiness.

Mark Roach was on the left of the rostrum. Roach had been the chief of the Metropolitan Police Department in Washington, D.C. for the past decade. Jessica had met him several times, rarely under pleasant circumstances. Since becoming involved with Drake and the hunters, she had been arrested three times, twice by the D.C. police. Each time she avoided jail by the grace of God and the machinations of either her editor or Drake’s anonymous benefactor. But each release had required a quid pro quo from her editor, and as part of her penance Jessica had to write a series of articles about the department for The Washington Standard that did not portray them as a bunch of third-rate keystone cops. The pieces she wrote had bought her a lot of good will with Roach and her editor. That did not mean she and Roach would be exchanging Christmas cards any time soon, but at least he no longer looked for an excuse to toss her into jail.

To Roach’s left sat Andre Finley, the mayor of Washington D.C. Young and charismatic, Finley had been elected mayor by voters looking for a change, and for whom Finley represented the ideal candidate –someone who was not a career politician. From his first day in office, Finley had made it a habit to be the people’s mayor, showing up at major crime scenes, fires, and media events replete with his trademark fedora and red power tie. On and off camera, Finley remained serious, even when hosting festivals and holiday celebrations. Jessica could not recall ever seeing him smile. Finley acted as if everything he did as mayor presented a major challenge that needed to be overcome. The biggest challenge his administration faced, however, was the escalating violence that threatened the city’s security. Only a handful in Washington knew that the threat came not from gangs or Islamic extremists, but from a growing horde of the undead.

Finally, at the end of the rostrum was a man in his late fifties. At five-feet-ten-inches in height and with a well-toned body still at its ideal weight, he presented an imposing physical presence. Despite handsome features and azure-blue eyes, his demeanor was cold and abrupt. The same eyes that some people found alluring seemed to critically assess everyone he met, constantly evaluating and judging. While such a personality would put off most people, Brent Ashton had turned it into a positive. Of course, it also helped that Ashton served as the Attorney General of the United States.

A former Missouri state prosecutor, an ordained Baptist minister, and a one-term Congressman who had lost his House seat in an election wrought with voting irregularities, Ashton had been rescued from political obscurity by the President who nominated him for the post of Attorney General. Ashton had tried not to allow his religious beliefs to influence his judicial decisions, but in a city like Washington the very fact that a man who devoutly believed in God occupied the highest law enforcement seat in the nation made him a lightning rod for controversy. Most Washingtonians looked beyond all that because Ashton had been a good friend, constantly pressuring Congress to make sure the city received sufficient funding for its security needs. It was the reason for today’s event. Ashton had ushered through Congress an appropriations bill to supply Washington with advanced crowd control gear to counter the growing violence. Today the police displayed that equipment for the general public.

Finley looked at his watch, leaned toward Ashton, and whispered something to the Attorney General. Ashton nodded in response. The mayor stood and crossed the rostrum to the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention. I’d like to get started.”

The reporters and spectators milling around the podium quieted down and moved in closer. Finley pushed the fedora back onto his head and leaned into the microphone.

“Everyone in this room shares one thing in common. Pride. Pride in our city. Pride in our police force. And pride in our accomplishments to keep this city safe. Thanks to the friendship and patronage of Attorney General Ashton, we now have the means to make our jobs that much easier. He worked closely with his former colleagues on Capitol Hill to procure funding for the city’s new Heavily-Armored Rapid Deployment team.” Finley pointed to a placard to his left that bore the unit’s logo – a circular emblem bearing with the unit’s name written around the circumference and its acronym emblazoned in the center. H.A.R.D. The mayor’s lips curled ever so slightly in the corners, his version of a smile. “This new unit will be hard on violence.”

“I betcha this new unit also has a hard-on for violence.” Stewart snapped a few photographs of the mayor. “Want to bet they have half a dozen complaints for police brutality lodged against them within a year?”

They probably won’t last that long if they’re going up against the vampires, thought Jessica.

As the mayor continued talking about his administration’s crime control record, Jessica quietly slipped away from the crowd and crossed the hall to where the real star of today’s news conference stood. The H.A.R.D. team’s equipment lay in the center of the hall cordoned off from the public by a circular string of rope supported from black metal stands. An armored truck dominated the area. It measured more than thirty feet in length and was painted black, with the team’s logo in the center of the cargo wall. A large octagon-shaped antenna eight feet in diameter stood on a circular mount welded into the truck’s roof. Spread out on a set of tables set up in front of the truck was the team’s equipment. Jessica leaned forward to read the descriptions. Five shotguns. Five assault rifles. Two sniper rifles. Body and head armor. Night vision and infra-red goggles. Two net guns. A foam dispenser for immobilizing rioters. It reminded her of a hi-tech version of Drake’s arsenal.

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

The voice startled Jessica. She glanced over her shoulder. The figure that stood behind her looked as if Hollywood had placed a casting call for paramilitary types. Six-foot-three, approximately two hundred pounds with a physique that testified to considerable time spent in the gym. He wore black BDUs and military-style boots. The nametag sewn onto the chest of his uniform read BRADDOCK. He flashed the standard government-issued smile.

“Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’m Lieutenant Jack Braddock, commander of the H.A.R.D. team.”

“Jessica Reynolds, with The Washington Standard.” She offered her hand. Braddock gave it a single, firm pump. Jessica turned back toward the table.

“The equipment you’re looking at here is the finest money can buy. All the latest in riot control.” Braddock leaned over the ropes and removed from the table a device that looked like a wide-barreled shotgun. “For example, you have a net gun. One of the latest developments in non-lethal crowd control. Fire it at someone, and it disperses a net over them. Keeps them docile long enough for us to slap the cuffs on them.”

“Like Spiderman?” Jessica spoke the phrase with more disdain than she had wanted, hoping she had not offended Braddock. Fortunately, he either did not catch the tone or just let it pass.

“Exactly. Now, if you’re into more conventional methods of crowd control.” Braddock picked up the assault rifle from the table, pulled back the bolt and looked inside the chamber to make sure no rounds were loaded, and held it up to his chest. “This here is the TP9SF assault rifle. This baby fires 9 millimeter rounds and has one of the best stopping powers of any assault rifle on the market today. Two rounds from this will take down anything.”

Except the undead, thought Jessica. Then it hit her. Either Braddock was damn good at putting on a good show for the media, or he had no clue as to the true nature of the threat he and his team faced. A part of her felt sorry for him.

“Would you like to see inside Rolling Thunder?”

“Rolling Thunder?”

He motioned his head toward the armored truck. “That’s what the team calls her.”

“I thought it was off limits to the media?”

“It is. But since they’re listening to the politicians, I’ll give you a private tour.” He grinned. For a moment, he reminded Jessica of a high school junior asking a girl to the prom.

Never one to pass up a story, she smiled back. “I’d love to.”

Braddock lifted one of the ropes. Jessica bent over and scooted under, followed by Braddock. As he described the armored truck, he slid back into macho mode.

“This here is an International Navistar 7400. The largest, heaviest armored truck on the market. Weighs in at over twenty-five tons. She has a three hundred horsepower DT 530 diesel engine and is covered with Level Five stainless steel armor.”

“What’s that mean in English?”

“That means she can take hits from several full-metal jacketed 7.62 millimeter rounds and barely be scratched. An enemy would have to be firing at us with a rocket launcher before we even broke a sweat. The best is inside.”

The two circled around back. A stainless steel door three inches thick was ajar. Braddock opened it all the way and motioned for Jessica to step inside. Using the metal step built into the rear bumper, she climbed up. Braddock followed.

The right side of the cargo area contained racks for the team’s equipment. To the left were three work stations, each with a console-mounted computer terminal and accompanying swivel chair bolted to the floor. Braddock stepped over to the first station.

“This is our command center. Gives us up-to-the-second tactical information and allows us to link up with state and local police, the FBI, FEMA, CDC, and anyone who we might need to correspond with.”

“Why the Center for Disease Control?”

“In case we have to respond to a CBRN attack.”

“CBRN?”

“Chemical, biological, radiological, nuclear. God only knows what the terrorists have planned for us. She has an internal air filtration system and self-sealing doors, so if we needed to we could hold up in a contaminated area for up to thirty minutes without suffering any adverse effects.”

Braddock stepped down to the next work station. “This is our communications center. It gives us the ability to communicate with anyone we need to.”

Moving down to the last station, Braddock broke out in an impish grin. “This is my favorite. Remember that dish array on the roof?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s an Active Denial System, a non-lethal directed energy weapon. Aim it at a crowd of rioters and switch it on, and the ADS hits them with electromagnetic energy at a frequency of ninety-five gigahertz. It excites the water molecules in the skin to one hundred thirty degrees Fahrenheit, creating a burning sensation. Feels like having a lit light bulb pressed against your skin, except in this case it’s against your entire body. We call it the ‘pain ray’. Hurts like hell, and is very affective in breaking up disturbances. Once you shut down the system, the pain goes away immediately.”

“Impressive.” Jessica meant it.

“Thanks.”

The crowd around the rostrum broke into applause. Braddock shifted his stance to peer out the rear door. “Looks like the bigwigs are done talking. We need to move along.”

Braddock led the way out, partially shutting the door behind them. The two made it outside the rope perimeter just as the news conference ended and the crowd dispersed. Jessica turned and offered Braddock her hand.

“Thanks for the tour.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.” This time he shook her hand a little less forcefully. “And please, call me Jack.”

“I will, Jack.”

By now most of the spectators had moved away from the rostrum and were heading over to check out the armored truck. Braddock already had positioned himself behind the rope barricade, striking an at-ease stance and bracing himself for the inevitable onslaught of questions. Jessica waded into the crowd, looking for Stewart. She found him by a trash can reloading his camera.

“There you are,” he said. Stewart closed the back of the camera, which whirred as it advanced the film. “I thought you skipped out on me.”

“I was getting an exclusive look at the inside of the armored truck. I’m heading back to the office to write this up. Get several shots of the truck and the equipment table. And try to get a good one of Lieutenant Braddock.”

Stewart straightened to look over the crowd gathered around the truck. “You mean the Rock lookalike?”

“That’s him. I want to include a picture of him in the write-up. Stroke his ego a bit in case I need to hit him up later for information.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult. He doesn’t look like the modest type.”

“He’s not.”

As Stewart set off to get his photos, Jessica made her way through the crowd toward the exit, mentally writing her article as she walked. She was so engrossed in her thoughts she nearly collided with Roach, Finley, and Ashton who reached the exit at the same time she did.

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Good morning,” Roach responded professionally.

Finley frowned and offered a very cold, “Miss Reynolds.”

Ashton turned around, his face beaming. “Jessica Reynolds? With The Washington Standard?”

Jessica was taken aback. “You know me?”

“I know of you.”

Jessica felt a bit uneasy. She shot a quick glance at Roach and Finley, wondering what they had told the attorney general about her. “Really?”

“I read your column all the time.”

“And you like it?”

Ashton laughed heartily. “Not all the time. Despite what my critics say, I am for freedom of the press. And you’re a good writer, even when you’re critical of law enforcement.”

Jessica tried not to let her pride swell too much. “Maybe someday you’d sit down for an interview?”

The Attorney General grinned. “Maybe. I have a feeling we’ll be running into each other again in the future. Keep up the good work.”

Ashton left the convention hall. The mayor followed, casting Jessica a disapproving glance as he passed. Roach smiled and nodded.

Jessica waited a minute for them to clear the area before exiting the convention center and heading back to her office.

4

REESE SWITCHED ON the computer at his desk. As it booted up, he opened the book on medieval East European history to the section near the middle where he had hidden Antonio Ferrar’s memoirs. He stared at them, admiring their uniqueness. Rarely did an historian get to examine something of such significance. More important than their historical impact, however, was the fact that Ferrar’s memoirs provided the key to discovering the location of the Vampyrnomicon, the book that would tell the hunters how to defeat the vampires once and for all.

Antonio Ferrar had been called one of the cruelest inquisitors during the early years of the Spanish Inquisition, based primarily on the prolific memoirs that he maintained throughout most of his life. Most historians attributed his brutality to the fact that his father had been a conversos, a Jewish convert to Christianity, which compelled Ferrar to be exceptionally vicious in his handling of non-Christians as proof of the sincerity of his faith. After a brilliant career as an Inquisitor, Ferrar one day abandoned his service to the Church for no apparent reason and retired to Mont St. Michel where he lived out the remaining years of his life in a monastic existence, never putting pen to paper again. It was the soil from which legends grew.

Reese’s fascination with the man derived from the fact that, according to vampire literature, Ferrar’s final interrogation had been of Emilio Carius, the last master to possess the Vampyrnomicon before it was lost to history.

When the Spanish Government allowed Ferrar’s personal papers to be released for the first time in five centuries for a special display at the Smithsonian’s Freer Gallery, Reese had obtained permission to examine the papers, ostensibly because of his credentials as a medieval historian. In actuality, he wanted to comb through them for any nuggets of information as to the Vampyrnomicon’s location. He stumbled across a treasure chest. Ferrar had committed to paper every detail of his interrogation and eventual execution of Carius and several other Spanish masters, then had hidden the pages in a secret pouch on the inside front cover of a ceremonial Bible. More important than the details of Carius’ demise, the memoirs confirmed the existence of the Vampyrnomicon. Ferrar had read the book, noting that it described not only how humans could eliminate the vampire threat permanently, but also how the vampires could obtain dominion over mankind. Terrified by the implications if the Vampyrnomicon fell into the wrong hands, he had colleagues remove the book to a secret location in the east, with the only hints to its whereabouts being a series of cryptic clues. He then isolated himself on the island monastery to purge his soul of the evil he had encountered.

Unfortunately for the hunters, the vampires had been made aware of the existence of Ferrar’s memoirs and attempted to steal them. Drake and the others had arrived at the Freer Gallery first, and while the hunters battled the vampires, Reese had gotten the memoirs to safety. However, that victory had been merely tactical, and now the race was on to see which side would solve the mystery first and unearth the Vampyrnomicon.

Flipping to the last pages of Ferrar’s memoirs, Reese read over the clues for the hundredth time. Ferrar had given possession of the Vampyrnomicon to a colleague who had traveled east to become the personal confessor to the “champion of the faith.” The messenger who had delivered the book later visited Ferrar at Mont St. Michel to inform the inquisitor that he had just returned from the Dimbovita fortress where the Vampyrnomicon was being watched over by the “son of the devil.” As clues go, a needle in an historical haystack.

With the computer completely booted up, Reese started to log onto the Internet. As he waited for his connection, a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in.”

Rebecca pushed open the door and stuck her head in. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No.”

She entered and closed the door behind her. She clutched a folder filled with papers against her chest. “I finished grading last week’s tests. Do you have anything else for me to do?”

“Nothing at the moment.”

Rebecca noticed Ferrar’s memoirs spread out in front of Reese. “Trying to decipher the clues to the Vampyrnomicon’s location?”

“I just started, actually.”

“Need help?”

“Not yet.” Reese looked over his shoulder at her. “Did you find out anything new about the Protectors of the Treasures of Solomon’s Temple?”

Rebecca shook her head. “I’m still looking, though. I have a few more sources to go through. I’ll work on that, if you want.”

“Please do. And thanks for all your help.”

“That’s what you pay me for. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight.”

As Rebecca exited the office, Reese called up his search engine, typed in “Dimbovita fortress,” and pressed ENTER. The screen went blank for a few seconds before providing its response. No Information Met Your Search Criteria. So much for being lucky the first time. He typed in “*bovita fortress” and pressed ENTER. Nothing. Running the search function with several wildcard variations of Dimbovita produced the same results. Reese removed the word “fortress” from the search function and typed in “D*bovita.” This time he got several results, all for Dambovita. He scrolled through them.

The first few entries described Dambovita as a river that flowed southward from the Faragas Mountains through the Wallachia region of the Balkans. The fourth entry displayed the results for a Dambovita citadel, which was described as a fifteenth century fortification known as the strongest in the region. Now he was getting somewhere. This time he typed in “champion of the faith” and “Wallachia.” Again the screen went blank for a few seconds before providing several results, all for Stephen the Great.

Reese scanned through the results, hardly believing what he read. Stephen the Great had ruled for forty-seven years from 1457 to 1504. In 1475, Stephen had defeated the army of the Muslim Ottoman Empire at the Battle of Vaslui, a feat for which Pope Sixtus IV bestowed upon him the title of Defender of the Christian Faith. Stephen accomplished all this from his fortress on the Dambovita River.

As with many medieval European fortresses, the locals soon set up a village outside the fortified walls for both the economic incentives and the protection it offered. These fortress/villages soon grew into thriving cities. Dambovita citadel became the center around which developed the city of Bucharest, the capital of Rumania.

ARRIVING AT THE office early, Jessica made her way to her cubicle. She moved unsteadily, juggling the computer bag bearing her laptop over one shoulder, her purse over the other, all the while brandishing a cappuccino in her left hand. She gingerly lowered the purse onto the floor, switched the cappuccino to her right hand, and slid the computer bag onto her desk. Success. Nothing spilled, broken, or overturned. A major achievement considering what a klutz she could be.

Not even a spilled cappuccino could have dampened her spirits this morning. Her interview with Braddock made the front page of today’s edition of The Standard. On the Metro, though, she overheard two Metro cops talking about the article. They liked it, spending most of their time fawning over the H.A.R.D. team’s firearms. She wondered if Drake had read the story and, if he did, what he thought of it.

She logged onto her work terminal, then removed her laptop and turned it on. As the two systems booted up, she removed her coat, took the lid off the cappuccino, and took a seat. She planned on spending the day researching the backgrounds of Braddock and the other team members, and hopefully convince them to sit for interviews. The H.A.R.D. team was the most exciting thing to happen to Washington since the city franchised its own baseball team, and she wanted to capitalize on that.

Calling up the Internet, she had just started reading her e-mail when a voice called out behind her. “Damn good story.”

Jessica turned around. Philips stood in the entrance to her cubicle. “Thanks. That’s the second compliment I got on it today.”

“Trust me. You’ve been getting a lot of good press upstairs.”

“From the publishers?”

Philips nodded. “The Post, The Times, and USA Today carried stories on the news conference. So did the local news affiliates. But they all carried the mayor’s speech and the generic Q-and-A session with Braddock. You were the only one who got the inside story.”

“Cool.”

“That’s an understatement. It’s the first time we’ve bested the competition.”

Jessica beamed. “Just doing my job.”

“You’re doing a good job. Keep it up.”

“I plan to. I hope to interview the other H.A.R.D. team members.”

“Good. Let me know if you need me to arrange anything.”

“I will.”

“What are you doing for dinner tomorrow night?”

The question surprised Jessica. She had a date with Drake, but did not know whether she should mention that. “I had plans with a friend.”

“See if you can get your friend to take a rain check. Leonard Childers wants us to have dinner with him.”

Jessica could hardly believe it. Childers was the senior publisher and one of the founders of the newspaper. “Are you serious?”

“When do I ever joke around?”

Jessica prudently let that opening line slip by. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Good. Be ready around seven. He usually eats at one of the fancier restaurants in town, so dress appropriately.”

“Gotcha.”

Philips left without another word, leaving Jessica beside herself with pride. Having dinner with Childers would be a major kudo. For the first time in years she felt like her career had finally gotten on the right track.

Scanning quickly through her e-mail, she eliminated the spam and read the important messages, which she would respond to later. Right now she wanted to start her research on the H.A.R.D. team. Pulling the list of names from the inner pocket of her computer bag, she called up Google and typed in Braddock’s name. A lot of information came up on him, and the more she read the more impressed she became. Braddock had an admirable record with all the police forces on which he had served. She felt reasonably certain that she would find just as impressive resumes for the other team members. They would need that experience once they went up against the undead.

She wondered, though, if any of them really knew what they were getting themselves into.

“SO, WHAT EXACTLY are we getting ourselves into?”

Braddock asked the question in a straightforward manner, with no accusatory tone in his voice. It was a legitimate question but one Mark Roach did not know how to properly answer. Correction. He knew how to properly answer. He just was not sure if he should. After all, how would Braddock respond if Roach told him that his team would soon be engaged in a war with the undead?

Hell, Roach had seen the evidence of their existence firsthand and could barely believe it himself. The forensic evidence of something inhuman was overwhelming. The nurse on the subway whose throat had been torn out by something with canines. The Marine who had gone to her rescue whose head had been turned completely around on his body. Mike Fletcher, the pedophile who had died from loss of blood and returned from the dead during his embalming. And finally Robert Dekker, the city’s chief pathologist and Roach’s friend, who had been tortured to death in his lab, having every one of his organs sliced open by something that could not possibly have a soul.

The physical evidence proved just as damning. Three months ago, the only people in Washington who had claimed to have seen the undead were Drake Matthews and his crew. At the time, it had been easy to write them off as crackpots. Not anymore. Every week, more and more people became victims, leaving collateral damage in this war against the supernatural. Roach and his administration had concocted a theory, which for a while they had even convinced themselves of, that the city faced a gang war being fought by kids hopped up on meth. They had even explained the crumbling into dust when one of these things had been killed by stating that the meth had been cut with a yet-to-be-determined chemical that caused spontaneous combustion in the users. That story had lasted about as long as one of these creatures in the sunlight.

The citizens of Washington had seen these things up close with alarming frequency, and were not buying the bullshit. If convincing the general public seemed difficult, convincing his own force was damn near impossible. Between the raid on the Victorian-style row house where these things lived and the incident at the Freer Gallery last week, most of the force had seen them firsthand. They had watched their comrades be thrown around like dolls, or be killed off as easily as someone would kill a puppy. They saw these things take multiple gunshot rounds to the chest and continue fighting. Although his cops paid lip service to the official theory about the nature of the threat, among themselves they used the word Roach could still not bring himself to utter. Vampires. Every time his officers used that word, morale took another hit. How do you kill something that isn’t even alive?

Looking across his desk at the H.A.R.D. team, Roach could not help but be impressed. Braddock had assembled some of the finest police officers from across the country. Renee Sommers, his deputy, a petite woman of about thirty with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair. At first glance she seemed out of place among the other team members, displaying neither the physical build nor overbearing confidence of the special tactic type. Yet her record spoke volumes about her character. Fourteen months previous, two high school seniors decked themselves out with a small arsenal of firearms and attempted to pull a Columbine at their own high school just outside of Little Rock. Although two students and one teacher died and five more were wounded, the casualty list would have been much higher if Renee had not followed the shooters into the school, engaged them, and took them down without backup. Rounding out the H.A.R.D team were Kim Chon-wee, a five-year veteran of the Los Angeles SWAT force and a third degree black belt in taekwondo; Robert O’Donnell, a former Chicago cop who recently returned from back-to-back tours in Iraq defusing IEDs; and Carissa King, a sniper with the Tennessee State Police and one of the best sharpshooters east of the Mississippi.

Roach knew better than anyone that these five officers were the city’s official last line of defense against these things. If the H.A.R.D. team failed to wipe out this threat, the city faced anarchy. Then the battle would be up to Drake Matthews and his hunters. Despite the fact that the hunters had a much better success rate then his own police force in dealing with these things, he was not ready to cede his authority to them.

Braddock had asked a legitimate question, and deserved an honest answer. Even so, this was Washington D.C., and not some B-grade horror movie. Roach was not ready to admit the truth.

“Your team has been pulled together to deal with the growing gang violence that is threatening the city.”

Joel Preston, his special assistant, shook his head. The look of disgust on his face bothered Roach. He had lost the confidence of his closest confidant. The final breach of faith had been expected, considering how Roach had avoided publicly facing the reality of the situation. What Roach had not anticipated was Braddock’s response.

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t appreciate being lied to like I was some dumbass rookie.”

Roach did not respond.

Braddock continued. “If you have gang problem, you deal with it in normal ways. You can declare a crime emergency. Impose curfews. Increase patrols. Arrest known gang members. You don’t call in a team like mine.”

“Why wouldn’t I call in a special unit to handle the situation?” Roach sounded more defensive than he intended.

“A special unit to handle a surge in gang violence is one thing. But we’re armed for combat. An armored truck heavier than anything our troops have in Baghdad, complete with the most up-to-date crowd control gear. Firearms designed for urban combat. And what about those special weapons that weren’t on display at the news conference?”

The “special weapons” Braddock referred to were a pair of flamethrowers. They were purposefully kept from the public because it would be hard to explain why a local police force possessed them. Roach had no idea how the mayor and the Attorney General had arranged to procure them, nor did he care. Right now they were the most effective tools he had to combat these things. Unfortunately, he could not find the words to articulate that thought.

When Roach failed to respond, Braddock continued, this time not as confrontational. “Sir, I’ve read the reports filed by your officers. We’re facing an enemy that’s extremely violent and doesn’t care who gets killed. If my team is going to stop them, then I need to know what we’re up against.”

Roach felt six pairs of eyes boring into him, demanding an answer. As the team that would confront the evil threatening the city, they had the right to know exactly what they faced. Still, he could not bring himself to give them the answer they deserved, which was the truth. As the chief of police, he clung to the notion that he needed to be the voice of reason during this crisis, even if that reasoning meant ignoring the reality of the situation. To do that, he had to accept the convenient lie rather than the harsh truth.

“I told you. We’re facing an increase in gang-related violence.”

“Right.” The look of contempt on Braddock’s face and the disdain in his tone told Roach that he had lost the respect of his special assault team on the first day before they even went into battle.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” asked Braddock.

Roach figured he better end this fiasco before he wound up driving them into the service of the vampires. “No.”

Without another word, Braddock stood and headed for the door. He refused to even look at Roach on the way out. Each member of his team cast a disapproving glance at Roach before exiting. Even Preston walked out without acknowledging him, which he never did. Preston would argue with Roach when he thought he was wrong, but he never ignored him.

Roach massaged his temple to quell the migraine starting to pound in his head. Usually the headaches were caused by his having to deal with Drake Matthews. This headache was of his own making. By refusing to admit to the threat that Washington faced, he had backed himself into a corner. Drake and his team were the only ones who had been facing down these creatures, and doing so effectively. For months, Roach had put more effort into trying to stop Drake than the real threat. Now he drove a wedge between himself and Braddock’s team, and put their lives in danger. If he continued like this, he would wind up abrogating his authority for protecting the city to Drake Matthews or Braddock. Or worse, he would give control of the city to the undead.

“YOUR TEAM HAS been pulled together to deal with the growing gang violence threatening the city.”

Preston shook his head, disappointed with Roach’s noncommittal response. No, disgusted was more like it. Only two people, besides the hunters, knew the full extent of the threat facing the city–Roach and himself. The threat had nothing to do with gang violence or turf wars between drug lords pimping bad meth. As absurd as it sounded, vampires were behind the increased violence.

Christ, the very thought of it still sounded absurd. A war was being waged in Washington between the undead and a small cadre of professional vampire hunters. A month ago he didn’t believe it himself, stringing up any of his cops who even hinted at such a scenario and administratively beating them like a piñata until they fell into line. Yet even someone as rationale as he needed to alter his perception of reality when faced with incontrovertible facts. In the past few weeks, he had faced an avalanche of such facts.

As Roach’s special assistant, Preston had firsthand access to more information than any rational person would need to reach such a conclusion. Dozens of eyewitness accounts from those who had seen these creatures up close, more than half from officers on his own police force. If that did not convince him, he also had physical evidence in the form of security camera footage taken at the city morgue the night Robert Dekker had been murdered, which showed three vampires being staked and disintegrating into piles of ash. Then there were his own experiences. He had personally seen the death of these things twice before. Once when they had raided the Victorian row house where the vampires had made their nest, and again a few days later during the melee at the Freer Gallery. No one who witnessed such happenings could delude themselves to the truth.

Except Roach.

Preston did not care why Roach refused to accept reality. And to be honest, it didn’t matter. Since Roach had opted to ignore his responsibility to deal with these things, someone had to step forward to protect the city. The task naturally fell to him as the second in command. As such, he had decided to bide his time until the opportunity presented itself for him to confront the threat. Unfortunately, it appeared the vampires would soon force his hand. Their numbers were increasing at an alarming rate, and they no longer attempted to conceal their existence. In either case, it boded ill.

Fortunately, Preston had a powerful ally in Braddock and his H.A.R.D. team, but only if he could convince them of the danger they faced. When they walked out of the office, Preston gave them a few seconds and followed, refusing to even acknowledge Roach on his way out. Once in the hall, he looked around for Braddock, seeing him and his team waiting by the elevator. He briskly walked down the hall toward them. The elevator pinged and the doors slid open. Before they could step on, Preston called out.

“Braddock, wait up.”

The team leader looked up, displaying as much scorn for Preston as he had toward Roach. Looking over his shoulder at the others, he ordered, “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

The team complied. Once the doors closed, Braddock turned back to Preston. He said nothing, but merely stood with his arms folded across his chest.

“I understand your frustration,” Preston said in an attempt at conciliation.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything back there?”

“Because it wouldn’t have done any good.”

“Yeah, well I don’t like being fed a load of bullshit from my commanding officer.”

“He’s not bullshitting you. The problem is Roach refuses to recognize the real threat to this city.”

“And that would be?”

Preston would not risk alienating Braddock by telling him the truth, which admittedly sounded unbelievable. No, the lieutenant would need to see the evidence for himself and reach his own conclusions.

“Drop by my office tomorrow and I’ll brief you.”

“Why not tell me now?”

“Because you won’t believe me until you see it for yourself.” Preston refrained from showing a smug expression after seeing the look of confusion on Braddock’s face. “Just be in my office at ten tomorrow morning.”

When Braddock finally responded, the cocky attitude had given way to curiosity. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Preston walked past Braddock and continued down the corridor. He may have just found himself the powerful ally he needed to fight the vampires.

DRAKE FINISHED RELATING to Smith the account of last night’s battle with the vampires on Route 66. Picking up his iced coffee from off his desk, he took a long drink. For a few moments, Smith said nothing, contemplating what Drake had told him.

The hunters had worked closely with Smith for the past six months, and still knew nothing about him. Not even his real name. Smith was the name Drake had given him. The man was as much as an enigma as his boss, the powerful anonymous benefactor who financed their operation and smoothed things over with the authorities when one of their encounters with the undead ended in carnage. All they really knew about Smith was that he always dressed impeccably in a Savile Row suit and expensive silk tie, and that he worked for someone with power and influence. Considerable power and influence. The anonymous benefactor had not only financed their entire operation, including providing apartments and generous salaries for each of the hunters, but also obtained whatever they needed in the way of weaponry. Most important, though, was the benefactor’s ability to intercede on their behalf with the local authorities, no small feat considering that since the hunters had arrived here in Washington they had been arrested by the police for trashing a biker bar filled with vampires, demolished one span of the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, set fire to the Wolftrap Center for the Performing Arts in northern Virginia, and destroyed a rare exhibit of medieval artifacts at the Freer Gallery.

Drake watched Smith carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. Smith usually exuded confidence. Now he seemed shaken by the recent turn of events. All of the hunters felt the same apprehension. Three weeks ago they had the vampires’ routine pretty much figured out. Every few nights a snuffy would be found hunting along the Mall, preying on tourists and Washingtonians who let their guard down and happened to be in an isolated place at the wrong time. All that had changed, however, around the time the new masters had arrived on the scene. The number of vampires they ran across had decreased dramatically, which seemed to run counter to the appearance of new masters. Other than the battle at the Freer Gallery, the only recent incidents of vampire attacks the hunters knew of were the turning of Mike Fletcher and incident with the three snuffies in Manassas.

Smith leaned back in his chair. “Where did you say you first picked up the snuffies?”

“We first spotted them in southwest Washington. They stole the Grand Marquis and drove out to that rest stop in Manassas where they tried to kidnap the old woman walking her dog.”

“And southwest Washington is not their normal hunting ground.”

“Right. For months the snuffies have preyed along the Mall.”

“What about the masters?”

“We don’t know about them. The only death I can attribute to a master is Mike Fletcher, that pedophile the police found in his house with his dick chomped off.”

“Why do you attribute his death to a master?”

“The guy was a perv, but he wasn’t insane. I can’t see anyone getting that personal with a vampire unless it could take on human form.”

“And how many masters are we dealing with?”

“At least four. The female master who we’ve been battling since we got here, two new male masters, and Chiang Shih.”

“Damn.” Smith thought for another minute. “So that leaves us with few options.”

“And none of them desirable.” Smith nodded. “The first is that the masters are not turning their victims into vampires.”

“I doubt that. The only master I recall never building a nest was the Night Stalker back in Boston, and Reese says he had been an exception to the rule. Besides, when the masters attacked us at the Freer, they had six snuffies with them.”

“But you eliminated them.”

“All but one, which escaped with the masters,” said Drake. “And I have to assume that the masters that escaped will try to rebuild the nest.”

“Or nests.”

Shit. Drake had not considered that possibility before.

“How badly did you wound the masters at the Freer?”

“The female master was mauled pretty well. She took a 40 caliber to the head. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t survive. The two male masters were banged up, but nothing that they couldn’t regenerate in a day or two. And Chiang Shih wasn’t even fazed by my attack on her.”

“So we’re looking at a minimum of three masters.” Smith did some mental calculations. “Assuming they sire one new vampire a night, we could be dealing with possibly twenty new vampires running around the city somewhere.”

“Give or take.” Drake took another drink of iced coffee. “Has there been an increase in the number of missing person reports, or unexplained deaths, in the past three weeks?”

Smith shook his head. “I checked before I came over. But that doesn’t mean anything. If the masters are smart, they’ll prey on those segments of the population that no one will report missing.”

“Which brings us to the second option.”

“That the vampires have changed tactics.” For the first time since Drake had known him, Smith looked decidedly unsettled. “What can I do to help you figure out the new tactics?”

“You can check with the local and state police in Virginia and Maryland to see if they have a spike in missing persons. Maybe the vampires have decided to shift their hunting grounds outside of the District figuring we won’t be able to track them down and stop them there.”

“Do you think that’s the case?”

“I hope not. If that’s their new game plan, we’ll never stop them.”

“I’ll do that this afternoon. Anything else?”

“Nope. Right now I have two teams scouring the city each night trying to find a snuffy. I’m hoping to follow it back to the nest. Once we find a nest, we’ll go in and clean it out.”

Both men realized the insanity of taking on the vampires in their nest. But then, there were no viable alternatives.

Smith pulled a small notebook from his inner jacket pocket and jotted down a note. “Let me also check with the local police to see if they have any reports of unusual activity in abandoned buildings, anything that might give us a clue to where the nests are located.”

“Good idea. We could use any help we can get.”

Alison stuck her head into the office. “Excuse me for interrupting, but I have Reese on the VTC link. I think you both will be interested in what he has to say.”

Smith arched his eyebrows expectantly. “Maybe this is the break you’re looking for.”

The two men went out to Alison’s desk. Drake slid into her chair. “Howdy, Reese. Watcha got for me?”

“I think I know in which city the Vampyrnomicon is located,” Reese answered excitedly. “The Dambovita citadel is a reference to an old fort built in the fourteenth century along a river in Romania. That fortress became the foundation around which Bucharest developed.”

“Romania?” asked Smith.

“Makes sense since Romania is where the vampire legend first developed in Europe.”

“Where in Romania?” asked Drake.

Reese’s enthusiasm ebbed. “Sorry. I haven’t figured that out yet. The clues to its exact location are very cryptic. I’m still working on it.”

“No need to apologize,” said Drake. “We’re still a hell of a lot closer than we were a few hours ago. Good job.”

“Thanks.” Reese beamed. “Now, how do we get the book?”

“Leave that to me,” said Smith. “I can get someone out there to find it. I should have him on the ground in a couple of days. Reese, can I give him your contact information?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I’ll have him get in touch with you once he’s in Bucharest.”

“I just hope I have something more for him by then.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Smith. “Drake and I have full confidence in you.”

“No pressure, though.” Reese smiled. “Let me get back to work. I’ll let you know when I come up with something new. Bye.” Reese broke the Internet connection.

Smith nodded his approval at the turn of events. “Well, it’s better than nothing.”

“It’s actually pretty damn good. Now that Reese has something to work with, he’ll figure out the rest in no time.”

“I hope so.”

Drake leaned back in the chair. “Who are you going to send out to Romania?”

Now it was Smith’s turn to be secretive. “Oh, don’t worry. I have just the right person in mind.”

WALKER TRUDGED THROUGH the sewer, staying to the left to avoid the sanitation trough that flowed down the center of the line. The thin layer of human waste that covered the side walkway made the footing slippery, slowing his movement. Nor did it help that he carried a heavy load over each shoulder, which shifted his balance. As much as using the sewer slowed him down, he considered it necessary. He needed the anonymity. Carrying two bodies on the street would draw too much attention.

Walker took over Toni’s coven when she had become mentally incapacitated by the hunters. She had established it in an eight-story abandoned apartment building located near the riverfront. Security was ideal because city officials had sealed off the first and second floors to prevent trespassing. And with twelve apartments per floor, the building provided more than enough room to build the coven and keep it safe from prying eyes. She also had set up several traps to snare anyone who stumbled across the coven, preferably the hunters. It made his job that much easier. The difficult part was filling out its ranks without giving the coven away. This sewer line helped. Walker had discovered it a few days ago when he came across a manhole cover in the basement behind the boilers. The manhole led to an access tunnel that exited into one of the system’s sanitation lines. It provided the means to service the coven and still maintain security.

Arriving at the ladder leading to the access tunnel, Walker stopped and scanned the area to make certain no one saw him entering the building. The only sounds were the scurrying of rats and the heavy breathing of the unconscious bodies draped over his shoulder. Once certain of being alone, Walker climbed the ladder, pushed aside the manhole cover, entered the building, and replaced the manhole.

A few minutes later he entered Room 608 where the coven resided and dropped the two bodies face-first onto the living room floor. A commotion came from the bedroom, followed by two vampires that raced to the door and peered out. The female had been an illegal immigrant who Walker had found turning tricks to make extra money. The male had been a homeless veteran he had stumbled across in the sewers. The female vampire leaned out and sniffed. She looked at Walker expectantly.

“Who are they?”

Walker used the toe of his shoe to roll each body onto its back. “They’re a pair of runaways who made the mistake of asking me for a handout.”

“Are they for us?”

“Yes.”

The two vampires rushed out of the bedroom, the male shoving aside the other to be the first to feed. He pounced on the girl, plunging his teeth into her neck and drinking lustily. Despite being unconscious, she moaned in pain. The female vampire showed more appreciation for her meal, caressing the boy’s cheeks and admiring his face. Even when she fed, she lifted his right arm to her mouth and gently bit into his wrist.

“Be careful,” Walker admonished. “You’re not to drain them, just feed enough to turn them. We need to add these two to the coven.”

Only then did Walker notice that the rest of the coven was absent. “Where are the others?”

Neither vampire responded.

“I asked where the others are.”

The female stopped and looked up at Walker, her head slouched into her shoulders in submission. “Master, they’re hunting. Don’t you remember? You gave them permission to go out and find new meat for the coven.”

Walker did remember. The other two vampires were thugs whom he had stumbled across in a back alley mugging a homeless guy. Walker’s first instinct had been to walk away, but the two had challenged him, so he turned them. It never hurt to have those prone to violence as members of the coven. Because of this, he reasoned he could let those two hunt on their own without too much concern about them bringing attention to themselves. What he had not meant was for the two of them to travel as a pack. He made a mental note to admonish them later.

A low, tired moan emanated from the female runaway’s mouth. She already looked pale and dehydrated. “Enough feeding.”

The female vampire stopped, raising her mouth from the boy’s wrist and seductively running her tongue across her blood-smeared lips. She let the arm drop to the floor and crawled away. The male continued to feast.

“I said enough.” Walker grabbed him by the hair and threw him off the girl. Chunks of her throat came off between the vampire’s fangs. No matter. It would quickly regenerate once she turned. The male vampire scampered off toward the bedroom. Walker stepped over, grasped him by the back of the neck, and lifted him off the floor. He moved its face close to his own, making his voice as menacing as possible.

“I told you only to feed off them, not drain them. Why did you disobey?”

“I’m sorry. I was hungry.”

“Learn to control your hunger or I’ll tear your fangs out myself.”

The male vampire whimpered and nodded its head. Walker dropped it. Once it hit the floor, the vampire scurried into a dark corner of the bedroom. Walker watched it race away, and then turned to the female.

“I need you to take care of things here. Make sure he doesn’t drain them of blood.”

“I will.”

“See that you do.” Walker pointed to the two runaways. “I want them turned. If they’re not, I’m holding you responsible.”

“Y-yes, master.”

Walker exited the apartment, certain that his orders would be obeyed. He made his way back down to the basement and entered the access tunnel near the boilers, pulling the manhole closed behind him. A minute later, he stood in the sewer. It was still fairly early, giving him more than enough time to find a small animal to bring back to Antoinette. Then he could….

Uneasiness suddenly overcame Walker. He could not put his finger on it, but he sensed that someone was watching him. Looking down the length of the sewer, Walker tried to detect a presence. The only living things he could sense were a handful of rats about fifty feet away. He was getting jittery, seeing things in the shadows that did not exist. Walker shrugged it off. Turning, he headed down the sewer in the opposite direction he had come from.

ONCE THE MASTER moved off down the sewer line, the lone figure stepped out of the recess in the sewer wall. As he emerged from the shadows, he startled the rats near his feet. They ran away, squealing. The figure looked down the sewer at the master, fearful that the noise would attract its attention. Fortunately, it did not.

When the master left the area, the figure moved down to the ladder. He had followed the master ever since it had kidnapped its two victims and descended into the sewers, remaining at a discrete distance so as not to be detected. He was not certain what was at street level, but surmised it must be some type of building considering how long the master stayed up there. That and the fact that the master brought up two bodies and came down empty handed. The figure could not be certain, but if he was a betting man, he would wager that he had found the master’s coven.

Knowing the location of the coven did not tell him how many vampires were in it. He would not find that out until he entered the coven himself.

But first, he needed to gather support.

Turning from the ladder, the figure retraced his steps and disappeared into the dark.

THIS DEFINITELY WAS not going to be his night. Of course, by now Jim should be used to that.

With the SUV in the shop for repairs, Drake had given him and Rodriguez the night off. Jim had decided to take advantage of his new-found free time and go home early, stopping off at the hospital on his way back to the apartment to have his bandages changed. That had been his mistake. The first night the emergency room staff had taken him right away because he had three large gashes across his back. Changing the dressing, however, rated near the bottom of the ER’s priority scale. He had waited four hours before an intern finally brought him into a spare room to clean the stitches and provide new dressing, a process that took less than fifteen minutes. He finally finished up around midnight. The entire evening was shot. Even worse, the cab company had said it would be an hour before they could dispatch a taxi to pick him up. Resigned that his one night off could not be salvaged, Jim walked two blocks to the transit stop where he could grab a bus that would take him to within five blocks of his apartment building.

In a rare spurt of good luck, the bus arrived less than a minute after he did. At first, he thought the bus was off duty because it remained dark inside, but when the bus stopped and the doors folded open he realized the driver had decided to keep the interior lights dimmed. Jim climbed on board, paid the fare, and made his way toward a center seat, choosing one across from the rear exit. Not that his choices were limited. The only other passenger was an extremely overweight woman reading a romance novel.

The bus driver raced away from the transit stop just as Jim started to sit, plopping him hard onto the plastic seat. As he fell, he leaned into his right shoulder so as not to land on his wound. Great, thought Jim. Now I have Dale Earnhardt as my bus driver. I’ll be lucky not to get wrapped around a street lamp before the night is over.

Jim had lost track of how many blocks they had traveled when the driver pulled into the right lane and braked suddenly. Jim looked up. Two figures stood at the transit stop. Both were over six feet in height, with the smaller of the two weighing in at least at two hundred thirty pounds. Both men wore overcoats with the collars turned up, one of black leather, the other of dark brown wool. What he took for dark hair turned out to be wool caps pulled down over their heads. They kept their heads bowed. Once the bus had rolled to a stop, the two figures stepped on, paid their fares, and took seats a few rows down on either side of the aisle. Both figures leaned back and pulled the collars tight around their necks as if they intended to catch a nap.

The doors to the bus had just closed when a frantic knocking sounded on the glass. The driver opened the door, allowing a young woman to get on. Two things about her immediately struck Jim. First were her looks. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, about Jim’s height and average build, although with a butt and chest that filled out her jeans and white turtle neck sweater nicely, at least what he could see of her chest beneath the stylish leather jacket. Her wavy, dirty blonde hair fell across her shoulders. Though attractive, what really struck him was her attitude, tough and confident. After forcing her way on the bus, she took a seat near the front exit. However, rather than sitting there and minding her own business, the young woman looked around, carefully examining each of the passengers. When her eyes made contact with Jim, rather than turn away as most people would, she stared him down, as if she were studying him. Sizing him up. Calculating him as a potential threat.

Or as a victim.

Shit. Jim started to get that gut feeling he got whenever a vampire was in the area getting ready to attack. He had left his stakes back at the office, afraid of what happen if he got caught with them at the hospital. Now he was practically unarmed and facing a probable master. He only had one bottle of his holy water-laced pepper spray to defend himself with, which would not be powerful enough to take down a vampire. Drake had always warned him: Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it. A valuable lesson. Hopefully he’d live long enough to learn it.

Concentrating on the woman, Jim barely noticed when the figure in the leather overcoat stood up and made his way to the front where he stood beside the driver. A moment later, the second figure stood up and straightened his coat.

The driver looked up into his rearview mirror. “Please sit down while the vehicle is in motion.”

The figure in the wool overcoat made his way to the front of the bus, stopping across from the overweight woman.

“Sir, please sit down or I’ll have to pull the bus over.”

“Tell you what,” said the figure in the leather overcoat. He removed his cap to reveal the pale skin, furrowed brow, and fanged mouth of a vampire. “You keep driving and I promise to kill you quickly.”

The figure in the wool overcoat spun to his right and lunged at the overweight woman, sinking his fangs into her neck. She flailed around, trying to break free, but the vampire had locked his jaws and would not let go. Her shrieks overrode all other sounds.

The bus driver looked over his shoulder at the assault taking place behind him. “Oh, G-god.”

“God has nothing to do with this.” The vampire grabbed the driver by the back of the neck and squeezed. “Drive!”

Before Jim could react, the blonde jumped to her feet and placed herself directly behind the vampire in the leather overcoat and reached under her jacket. Sensing the movement behind him, the vampire pivoted on the ball of his left foot and struck out with his right. The heel of his foot caught the blonde in the stomach, knocking her backwards. Spinning around, the vampire swung at her, his taloned fingers extended. The blonde ducked beneath the swing. Before she could stand, the vampire grabbed her by the collar and flung her against the seats off to its right, knocking the wind out of her.

Jim barely noticed the encounter. The minute the vampire in the wool overcoat attacked the overweight woman, he sprang into action. He raced down the aisle, reaching into his pocket for the can of holy water-laced mace. With its head buried in the woman’s neck, the vampire did not present a good target. Holding the can of mace as tight as possible, Jim slammed the edge into the back of the vampire’s head. When it turned its head to snarl, Jim released a stream of mace into its face. The vampire howled in agony. Dropping to its knees, it tore at its eyes, gouging away flesh to get rid of the burning.

Upon hearing its friend being attacked, the vampire in the leather overcoat abandoned the blonde and charged. Jim tried to raise the can of mace, but was not fast enough. The vampire slammed into him, propelling him down the aisle toward the back of the bus. He landed on his shoulders, both the wind and the can of mace knocked from him. Before he could get back up, the vampire lunged.

Fortunately for Jim, the bus driver took advantage of this opportunity to escape and slammed on the brakes. The bus fishtailed, knocking the vampire to the floor. As soon as the bus slid to a stop, the driver shifted into PARK and ran off, leaving everyone to their fate.

Jim tried getting to his feet, but the vampire launched itself off the floor. Jim brought up his knees to his chest and raised his legs, catching the vampire and preventing it from falling on him. It frantically pushed against Jim, snarling and swinging, desperately trying to reach him. Jim used all the strength in his legs to keep the vampire away, but that would not last long. Each time it pushed at him, Jim felt his legs growing weaker. He had a few seconds at most to act. Looking around the floor for the mace, he saw the bottle ten feet in front of him underneath the seat where the overweight woman sat. Beside the can, the kneeling vampire crumbled into a pile of ash. Man, how he wished he had that mace now.

Suddenly, the vampire on top of Jim arched its head back. From his vantage point, Jim saw a flat piece of metal slice horizontally through its neck until its head separated from its body. A geyser of blood spurted from the wound, showering back on Jim. The body began to disintegrate, starting with the shoulders and spreading outward. Within seconds, the vampire crumbled away, covering him in a thin layer of ash.

The blonde stood behind the vampire. In her left hand she held the disintegrating head of the vampire, and in her right a Gurkha kukri knife, its twelve-inch blade dripping with the creature’s blood.

She whipped her head to one side, flipping a blonde strand from across her face. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Jim was still disoriented from the battle and the sudden turn of events. He rolled onto his side to get up. The blonde dropped the remnants of the vampire’s head and offered him her hand. Jim took it. Her hand felt soft and warm. When she lifted him to his feet, however, he got a sense of the power behind her.

“Thanks for trying to help me out back there,” said the blonde.

“Trying to help you out?” Jim brushed the ash off his shirt and trousers.

“Yeah. When I was attacking those things.” She flashed him a coquettish smile. “It was sweet of you.”

Jim was now thoroughly confused. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

The blonde offered her hand again. “I’m Sarah Goodman. I hunt vampires.”

5

DRAKE SHOWED UP to work as usual, nursing along a large cup of Dunkin Donuts iced coffee. As he climbed the stairs leading to the renovated townhouse that served as their headquarters and punched his access code into the security lock, he prepared himself for the usual routine. Some good-natured banter with Alison about being late, answer any phone calls from Smith or Reese, and then spend the rest of the day planning the route for tomorrow night’s hunt. Thankfully, he and Jessica were supposed to see each other tonight, which would be a pleasant break from his normal routine.

Upon entering the reception area, however, Drake was surprised to see a small crowd gathered there. Alison leaned against the front edge of her desk, with Jim on the sofa opposite her. A young woman he had never seen before was beside Jim. The three chatted amicably.

Drake quickly sized up the young woman. He estimated her age as early to mid-twenties. She had wavy dirty-blonde hair that fell across her shoulders and down her back. She wore a red, short-sleeve dress. Drake noticed her arms and legs were well-toned, indicating she worked out vigorously. Her bearing immediately attracted his attention. She sat on the edge of the sofa, her back straight, directly facing Alison, clearly at ease among strangers. In fact, the young woman exuded confidence, as if she had experienced more in her few short years than most people had in their entire lifetimes. He knew that demeanor well, for he and Alison possessed that same type of confidence.

“Who’s your friend?” asked Drake as he entered the reception area.

Alison looked at him and smiled. “About time you showed up.”

Jim jumped off the sofa. “Boss, I have someone I want you to meet.”

“Sarah Goodman.” The young woman stood and approached Drake, extending her hand. Drake took it, impressed when she gave it a single firm pump. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Matthews.”

“Please, drop the ‘Mister’ stuff. We’re very informal around here.”

“Sarah’s a vampire hunter,” Jim said excitedly.

“Really?” Drake tried to hide his disbelief.

“I watched her take down two snuffies last night. She saved my life.”

Sarah did not seem the least bit embarrassed by Jim’s enthusiasm. “Jim’s being modest. I followed two vampires onto a Metro bus where they attacked a woman. Jim rushed to her defense. He incapacitated one of the vampires and distracted the other, which made my job that much easier.”

“How long have you been hunting the undead?” asked Drake.

“Two years now.”

“I don’t mean to sound rude, but vampire hunting is not a profession most people get into. How did someone like yourself decide you wanted to do this for a living?”

Sarah’s expression changed slightly, barely enough to be noticeable, but making her look like an uncertain teenager. “My mother was murdered by a master when I was seventeen. She brought him home after a date. I was in my room studying at the time and pretended I wasn’t there. Then I heard screaming from the living room and went to investigate. I watched a vampire rape my mother in every way imaginable. He defiled her and humiliated her. When he finished, he fed off her and left, leaving her to bleed out. Her throat had been ravaged and her artery severed. She was going to die. She begged me not to let her turn into one of them, so I went into the kitchen, found a butcher’s knife, and… and I cut her head off. I told the police the rapist did it. They never questioned my story.”

“And you did nothing to try and stop the attack?” asked Alison.

Sarah slouched, averting her eyes. “What could I have done? I was sixteen and terrified.”

“That wasn’t meant as an accusation. You did the right thing.”

“I tell myself that every day. Who knows? Someday I might actually believe it.” Sarah straightened up and met Drake’s gaze. The confidence returned to her voice. “I vowed I’d find the bastard that murdered my mother and make him pay. I spent the next few years working out, training in krav maga and hapkido, and learned how to kill with kukri knives. Once I was ready, I began hunting for that master, killing any vampires I came across.”

“So what brings you to Washington?”

“I follow the Internet looking for particularly brutal murders, a rash of missing persons, or monster sightings. They’re usually a good indication that there’s a nest nearby. The past couple of months I’ve been seeing a lot of these stories coming out of the Washington area. When I read the police report about the incident last week at the Freer Gallery, I reasoned you had a large nest and several masters on your hands, and came here to see if I could find the one I’m looking for.”

Drake nodded his approval. “Good detective work. And you’re right. We’re overrun with vampires.”

“How many?” Sarah’s interest was piqued.

“We’ve killed about two dozen snuffies since we arrived, plus one master. Right now we’re facing a number of vampires, three masters, and a daywalker.”

Sarah looked to each of the hunters, confused. “A daywalker?”

“An ubermaster,” answered Jim. “A master that is not affected by sunlight or holy water, and that can instantly regenerate its wounds.”

“You’re joking?”

“I wish I was.” Drake placed his iced coffee on the edge of Alison’s desk. “The worst part is, the daywalker has some sort of master plan, but we have no idea what it is. All we know is that it centers on a book called the Vampyrnomicon and a legend that if the vampires get hold of the book they’ll be able to establish dominion over mankind.”

“Where’s the book now?”

Drake shrugged. “We don’t know. We have someone trying to figure that out, but all the clues to its location are cryptic. The good news is the vampires can’t decipher the clues either, so we have one up on them.”

“What happens when you find the book?”

“According to legend, the Vampyrnomicon will show us how to permanently defeat the vampires.”

A look of determination etched Sarah’s face. “Then it looks like I showed up just in time.”

“What do you mean?” asked Drake.

“I want to join your team.”

“What about it, boss?” Jim asked with way too much eagerness.

Even Alison seemed amenable to the idea. “We can use all the help we can get.”

Drake took the iced coffee from off Alison’s desk and took a long, slow drink, biding himself time to consider the option. While having an experienced hunter would be a major asset to the team, he needed to be certain that Sarah did not carry any emotional baggage that would prove detrimental. As he finished off the iced coffee and threw the empty cup into the trash can, he formulated his words carefully.

“Before I answer, you need to realize that for us hunting vampires is professional, not personal. While I empathize with your situation, I need to know that when we go into battle I can rely on you to cover our backs and not go off on a vendetta. You do what I tell you when I tell you, even if that means letting the master who killed your mother get away. Deal?”

Sarah stared at him with the best poker face Drake had ever seen. “On one condition?”

“What’s that?”

“That if the opportunity arises to take down the master that murdered my mother, I’m the one who gets a crack at him.”

Damn, this girl was good. Drake made a mental note never to play poker with her. “Then we have a deal.”

Sarah beamed. “Thanks. You won’t regret this.”

“See that I don’t.”

Jim wrapped an arm around Sarah’s shoulder and squeezed. “Welcome onboard.”

Alison stepped forward and offered her hand. “I hope you enjoy the stench of cigar smoke.”

“What?”

“Don’t listen to her,” Drake chided. “Where are you staying?”

“At the YWCA. I have to be careful with my money.”

Drake laughed. “Money’s not a problem here. We’ll arrange for better accommodations. For now, Jim will show you around and explain the operation.”

“With pleasure.”

Drake could not remember ever seeing Jim this excited. “One more thing. This master you’ve been hunting. What’s he look like?”

“He’s a little over six feet tall, Latino, with a well-trimmed goatee and long black hair.”

Drake shot Alison a glance. “Sounds like the one you ran into at the Freer.”

“Did you kill him?” Sarah asked anxiously.

“No. But I did succeed in slicing open his throat before he got away.”

“Good.” Sarah added apologetically, “No offense, but I want the bastard for myself.”

“None taken.”

Jim led Sarah upstairs. Half way up she stopped and turned toward Drake. “Thanks again, Mister M.”

“Please, call me Drake.” But Sarah had already followed Jim upstairs.

Drake turned to Alison, who had slid into her chair. “What do you make of Sarah? Do you think she’s who she says she is?”

“The way Jim described how she dispatched those snuffies, she’s either damn good or damn lucky. Having second thoughts?”

“No. But better safe than sorry. Call Smith and have him arrange a nice hotel for Sarah. And have him run a background check on her. I don’t want any surprises.”

“You got it, Mister M.”

Drake shook his head and headed into his office to plan tomorrow night’s hunt.

PRESTON LEANED FORWARD in his chair, his arms resting on his desk, carefully judging Braddock’s reaction, which was harder than he had anticipated. Braddock watched the DVD compiled from the security camera footage of the vampire attack on the city morgue several weeks ago. The H.A.R.D. chief stared transfixed at the TV screen.

Braddock had stopped by Preston’s office earlier that morning to review the police files pertaining to every incident involving vampire attacks in Washington. Preston needed to know if Braddock would believe in the existence of the undead, like he had when faced with insurmountable evidence, or whether he would rationalize every incident and refuse to accept reality as Roach had done. The vampires were planning something spectacular for Washington, and Preston had to be certain he could count on Braddock as a potential ally, or if he would have to marginalize him.

As such, he had provided Braddock with every available file on the vampire threat. The initial report of a brawl in a biker bar near the Navy Yard that left the bar trashed, a dozen bikers requiring hospitalization, four piles of ash on the floor, and Drake and Alison as the only patrons not wounded. The analysis by Robert Dekker, the city’s chief forensics officer, noting that carbon dating of the ashes of one of the incinerated vampires indicated the body was three hundred years old. The testimony of Jason Clark, the eleven-year-old boy attacked at Union Station, who had described his assailant as a “monster.” Plus more than a score of eyewitness accounts from fellow officers and civilians who had encountered vampires and were lucky enough to survive. Preston could tell that none of these written accounts had swayed Braddock, who seemed to think they showed nothing more than a city gripped by mass hysteria.

So Preston had saved the best evidence for last. As Braddock watched the security camera footage, his demeanor changed from contempt to incredulity. But the evidence was there for Braddock to see, and he could not deny it. The footage showed the master and three vampires arriving at the morgue and kidnapping Miss Reynolds. Clearly visible was the master morphing into its vampiric form just before it tore out the throat of a Washington Standard photographer. Then Miss Monroe arrived and fought the vampires, driving a stake through each one’s heart, each of which spewed blood and disintegrated into ash. Finally, Miss Monroe and the master battled it out, the encounter ending when she gouged out its eyes and the master ran for safety. Then the screen went blank.

Braddock watched the TV screen, saying nothing for several seconds. He finally shook his head.

“This is bullshit, right?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Preston.” Braddock turned to face him. “This looks like a scene from a horror movie.”

“I’m not fucking with you,” Preston replied forcefully, asserting his authority. “I checked out the original security footage myself to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with. What you’re seeing is real.”

“But vampires? That’s impossible.”

“A month ago I would have agreed with you. But how do you explain that?” Preston reclined in his chair as he pointed to the DVD player.

Braddock did not answer right away. Preston could tell that Braddock was desperately trying to rationalize everything he had read and seen. Finally, he asked, “Why are you showing me this?”

“Because this is the threat your team was hired to deal with. Roach may have deluded himself that the city faces nothing more serious than a violent drug gang, but your team is going to be on the front line and you deserve to know the truth. It’s your choice. You can either accept what’s going on, no matter how fucking outlandish it sounds, and be fully prepared when you go into battle, or you can ignore the facts and get your team wiped out on the first day.”

Braddock sat upright in his chair, his normal bravado slowly returning. “It doesn’t matter what we face. My team has more than enough firepower to deal with any threat that’s out there.”

Preston chuckled derisively.

The veins of Braddock’s head bulged. “What’s so funny?”

“You still don’t get it. You think the city shelved out all the money on your gear so you could shoot it out with drug dealers? There’s a reason you’re equipped to go into combat.”

“I haven’t met an enemy yet that couldn’t be taken down by a few rounds from an assault rifle.”

“You think so?” Preston rummaged through the police reports on his desk until he found one in particular, and leaned forward to hand it to Braddock. “Read the last page of that report again, more thoroughly this time. It goes into detail about the vampire attack on the Metro that left a nurse and a soldier dead.”

“So?” Braddock took the report and opened it.

“Something happened in the last car, but we don’t know exactly what. There were no eyewitnesses or security camera footage. All we know is that Miss Monroe was being attacked by a master when Drake Matthews went to her defense. Afterwards, we found eighteen shell casings from a .40 caliber Glock. No spent rounds. No stray bullet holes in the Metro car. And no body. Whatever they were fighting absorbed eighteen rounds from a Glock and was still able to walk away.” Preston again leaned back into his chair. “Now, do you still feel like your team is well equipped to handle anything you might face out there?”

“Maybe not.” Braddock sighed. “Who is this Drake Matthews anyway?”

“Your competition.” Preston sneered. “Drake Matthews’ team is a private unit that has been successfully hunting vampires for months. Now it’s our turn to defend our city. As long as your team is well trained and prepared for what they’re going to face, you’ll be fine.”

“When do we start?”

“You’ll deploy the next time there’s a threat involving vampires. So you’re all on nightshift for the duration.”

Braddock nodded. “Copy that. I gave the rest of the team the day off to rest up, but we’ll be on call as of tonight.”

“Let me know if you need anything. Good hunting.”

Braddock stood, saluted, and left the office. But not with the same gusto as when he had first entered. Not that Preston could blame him. It was not easy altering your perception of reality. Preston doubted that the evidence completely convinced the H.A.R.D. chief, but at least he would not charge blindly into his first encounter. Braddock and his team may very well live long enough to save Washington from this threat.

If not, then Preston would have to convert Drake Matthews and his hunters to work for him.

JIM HAD SPENT the last two hours showing Sarah around the office, pointing out the various aspects of the building like a high school senior trying to impress the new girl in class. Which was not that far from the truth. Jim realized how he was behaving, and hated himself for it. Yet he could not help himself. It had been a long time since a girl had shown an interest in him, especially one as pretty as Sarah. Whether her interest in Jim and their operation was genuine or feigned, she seemed to hang on his every word.

He began with the building itself, describing how the townhouse had been converted into a fortress. Steel-reinforced door and window jams had been added to the building, along with iron plates in the walls, to deter the undead from gaining entrance. Extensive bay windows and a large skylight, each fitted with thick shatter-proof glass, had been installed to deter the vampires from trying to enter during the day. And if the undead did get in, they faced a structure-wide sprinkler system fed off of a one-thousand-gallon container of holy water located underneath the garage. Next he provided an overview of the operation and a background brief on what the hunters had been doing the past few months, in particular a detailed recounting of the battles they had fought against the vampires.

Finally, Jim showed her his pride and joy – the arsenal he had developed for battling the undead. He had started with his personal weapon, a crossbow equipped with a laser sight and fired special wooden bolts that doubled as stakes. The .40 caliber rounds for the team’s Glocks, with the hollow points filled with holy water. The 12-gauge shells filled with a combination of shotgun pellets and chunks of crystallized holy water. A wire saw with the metal strand sharpened to a fine sheen for decapitating vampires. And his personal favorite – Heaven’s Fire, homemade napalm filled with chunks of crystallized holy water.

Jim finished the tour and turned to Sarah to gauge her reaction. She picked up one of the Glocks, pulled back the chamber to make sure the firearm was not loaded, and then aimed down the length of the work area. Squeezing the trigger, she dry fired the Glock. “This is so cool.”

“We can get you one, if you want.”

“I wish. But I don’t have a license to carry.”

“You don’t need one.”

Sarah looked at Jim, her eyes expressing disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No. That’s the least of the things we can arrange. Are you interested?”

“I don’t know.” Sarah placed the Glock back onto the workbench. “I’m pretty comfortable with kukri knives. Besides, I’ve never heard of a firearm killing a vampire.”

“It won’t kill a snuffy, but it’ll slow him down enough for you to finish it off.”

“Why do you always refer to them as ‘snuffies’?”

Jim shrugged. “It’s slang that Drake and Alison use. The vampires are expendables, things created by the masters to be snuffed out and keep the masters safe.”

“And thus the term ‘snuffies’.”

Jim nodded.

“Interesting.” Sarah turned around to face Jim. She leaned back against the edge of the workbench and crossed her legs at the ankles. Her hair tilted slightly to one side, allowing a few of the blonde strands to fall across her face. “You know, you’ve told me everything about the building and your operation, but you left out the details about the most important part.”

“What’s that?”

“You.” She flipped the strands out of her face. “I want to know about you. How you got into this line of work, and why you do it.”

The question took Jim by surprise. He stumbled around for what to say. “Well, I was drafted into—”

“Don’t tell me now,” Sarah said in mock exasperation. “Tell me tonight, when you take me to dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Yeah.” Sarah pushed herself off of the workbench. “It’s the least you can do since I saved your life.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Surprise me. But it’s been a long time since I’ve had a good meal, so it better be good.” She walked over and kissed Jim on the cheek. “I’ll meet you back here at six?”

“Sure.” Jim felt lucky to get out that reply without stammering.

“Good. See you then.”

Sarah departed, giving Jim a flirtatious look over her shoulder as she descended the stairs. Jim watched her leave, surprised by what had just transpired, but very glad that it had.

RODRIGUEZ RESTED ON the sofa in front of the television and sighed contentedly. It had been a long time since he had felt this relaxed. Too long.

When Drake originally had given him the day off, Rodriguez had contemplated sleeping in late or running errands. The decision had been made for him when he woke up that morning. Despite being late December, the temperature was predicted to be in the high fifties. Rather than take Vanessa to school, he had opted to let her play hooky. Taking Dolly along, the three of them spent the day together, starting with a walk around Theodore Roosevelt Island, followed by lunch at Burger King and then home to play a game of Monopoly, which Rodriguez strategically lost. He had surprised Sophia by having supper ready when she got home from work. Granted, it was only chili mac, but it was good family fun food. While Sophia had cleaned the dishes, Rodriguez helped Vanessa get ready for bed and read her a chapter from Charlotte’s Web, with Dolly curled up on the end of the bed. For his efforts, he had received a goodnight hug from Vanessa and a goodnight lick from Dolly. Now, as he sat in front of the TV with Sophia, watching some God-awful reality show about good looking men dating a fat obnoxious woman for her money, he was thankful he had taken the day for himself.

He knew better than anyone the sacrifices he had asked his family to make so he could be a cop. Thankfully, children and pets are very forgiving, and spending the entire day with them both had wiped clean the “bad daddy” slate. Too bad he could not as easily do the same with Sophia.

Rodriguez glanced at his wife out of the corner of his eye. Things had not been good between them for several days, and he did not know why. Sophia knew the realities of being a cop’s wife, and up until recently had been very supportive of him, rarely complaining about his long hours and the time spent away from home. Starting three days ago, however, every time he had tried to get close to Sophia she had shut him out. Every time he had attempted to broach the subject, she quickly ended the conversation. He reasoned Sophia’s attitude resulted from his going back to the night shift. She reasonably expected that at this stage of his career she could depend on him being home more frequently, and so he assumed that his going back to nights probably angered her. Rodriguez had contemplated telling Sophia about his change of career, but each time common sense prevailed. If his working nights pissed her off, he could only guess at her reaction if he told her that every night he faced down certain death hunting the undead.

Instead, he tried one more time to spark some romance. Sliding across the sofa, Rodriguez moved up beside Sophia and attempted to put his arms around her. She stretched out her left arm, blocking him before he got too close.

“Not now. I’m tired.”

“I spent the day with Vanessa. I was hoping we could have some quality time together.”

“I said no.”

Rodriguez felt his chest tighten and his skin grow flushed. Rather than start an argument, he tried diplomacy. “Are you all right? You’ve been mad at me for several days now.”

Sophia folded her arms across her chest. She made no attempt to hide the anger in her voice. “Why am I the one in the wrong?”

“I didn’t say you were in the wrong.”

“You implied it.”

“Sorry.” Rodriguez slid back a foot, giving Sophia her space. “But if I’ve done something to upset you I want to know what it is.”

Silence.

“Honey, talk to me.”

“Don’t ‘honey’ me.” She tossed the remote in front of him and stood up. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll join you.”

“You stay down here and watch TV.” Sophia stormed out of the living room and headed upstairs.

Rodriguez considered following her, but thought better about it. That would only cause an argument, which neither of them needed right now. He would give her an hour or so to fall asleep, and then would quietly sneak into bed. With luck, she would be in a better mood tomorrow so they could talk about what bothered her. Though he doubted that would happen.

Grabbing the remote, he turned to Chiller Theater. A movie was playing about gothic vampires, with the main character complaining about how life was so hard for the undead and how humans just didn’t understand him. Yeah, right. He switched channels to Animal Planet.

JACK AKERS WAITED at a table in the back of Duffy’s Tavern, nursing along his beer while nervously watching the front door. Calm down, he admonished himself. If you keep acting this way you’ll draw attention to yourself. He did not need be questioned by the police. A good ole boy from northern Virginia, he had a few runs in with the law, mostly for being drunk in public and brawling, but no outstanding warrants. If the cops asked him, it made sense that he’d be here having a beer.

What he would not be able to explain was that he now served the Washington covens as a familiar, the human servant of the masters.

He had been recruited several weeks ago. Akers always cringed at the thought. Recruited implied that he had a choice. Walker had shown up at their service station outside of Leesburg to fill up on gas, and Aker and his buddies had given him shit for being a nigger. Dumbest fuckin’ move of his life. Walker had gutted his buddies quicker than if they were a pair of pigs, and then gave him the choice to serve as his familiar or be slaughtered like his friends. The choice had been easy. Since then he had been serving Walker and Chiang Shih. He had been the one who had planted a listening device on Drake Matthews, allowing him to overhear the conversation about the professor’s discovery of Ferrar’s memoirs. The attempt to steal the memoirs from the Freer Gallery before the hunters could get them had failed miserably, thankfully through no fault of his own.

That did not change the fact that when Walker had called two hours ago to arrange a meeting here at seven o’clock, it had unnerved Akers. At first he had thought Walker might be setting him up to be eliminated because he had exposed himself to the hunters at the Freer, and with his usefulness as a familiar at an end that made him expendable. He had felt a sense of relief, however, when Walker had suggested meeting here. If they were meeting in public, the chances were good Walker did not intend to kill him.

Akers looked at his watch. Walker was ten minutes late. The thought suddenly began to nag at him that maybe Walker was waiting for him outside, and would kill him when he left. Shit, man. Stop being so fucking paranoid. If the vampires had wanted to get rid of him, they would probably give him to one of the covens as a meal. Yet no amount of reasoning could alter the fact that, by agreeing to become Walker’s familiar, he had made a contract with evil and sooner or later would pay the price.

Finishing off his beer, Akers caught the waitress’ attention and raised the empty glass, indicating he wanted another.

The waitress had just brought him a refill when Akers noticed Walker enter the pub. He held a yellow plastic bag. The master looked around until he spotted his familiar and made his way over. He took the seat across from him.

“I thought you’d forgotten about me.” Even to Akers the joviality seemed forced.

“I needed to pick something up first.” Walker offered no apology. He placed the plastic bag in front of Akers.

“What’s this?”

“A video camera. You’ll need it for your next assignment.”

“And that is?”

Walker leaned forward so he could talk to Akers without the other patrons overhearing. “Chiang Shih wants you to follow the hunters and find out where they live.”

“But they’ve seen me. They know who I am.”

“It’s a risk we’re willing to take.”

Of course it is, thought Akers. It’s not your life hanging in the balance.

Walker seemed to sense his concern. “You don’t have to expose yourself to them. Just follow the hunters and find out where each one lives. The camera is so you can do this at a distance. We need to know the street addresses and apartment numbers. Take video of where they live and the surrounding areas. And if you can, use the zoom lens to videotape them punching in the access code to their office.”

“I think I can handle that.”

“Chiang Shih and I are confident that you can.”

Akers opened the bag, peered inside, and closed the top. “Why do you need this information?”

“You don’t need to know that yet. We’ll tell you when the time is right. Just trust me when I say this is important for our future plans.”

Akers nodded, not wanting to push the matter. “When do you need this by?”

“You have time. But don’t waste it. When it’s time to implement our plan, we might have to move quickly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll also need this.” Walker removed a set of car keys from his jacket pocket and placed them on the table in front of Akers. “There’s a BMW parked around the corner on 10th Street. You can use it to follow the hunters.”

Akers picked up the keys and looked at them. “Is it safe?”

“Do you mean is it stolen?”

“Yeah.”

“It is. But no one will miss it. It belonged to a drug dealer who tried to peddle his shit to the wrong person.” Walker leaned back in his chair. “Any questions?”

“No.”

“Good.” Walker started to rise, but then stopped. “You’re doing good work for us. Keep it up, and you’ll be justly rewarded.”

Akers could think of nothing to say, offering a half-hearted, “Thanks.”

Walker nodded, stood up, and exited the pub. Akers watched him leave, thankful to see him go. Walker had been promising that he would be justly rewarded for weeks. Though never specific about what the reward entailed, the very thought of it terrified Akers. If he was a braver man he would take the BMW and head west as far and fast as he could. But the fear of what Chiang Shih would do when she caught up with him prevented him from running. Instead, he would stick it out, carry out his orders, and pray to God that he lived through this.

Too bad he was an atheist.

Downing the rest of his beer, Akers picked up the plastic bag and the car keys, left enough money to cover his bill, and headed out.

TONIGHT HAD BEEN pleasantly unusual. Philips and Childers had taken Jessica to Nora’s Restaurant in Northwest Washington, a place much fancier than her usual dining fare. Since it was a business dinner, they had told her to order whatever she wanted, an offer she took full advantage of. Screw the diet, she reasoned. She would skip breakfast tomorrow. And probably lunch and dinner.

The reason for the special treatment, though, still nagged at her. Philips had said that the publishers were very pleased with her work, which thrilled her immensely. But to have one of them take her to dinner seemed a bit excessive. As much as she had wanted to know the reason behind this occasion, she had been too nervous to come out and ask directly. So far, Childers had not brought up the issue. Instead, their dinner conversation had touched on several topics – Jessica’s background, the state of journalism today, politics, even the latest books and movies. Childers had been charming, allowing Jessica to do the lion’s share of the talking, and steering the conversation to other topics when there were silent moments.

Not until they had finished dessert and were nursing along after-dinner drinks and coffee did Childers get down to business.

“Miss Reynolds, you’ve done some impressive work at The Standard, impressive enough that the senior publishers have noticed.”

Jessica felt herself blush. “Thank you.”

“We’ve been very pleased with the inside stories you’ve written on the wave of violence plaguing Washington, especially those related to Dick Matthews.”

“Drake Matthews,” corrected Philips.

“Whatever.” Childers returned his attention to Jessica. “That was good investigative reporting.”

“I do my best.” She would not admit that she had been able to get the inside story on Drake because they were sleeping together.

“We know you do. And we need that type of hard-edged, investigative reporting if we’re going to compete with the other newspapers in this town. So we’ve decided to offer you a new assignment where you can really make a name for yourself.”

Jessica’s interest suddenly piqued. “Go on.”

“How would you like to be senior correspondent at our bureau in Kabul?”

“Afghanistan?” Jessica nearly squealed.

Childers nodded. “The Post and The Times have been kicking our butts out there. We’re hoping that your journalistic skills will give us a competitive advantage.” He leaned back in his chair and rested his left arm on the table. “So, what do you say?”

What do I say? Ever since Jessica was a little girl writing a weekly newspaper about her family farm she had wanted to be another Marguerite Higgins or Christiane Amanpour reporting from a war zone. Now Childers handed Jessica her dream job on a silver platter. In three months she had gone from being a mediocre journalist to being offered a senior correspondent slot. Most journalists would kill for that type of luck. Her answer was simple.

“When do I leave?”

“That’s the attitude I like to see.” Childers smiled. “I want you to leave on the twenty third. That’ll get you into Kabul for Christmas.”

“What’s so special about Christmas?”

“The ambassador always hosts a small Christmas dinner for the local correspondents. It’s a great opportunity for them to get face time with him and forge a personal relationship. This year we were offered an invitation. I want to make sure you’re there for that dinner. Can you do it?”

“Not a problem. I have nothing keeping me here.” Jessica did not even think about Drake until several seconds after she gave Childers her answer, and felt guilty about that.

“Good. Drop by human resources tomorrow. They’ll help you fill out the paperwork, arrange your flight and book your accommodations, and make sure everything runs smoothly. Do you have a passport?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. That’ll make things easier.” Childers stood, followed by Philips and Jessica. “I have to get back to the office. Let me know if you run into any difficulties arranging this.”

“I will.”

“We’ll talk before you leave.” Childers offered his hand.

Jessica took his hand and shook it. “Thanks again.”

“This is a great opportunity, Miss Reynolds. Be sure to take full advantage of it.”

“I will.”

Childers stepped away from the table, followed by Philips who paused just long enough to say, “Congratulations. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

As she watched the two men leave, Jessica felt like pinching herself to make sure she was not dreaming. Senior correspondent in Kabul. With luck, by this time next year everyone who was anyone in Washington would know her name. Once that happened, she could write her own ticket. After all her years of hard work, things were finally starting to pay off.

The downside of taking this assignment would put a tremendous strain on her relationship with Drake. Not a problem, she reassured herself. She should be able to finesse Drake with no trouble.

MELINDA CROUCHED IN one corner of the classroom of the abandoned school, savoring the sounds of feeding. The gluttonous slurps as her coven drained their victim of blood mixed with their near erotic moans as they sated their thirst and the muffled groans of their prey, each guttural protest becoming softer as his life slowly ebbed away.

She relished the sounds of death. Humans did not have the ability to hear the death knells of a body as it died. Only vampires could due to their acute hearing, and what a symphony it made. She heard the blood flow slowing in his arteries and veins, the heart beating with less regularity and less force, and the organs as they failed. A deadly siren’s song welcoming another human to the ranks of the undead.

“That’s enough,” Melinda ordered. “Let him bleed out, otherwise he won’t come back as one of us.”

The vampires kept up their feeding.

“I said, that’s enough!”

Melinda sprung out of the corner and set upon the largest of the five vampires, a hulking black man weighing in at just under three hundred pounds. She grabbed him around the throat and tore him off the human, flinging him across the room. He plowed through a pile of rusted school desks and slammed into the chalkboard, cracking the slate surface. For a moment he leered at her, and then scampered into the corner. The point having been made so forcibly, the others moved away from the human. Five open wounds in his pale skin oozed blood. This one would be dead within an hour, and would join her coven by tomorrow night.

Melinda grinned, pleased at her work. She had been able to rebuild her coven more quickly than she had hoped after it had been wiped out during the attack on the Freer Gallery. On her first night after the event, she had found her abandoned school occupied by a homeless family. Having recently lost their home, they were new to the streets, and as such had been easy victims. The mother and fourteen-year-old daughter had watched helplessly as Melinda fed on and ripped out the father’s throat. The mother had barely put up a struggle when it was her turn to die. Melinda had to break the daughter’s leg to keep her from fleeing, but it would heal once she had been fed upon the next night by her parents. The remaining two vampires had been a pair of gangbangers she had found cruising the neighborhood looking for an empty house to rob. Convincing them to come back to the schoolhouse to party with her had been easy, although neither of them had expected what she had in store for them. She had delighted in their panicked screams as the vampire family drained their blood. Tonight’s meal had been a young addict who followed her to the school expecting to score some crack.

At this rate, she would have the coven repopulated in no time.

Not that Chiang Shih would give her credit. The bitch had never held her in high esteem, always seeing Melinda as the young girl whom William Castile had turned back in the seventeenth century. Melinda had spent more than four hundred years as a vampire preying on humans. Creating covens. Battling hunters. Surviving. Yet Chiang Shih never acknowledged any of that. The Mistress treated her other masters as equals, bestowing on them power and prestige, and taking many of them to her bed. Not Melinda, though. She treated her as nothing more than a child.

That would soon change. None of the other covens were as populated as Melinda’s. The vampires they originally had turned were wiped out during Chiang Shih’s ill-advised raid on the Freer Gallery. After that fiasco, each of the masters was expected to rebuild the covens from nothing, though in reality only she and Treja were doing so. After having been shot through the head, Antoinette had become little more than a dumb animal, being kept alive solely to be Chiang Shih’s rabid pit bull when the final battle came. And Walker, the Mistress’s lap dog, had not even established a coven in the weeks they had been in Washington. Instead, he had taken over control of Antoinette’s and commandeered the few vampires that had survived the Freer. Being Chiang Shih’s lover, she had let him get away with that.

Of course Chiang Shih would disapprove of the way Melinda built her coven. The Mistress’ orders were explicit to expand slowly so as not to attract unwanted attention from the humans, turning no more than one human per night. That was fine if she had to hunt her victims off the streets. But these humans practically came to her, and she would be damned if she would pass up the opportunity. No one would ever miss these pathetic creatures. Even if someone did report their absence, these people were the dregs of society, so no one would waste time searching for them.

When the time came to wage war against the humans, Melinda would have the only coven populated enough to exert dominion over Washington. Once they had achieved victory and the humans were their slaves, Melinda would remind Chiang Shih who had played a pivotal role in their conquest and would demand to be shown the respect denied her all these centuries.

As she schemed, a change occurred in the junkie’s body. His breathing, which had been slow and belabored, stopped. Arching his chest, the junkie took a final gasp. Melinda could hear his heart stop beating. As his final breath escaped from his lifeless lungs, the body slumped into its death pose. The blood flowing from his open wounds slowed to a trickle. By this time tomorrow, the junkie would be looking for a fix of blood.

Melinda turned to the others. “Leave him alone. I want him to turn.”

“But we’re still hungry,” protested the father.

“You’ll get more food tomorrow night.”

The father scowled.

“Just wait, my children.” Melinda tried to sound conciliatory. “I know you’re hungry, but this is the way the Mistress wants it. Soon enough you’ll have the entire city to feed on.”

“When?” asked the daughter.

“Soon,” Melinda said curtly. “Until then, you will stay in this room and wait for my return. And rest assured, if I find out that even one of you has left, you will all be severely punished.”

The coven was properly cowed, knowing Melinda meant it.

The young master left the basement classroom and made her way to the first floor. As she headed for the rear exit, a scared voice broke the silence.

“Sammy? Where are you, boy?”

Melinda ducked behind an open classroom door and peered down the corridor. A young boy about eleven years old stood by the rear exit, shining the beam of a flashlight up and down the corridor. He took a few tentative steps inside.

“Sammy, are you in here?”

Melinda was lucky tonight. Stepping out from behind the door, she approached the boy. “Hello.”

The boy backed up, nervously pointing the light on her. “Who are you?”

“It’s okay. I play in here all the time. I’m Melinda.”

“H-hi. I’m Billy.”

“Who’s Sammy?”

Billy quickly forgot his nervousness. “My dog. He ran away after dinner. I’ve been looking for him for hours.”

“The poor thing. What’s he look like?”

“He’s a beagle with tan ears and a big white spot on his belly.”

“I saw a beagle downstairs a little while ago. He might still be there.”

“Really?”

Melinda nodded. “If we hurry, we might be able to catch him.”

Billy seemed reluctant. “I don’t know.”

“Come on. I’ll go with you if you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.” He had a tremor in his voice.

“Then let’s go.”

Billy entered the schoolhouse and followed Melinda. She led him down into the basement and over to the classroom containing the coven. “You check out the rooms on this side and I’ll check the others.”

“Okay.” Billy opened the door and entered the classroom, calling out to Sammy.

The sound of scrambling feet and growls came from the classroom, followed by Billy yelling. Melinda watched the flashlight beam jerk around. His cries pierced the night, followed by the familiar slurping and moans of pain. The flashlight dropped to the floor and rolled in a semi-circle, the beam coming to rest on the five vampires kneeling around Billy.

Melinda stepped into the classroom.

The mother looked up. “Thank you.”

“Enjoy the feast. Just remember to let him die naturally so he can join us later.”

Children were among Melinda’s favorite victims. They were so innocent and naïve, so trusting of other children like her. And their blood was fresh and untainted.

Moving into the corridor, Melinda closed the door, made her way back upstairs, and paused by the rear exit to scan the area. Once certain no one was around, she raced across the schoolyard to the hole in the chain link fence, ducked through the opening, and disappeared into the night.

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND. 18 JUNE 1919. A brisk autumn wind blew off the Chesapeake Bay and through the city. Tiny whirlwinds picked up dead leaves and discarded newspapers, tossing them about wildly before depositing them in piles along the gutters. It was the only movement on Broadway Street. In fact, it was the only movement in all of northeast Baltimore. In a city of more than seven hundred thousand, someone usually roamed the streets. Not tonight, though. Most of the streets remained deserted. Not because of the late hour or the chill.

Baltimoreans stayed home because Spanish Influenza had infected their city.

For the locals, it seemed as if hell itself had taken up residence. In the month since influenza had first reached Maryland, tens of thousands of people across the state had contracted the disease. Baltimore alone reported seventy-five thousand cases, with nearly two thousand deaths already. Cemeteries stopped functioning as gravediggers failed to report to work. Funeral homes overflowed with the dead, with many of the deceased having to be stacked up outside like firewood. Baltimore ground to a halt as those still healthy stayed home to avoid infection, cowering against the sickness and death that awaited them outside.

For Melinda, the situation was ideal for hunting. No one roamed the streets, so she did not have to conceal her nocturnal movements. So many children had been orphaned by the pandemic that no one noticed if a little girl roamed around by herself. Death was so common no one questioned it when several corpses were discovered every night. More importantly, she had a constant supply of food just waiting for her any time she pleased.

Melinda turned off Broadway Street and climbed the stairs to John Hopkins Hospital. The Queen Anne façade with its spired cupola stared down at her. The facility once nurtured the sick, providing the latest in medical care. Now it merely provided solace to the infected. Thousands of infected. The staff at the hospital had filled six wards with influenza victims before finally closing its doors to the sick. The three doctors, three medical students, and six nurses in attendance had long since become overwhelmed. Melinda entered the building and followed the now familiar path to the hospital’s auditorium, which had been turned into a makeshift sick ward.

Opening the door to the auditorium, she stepped inside. One hundred fifty cots spread out in front of her in six rows of twenty-five. A sheet draped over a pole suspended above the center covered each cot, creating a makeshift isolation tent. Only a few overhead lights worked, plunging most of the ward in shadows. A single nurse and medical student tended to the sick, their movements lumbering from exhaustion. Around a handful of cots were family members who braved possible death to tend to loved ones. The medical staff and guests wore white surgical masks over their faces, a futile attempt at staving off infection. No one noticed Melinda as she quietly slipped into the room and made her way to the end of the last row on the left where no one attended to the sick.

Melinda went from station to station, searching for her next meal.

She found it three cots from the end. A young boy no more than ten years old lay under his tent. Melinda thought he was dead until his tiny head arched up due to a massive coughing fit that lasted several seconds. He fell back onto his pillow, panting for air, blood flowing from his nose. Sweat glistened on his brow, partly from his elevated temperature, partly from the nurse having wrapped him tightly in a blanket to break his fever. Melinda could sense that the boy would not live until morning.

Pushing aside one corner of the tent, she sat on the edge of the cot near the boy’s head, placing a hand on his cheek and stroking gently. It felt like fire against her cold skin. The boy moaned, stirred under the blanket, and opened his bloodshot eyes.

“Are you the nurse?” the boy gasped.

“No. I’m Melinda. What’s your name?”

“Johnny.” Another coughing fit wracked the boy. When he finished, again falling back on his pillow, Melinda could smell the foul odor of diarrhea.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m tired. And I have a headache.”

“Poor thing.” Melinda swiped her hand across Johnny’s forehead, wiping the sweat onto his pillow. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Make me better.”

“Are you sure?”

Johnny nodded, the movement of his head barely noticeable.

“It’ll hurt a little, but then the pain will be gone.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You’re a brave boy. Now close your eyes.”

Johnny obeyed. A look of contentment washed over his face.

Melinda looked up and down the row of cots. The nurse and medical student were tending to patients at the far end of the auditorium. Morphing into a vampire, she leaned over and plunged her fangs into Johnny’s neck. He inhaled sharply when she pierced his skin. The feverish blood tasted hot in her mouth, warming her stomach as she drank. In his weakened state, Johnny could only endure a few seconds of feeding. With a contented sigh, his body went limp. Melinda continued drinking until his blood stopped flowing. Returning to her human form, she used the back of her hand to wipe the blood from her lips.

Taking another look around to make sure no one had noticed, Melinda replaced the fold of the tent. She made her way back down the aisle, moving just fast enough so as not to draw attention to herself. Once through the door and back into the corridor, she melded into the shadows and waited to see if anyone followed. No one did. She had been doing this three times a night for the past week, and so far no one had even acknowledged her presence.

Heading for the stairwell, Melinda made her way to one of the wards on the upper floors to find another young victim.

THE TINY PAW patted Drake’s hand several times, an indication of Van Helsing’s displeasure that the petting had ended. He stared at the hunter with big brown eyes that asked what he did wrong to make the affection stop, eyes that filled Drake with more guilt than a hundred religious sermons. Despite having just petted Van Helsing for fifteen minutes straight, he switched his cigar from his right to his left, and took the lop ears between the thumb and forefinger. As Drake massaged, Van Helsing lowered his head onto Drake’s chest, closed his eyes, and began the gentle grinding of his teeth.

“All I am to you is a masseuse and household servant, aren’t I?”

Van Helsing wiggled his nose as if to say “Damn straight.”

Drake did not mind. Van Helsing deserved extra attention. It had been a long time since Drake had spent an entire night home alone with him, not since the battle at the Freer Gallery. He was not supposed to be home tonight, but Jessica canceled their date to have dinner with her publisher. With the unexpected free time, Drake had left the office early, stopped by the local Giant supermarket to pick up a deli sandwich for himself and some greens for Van Helsing, and then came home to spend some quality time with his friend. After dining in front of the TV together, Drake prepared himself a shot glass of Baker’s Bourbon and a Macanudo before sitting in the recliner by the patio to relax. Van Helsing had joined him, demanding to be petted, and the two had spent the last twenty minutes this way.

A knock on the front door interrupted the peacefulness. Van Helsing raised his ears horizontally.

“It’s okay, boy.”

Drake made no effort to answer since he did not expect anyone. He figured it was someone going door to door seeking a donation for a cause, and that they would go away. Drake figured wrong. The knock sounded again, this time more forcefully.

“Mr. Matthews, if you’re there, please answer. This is urgent.”

Drake’s red flag went up. He did not recognize the voice. He patted Van Helsing on the backside, and the rabbit jumped off his lap and scampered into the den. Drake stood and made his way down the foyer, pausing just long enough to take one of his Glocks from its holster on the end table. He cautiously approached the door.

“Mr. Matthews?” Knock, knock. “Are you there?”

“Just a minute.”

Drake peered through the security peephole. A middle-aged man stood in the hallway. He looked harmless enough, with graying hair and a closely-trimmed beard and mustache. Drake studied the man’s eyes. They were brown and expressive, but showed no indication of hostility. He wore a black dress shirt and an expensive black wool overcoat. A small gold crucifix hung from a gold chain around his neck.

“Who is it?” asked Drake.

“Mr. Matthews, it’s imperative that I talk to you.”

“Hang on.”

Drake unlatched the security chain and turned the deadbolt. He opened it a few inches and looked out, all the while keeping the Glock in his right hand and behind his back.

“I’m sorry to bother you at home, Mr. Matthews. But I have something urgent to discuss with you.”

“I only conduct business during office hours.”

“I dropped by your office earlier, but you weren’t there.”

“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

“Not really.” The intruder glanced up and down the hall to make certain no one could hear. “I know the location of one of the vampire lairs you’re looking for.”

6

DRAKE STOOD IN the opening of the doorway, astounded as much by the audacity of the stranger’s statement as by his admission to Drake about the existence of the undead.

“I didn’t catch your name,” said Drake.

“That’s because I didn’t give it,” the stranger replied with no malice or threat in his voice. Drake placed the accent as English. “I’m Andrew Cushing. Now, unless you plan on conducting our business in the hall where the entire building can hear, may I come in?”

With his left hand, Drake opened the door and moved aside. He still clutched the Glock in his right hand, his finger gently pressed against the trigger in case he needed to use it. Cushing stepped inside.

A heavy thump from the living room attracted their attention. The two men looked to the source. Van Helsing had ventured forth from his den. He stared at the stranger, his ears raised. With another thump of protest, Van Helsing turned and bolted back to the safety of the den.

“I see your pet doesn’t trust me either.” Cushing entered the apartment, then stopped and faced Drake. “I can assure you, Mr. Matthews, you don’t need that gun you have clutched behind your back.”

“I’m not sure about that yet.”

“I’m unarmed.” Cushing held open the folds of his overcoat to prove his point.

“Have a seat.” Drake slid the Glock between his trousers and the small of his back as he escorted Cushing into the living room. “Just so you understand, I’m keeping my firearm within easy reach.”

“Fair enough. Men in our line of work have to be prudent.”

“What is your line of work?”

“Like you, Mr. Matthews, I rid the world of the undead.”

“You’re the second person I’ve met today that hunts vampires.”

“That’s not surprising.” Cushing removed his overcoat and draped it over the back of the sofa before sitting down. “Washington has attracted an unusual number of masters these past few months, so naturally hunters would be attracted here.”

Drake’s hand felt for the Glock. “Do you know these other hunters?”

“I don’t follow their activities. Most are amateurs or glory seekers, and they don’t last very long. I’ve had to kill many a hunter who has been turned into one of the undead.”

“I take it you consider yourself a professional?”

“I come from a long line of vampire hunters. My family has been tracking them down for over five hundred years, ever since one of my ancestors was killed by the daywalker back in the fifteenth century.”

“You mean Chiang Shih?”

Cushing nodded.

“So tracking them down is in your blood, so to speak.”

Cushing smiled. “I think you Yanks call it a family tradition.”

“So I take it you’re here to kill Chiang Shih.”

“She’s my main target. But it bothers me that so many other masters are here in Washington. The last time so many were gathered in one location was in the Ukraine in 1932 when they tried to establish the first vampire nation. Thankfully, they failed. I’ve always feared they might try it again.”

“You think that’s the reason Chiang Shih and the others are here?”

“I’m certain of it.” Cushing sat forward on the sofa. “Have you ever heard of the Vampyrnomicon?”

Damn, Drake thought. This guy knew his vampire lore. “Yes.”

“Then you also know the legend that if the vampires get hold of that book, they can establish dominion over all mankind. According to rumors in the vampire community, the secret to the Vampyrnomicon’s location is somewhere in the Antonio Ferrar exhibit now at the Smithsonian, and the vampires are close to finding it.”

Drake chose his words carefully. “The Vampyrnomicon is close to being found, but not by the vampires.”

“Really?” Cushing’s surprise seemed genuine. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me more?”

“Sorry. I don’t know you well enough yet.”

“I respect that. You realize the implications, though, if the humans find it first?”

“We would have the way to defeat them permanently.”

Cushing leaned back in the sofa. “I’m impressed. You know your vampire history quite well.”

“Is that why you came to tell me about their nest?”

“I came to you because your team is the best. You have an impressive record of eliminating the undead. This lair could be quite large, and if I plan on destroying it I would like to have help.” Cushing paused. “And it’s not the lair, but one of their lairs.”

“You mean there’s several?”

“More than likely. In the Ukraine, each master created his own lair before attempting to take over. Since I’ve only seen one master associated with this lair, I have to assume there are others as yet undiscovered.”

Drake mentally cringed at the thought. His job had just gotten that much more difficult. He hated to ask the next question. “How many masters are in Washington?”

“Five, if you count Chiang Shih.”

Drake did the math. “We only ran into Chiang Shih and three other masters at the Freer.”

“Trust me. There’s one other you haven’t encountered yet.”

The bad news just keeps piling on. Why not go for broke. “Tell me about this nest you found.”

Cushing reached for his overcoat and removed two pieces of paper from one of the pockets, which he handed across to Drake. “It’s in an abandoned apartment building down near the Anacostia River. I marked it on this map. We can gain access through the sewers. I –”

“Why not through street level?” Drake asked suspiciously.

“There’s no access from the first or second floors. The police have barricaded every door and window to keep vagrants out. We could get in that way, but we’d make so much noise we’d alert the lair. I prefer the element of surprise.” Cushing pointed to the second piece of paper. “That’s a map of the sewer system for the neighborhood. I marked on it the location of the ladder that leads to the building’s basement. With luck, we can catch them while they’re resting.”

“How many vampires are in there?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t dare go in by myself.”

“Who’s the master of that nest?”

“I don’t know his name. He’s a tall, black man. He’s been Chiang Shih’s closest master for centuries and is an extremely formidable opponent.”

That was an understatement if Drake ever heard one. He flashed back to his battle with the master at the Freer, remembering how close he came to dying that night.

“So, are you with me?” asked Cushing.

Drake said nothing. He could not tell for certain if his paranoia was justified or merely the result of his ranks being swelled by two experienced vampire hunters in as many days.

Cushing seemed to sense his discomfort. “I understand your hesitation. If I was in your place, I wouldn’t trust me either. I’m entering that lair tomorrow at noon. I’d like your team by my side. Together, I think we can take it down with little difficulty. But if you decide to opt out, I’m going in anyways. It’s your choice, Mr. Matthews.”

“There’s just one thing we need to get clear.”

Cushing raised an eyebrow.

“If we’re going to be partners, you have to call me Drake.”

Cushing visibly relaxed. “Ah, yes. I keep on forgetting about American informalities. You have yourself a deal.”

“Good.” Drake stood and offered his hand. Cushing pushed himself off the sofa, reached out, and gave the hand a quick shake.

“Drop by the office around ten o’clock tomorrow and I’ll introduce you to the team and we’ll issue you some weapons.”

“If you don’t mind, meet me in the sewers beneath the building at noon. I have my own weapons. And I usually reconnoiter a lair for several hours before I go in, just so I feel comfortable with the surroundings.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Cushing stood and removed his overcoat from the back of the sofa, draping it over his right arm. Drake escorted him to the door and opened it. “I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.”

“Good night. And say goodbye to your friend.”

Cushing motioned toward the living room. Van Helsing had ventured out to check on the intruder. Upon catching sight of Cushing, he thumped again and darted back to his den.

After Cushing left, Drake made his way back to the living room, placing his Glock back on the end table and grabbing his cell phone. As he returned to the recliner, Van Helsing came out and hopped onto Drake’s lap. The rabbit twitched his nose and placed his chin on Drake’s lap, presenting himself for a pet.

“I know what you mean, boy. This has been one weird day.”

As Drake massaged Van Helsing’s ears, he placed the first of several calls he needed to make that evening.

AS HIS LAPTOP connected to the Internet, David Helms looked out the window of his room. Parliament Square spread out in front of his hotel, the many fountains and the assembly building opposite still brightly lit even at ten o’clock at night. Smith had done well. Not only had he arranged business class accommodations and set him up in the Bucharest Marriott, all on less than twenty-four hours’ notice, but he had also arranged a suite with a view.

The last time Helms visited Rumania had been in the winter of 1989 during the final days of the Ceausescu regime. That little tyrant had made the Soviets in Moscow seem like humanitarians. As the Rumanians rose up against their dictator, the security situation threatened to get real ugly real quick, so Helms and several of his Special Forces team had been covertly inserted into the U.S. Embassy. Thankfully, the regime had as few friends inside Rumania as he did around the world, and the entire affair had ended in Ceausescu being overthrown. He and his wife, Elena, had tried to escape the country but were hunted down, captured by the military, and executed by a firing squad. Their deaths brought an end to Communist rule in Rumania and gave a new word to the world’s political lexicon–Ceausescuization.

That had been two decades and a lifetime ago. Since then, Helms had left the Army after putting in his twenty, and had begun a new career providing personal security for corporate and political bigwigs. That was how he had met Smith, the alias used by his friend and benefactor. Helms had served as the bodyguard for Smith’s boss for nearly three years. After Smith and his boss had moved to Washington, they rewarded Helm’s loyalty by arranging for him to take a cushy job in one of the many contracting firms that served the U.S. Government. Of course, on occasion they still required his expertise for special projects, which he gladly undertook. Not only did it break up the monotony, but these ventures paid quite well.

Twenty hours ago, Smith had dropped by Helms’ office with a set of airline tickets and had asked if he could fly to Rumania to search for a rare, missing book called the Vampyrnomicon. His contact would be a Professor Reese from Salem State College, an expert on medieval history. All Helms had been told for certain was that the book was somewhere in Rumania. Other than that, the only clues to its location were a set of riddles from a diary over five hundred years old which noted that the book apparently had been sent to the personal confessor of the “champion of the faith,” who later reported that it was being watched over by “the son of the devil.” Not very helpful, but Smith had assured him that Reese was one of the best researchers around, and if anyone could decipher the clues it would be him.

Helms hoped so, otherwise he might be in Rumania for quite a while.

Sitting down at the desk, Helms opened up his e-mail and scanned through them. Nothing from Reese. That meant he would have to start his search cold. He reasoned he would most likely find the book in a church. The travel guide he had picked up at the airport listed two dozen major churches and monasteries in Bucharest alone, which did not include the scores of kisser known houses of worship.

Helms read through the rest of his e-mail, then powered down the laptop and headed off to bed. Jet lag had already started to set in. He would need to get a good night’s sleep because tomorrow promised to be a busy day.

“DOES ANYONE KNOW why Drake called us together?” Jim looked at the rest of the hunters seated around the boss’ office.

Alison, who occupied one of the two easy chairs, shook her head. “Drake called me last night and told me to be here at ten and be ready for a hunt.”

“I bet he knows what’s up.” Sarah gestured to Smith, who sat beside her on the sofa.

“I do.” Smith waited for everyone to look over at him expectantly. “I’m just not at liberty to say.”

Rodriguez leaned closer to Alison. “Isn’t it unusual to go hunting in daylight?”

“We’ve done it before if we want to make sure all the vampires are in the nest. That’s why we raided the Victorian row house during daylight.”

“Yeah,” snorted Jim. “And we all know how well that turned out.”

Before anyone could respond, they heard Drake enter the reception area. Seconds later, he breezed into his office, offering a hearty good morning to the others.

“You’re in a good mood this morning,” noted Alison.

“I have good reason to be.” Drake took a seat behind his desk. “Hope you all got a good night’s sleep. You’re gonna need it.”

“Does this mean you’re finally going to fill us in on what’s going on?” asked Jim.

“Of course. We’re going to flush out a nest that’s been set up in an abandoned eight-story apartment building near the Anacostia River.”

Four sets of eyes stared back at him in disbelief. After several seconds, Alison spoke first. “You’re not serious?”

“I am. Long story short, last night I was visited by another hunter named Andrew Cushing. He tracked one of the masters to the building. He thinks one of the nests have been set up there.”

“One of the nests?” asked Jim.

Drake nodded. “According to him, each master is developing its own.”

“We’re going to be busy.” The statement did not sound as humorous as Alison intended.

“Do we know anything about this Cushing?” asked Sarah.

Drake looked over at Smith, who shook his head and leaned forward on the sofa. “I ran a search on his name going back about twenty years. Since he’s British, I even checked with Interpol. There’s no record of an Andrew Cushing fitting the description that Drake gave me, or of anyone named Andrew Cushing being involved in activity that could be related to vampire hunting.”

“So this Cushing character just appeared out of nowhere and claimed to be a vampire hunter?” Rodriguez made no effort to hide his suspicion.

“According to the official records, yes.” Smith opened the fold of his suit jacket and pulled a folded set of papers from the inner pocket. “I was able to dig these up on short notice. They’re the floor plans for the apartment building. Sorry the print is so small, but I had to print them from my home computer.”

“Let me see them.” Alison held out her hand, and Smith passed the papers to her. Stepping over to Drake’s desk, she opened them and spread them out on top. The other hunters gathered around to examine them. The floor plan showed a building eight stories tall with twelve apartments per floor.

“How many vampires did Cushing say were in this nest?” asked Sarah.

“He doesn’t know.” Drake leaned back in his chair. “He didn’t want to go in there by himself.”

“But we’re going to follow him in without any clue as to what we’ll face?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s not my place to criticize, Mr. M,” said Sarah. “But don’t you think we’re walking into a death trap?”

“I agree with Sarah,” added Alison. “This sounds like an ambush.”

Drake smiled. “Normally I’d agree with you. Except that I spent two hours this morning checking out the exterior of the building. It doesn’t look like an ambush.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Sarah.

“Any other questions?” When no one responded, Drake stood up. “Okay. Gear up. We leave here at eleven so we can meet up with Cushing at noon. He’s going to scout the nest beforehand.”

“Or warn them,” Jim protested to Sarah on the way out.

Smith stayed behind as the others left, moving over to one of the easy chairs in front of the desk when the room had cleared. Drake placed a finger against his lips. He waited a few seconds until he heard Jim and Sarah walking around upstairs. “What did you find on Sarah?”

“Her story checks out. Her mother was brutally raped and murdered when she was young. The details in the police report track with what she told you. She has a black belt in hapkido, and I found a few photos of her at a krav maga competition. Plus, she has a half a dozen arrests for disturbing the peace, and one conviction with a suspended sentence for carrying kukri knives. There’s one thing she didn’t tell you, though.”

“What’s that?”

“According the psychologist who talked with her after the murder, Sarah blames herself for her mother’s death. She feels as if she should have done something to try and save her.”

“Sarah mentioned that to me.”

“But the psychologist says it’s a borderline obsession with her.”

“You think I should drop her from the team?

Smith shook his head. “Just be careful that you don’t become part of some Wagnerian death wish on her part.”

Drake made a mental note to be on the lookout for any suicidal or dangerous behavior on Sarah’s part.

“Do you want me to continue researching Cushing?” asked Smith.

“Don’t bother. If you haven’t found anything on him by now, you probably won’t. He seemed experienced enough not to get himself noticed. Besides, I’ll ask Reese if he’s ever seen Cushing mentioned in vampire or hunter literature.”

“Need anything else from me?”

“Just be on hand in case we need to be bailed out again.”

Smith chuckled, then stood and straightened his Savile Row suit. “If I don’t hear from you by sundown, I’ll send the police out to investigate.”

“If you haven’t heard from us by sundown, you’ll probably need to send a fleet of hearses.”

This time Smith laughed uncomfortably. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Deep down, Drake knew they would need a lot more than luck to make it through this afternoon.

LEAVING THE CAFETERIA with a tuna sandwich and two cans of diet soda, Reese followed the underground corridor leading from the Administration Building to the Sullivan Building, the location of the History Department. It was also the corridor that housed his office, the only office down here, in fact. Isolated and poorly lit, with the only sunlight coming from a small window mounted above ground high in the wall, most of the faculty considered this the worst office on the entire campus. Reese, on the other hand, preferred it. Despite its drawbacks, this office was larger than those of most of his colleagues, with the added advantage that being so isolated meant he suffered fewer disturbances.

Pushing open the office door, he stepped inside and kicked it shut behind him. He sat down, opened the plastic container holding his lunch, and had just taken the first bite when someone knocked.

“Come in,” he mumbled through a mouthful of tuna fish.

The door opened a few feet and Rebecca stuck her head inside. When she saw Reese eating, she became embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were having lunch. I can come back later.”

Reese waved her in, and quickly chewed and swallowed. “What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping I could use your Internet since it’s connected to the other university libraries.”

“No problem.” Reese gathered up his sandwich and soda, and moved over to the easy chair beside the desk. “Did you find something?”

“I think so.” Rebecca called up Reese’s Internet. As his account logged on, she returned to the conversation. “I found an obscure reference in a translation of an Arabic text in Constantinople. A local Muslim official discussed being visited by two Christians seeking permission to travel to Jerusalem. One represented the Protectors of the Treasures of Solomon’s Temple, the other represented the Order of the Dragon.”

Reese crinkled his eyebrows. “Why does that last one sound familiar?”

“It sounds like an old Bruce Lee movie, if you ask me.”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” she responded good-naturedly.

As Rebecca typed away on the keyboard, Reese continued his lunch and opened a copy of The Boston Globe. He skimmed the news stories, reading carefully only if a story filled in details not included in the evening news, and concentrated his attention on the editorial section. Halfway through one commentator’s tirade about the immigration debate, Rebecca blurted out, “Oh my God.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You have to read this.”

Reese put down his sandwich container and stood behind Rebecca. As he started to read, he was also astonished. Reaching over, he used the mouse to scroll down for the sourcing. “Where did you find this?”

“On the University of Madison’s webpage. This was posted by their leading East European scholar.”

“This is unbelievable.” Reese practically whispered the words. He read the posting a second time.

Order of the Dragon: Summary – [Translator’s Note: The Rumanian word drakul (“dragon”) also can be translated as “devil,” so the order, on occasion, has been referred to as the Order of the Devil.] Founded in 1387 by Holy Roman Emperor Sigismund in Luxemburg and his wife, Barbara von Cilli, the Order was established as a secret military and religious organization to protect Catholicism and the Catholic Church in Central Europe from heresy and the Balkans from Turkish incursions.

The Order’s most famous member even took the Order’s name as his own. Vlad Drakul [d. 1447] joined the Order in 1431; disposed of his half-brother to become Prince of Wallachia in 1437; and then spent the next decade walking a fine line between his allegiance to the Holy Roman Emperor and his political truce/alliance with the Turkish Sultan Murad II.

Vlad Drakul’s son, Vlad Tepes, assumed his father’s mantle as Prince of Wallachia and became a member of the Order in 1447. History knows Vlad Tepes as Vlad the Impaler, for his practice of impaling his enemies. He is also known as the Son of the Dragon (Drakulya).

“Vlad Drakul is the Son of the Devil.” Rebecca looked up at Reese. “Do you know what this means?”

“This means there’s a greater connection between Vlad and vampires than merely legend.” Reese picked up the telephone and started dialing. “It also means Helms now has something solid to base his search on.

7

THE HUNTERS MANEUVERED along the main lateral sewer line. It was eight feet wide and ten feet in height, and composed of red brick that formed an arch above their heads. A trough of raw sewerage four feet wide and just as deep ran down the center of the line, the liquid waste filling the space to just below the brim. The footpaths on either side were covered with a thin layer of slime that slowed their progress, almost as if they were walking on ice. Humidity hung heavy in the stagnant air, mixing with the stench of urine and shit.

Drake led the way. Per his order, each hunter kept a hand on their weapon, ready to engage in combat in case they walked into a trap.

Sarah lowered her flashlight to get a better look at the trough. A drowned sewer rat, nearly two feet in length from its nose to the end of its tail, flowed past, the carcass bouncing several times off the trough wall.

“Gross,” she gagged.

“You get used to it after a while.” Jim tried to sound casual.

“You’ve done this before?”

“Several times.”

“You guys are more extreme than I thought.”

Drake aimed his flashlight back at the couple. “Knock it off. The vampires are dead, not deaf.”

Sarah dropped back from Jim a few feet as they continued walking.

“Are you okay, Boss?” Alison asked quietly. “You seem jumpy.”

“I am.” His response sounded curt, though he did not intend it that way. “I don’t like not knowing what we’re getting ourselves into.”

“We could turn back.”

“Not if there’s a chance of wiping out one of the nests.” Drake turned to Alison and gave her a reassuring smile. “Just stay alert and be careful. That goes for all of you.”

After walking for three hundred feet, the hunters came to a branch line off to their left and turned down it. The trough of sewerage was smaller now, only two feet in diameter. They followed this line for another hundred feet before the trough descended underground. Beyond it, the sewer line became a storm drain. The damp cement made walking a lot easier. Better still, the humidity and odor dissipated.

The hunters soon reached the access ladder leading into the basement of the apartment building where the vampires were supposed to have established their nest. Cushing was nowhere in sight.

“What now?” asked Alison.

Drake shrugged.

Rodriguez aimed his flashlight down both ends of the sewer. “Do you think we’re being set up?”

“If we were, we’d know it by now.”

“What’s our next move?” asked Jim.

A beam of light shown down from overhead. Each of the hunters looked up, raising their weapons against the threat. The beam went dark, allowing them to see Cushing’s face centered in the opening.

“Come on up. It’s safe.”

Drake placed one foot on the ladder. He paused, turning to Alison. “If anything goes wrong, get the others out of here.”

“I’m not going to leave you.”

“We can’t afford to lose everyone. I can fend for myself. Understood?”

Alison nodded.

Drake unholstered one of his Glocks and held it in his right hand before continuing his climb. When he reached the top rung, Cushing offered him a gloved hand and helped Drake into the basement. “I thought you weren’t going to show.”

“It was slow going back there.” Drake panned his flashlight across the basement, half expecting to see a hoard of vampires ready to lunge. The room was empty except for several old, rusty furnaces.

Cushing’s eyes fell on the Glock in Drake’s right hand. “You still don’t trust me, do you?”

“Do you blame me?”

“No. Given our line of work, trust is not easy to come by.” Cushing shined his flashlight on the door against the opposite wall. He had lodged a four-foot length of lumber beneath the knob. “I got here early to check out the basement and make sure no vampires were down here. There’s nothing on this level. I blocked the door just in case any of them try to sneak up on us.”

“Good thinking.” Satisfied they were not walking into a trap, Drake reholstered his weapon. He leaned over the opening and motioned for the others to join him.

Five minutes later, the rest of the hunters stood around the basement, geared up with stakes and their weapon of choice. Drake removed one of his Glocks, holding it in his right hand while brandishing a stake in his left. Alison, Jim, and Rodriguez each carried a Remington 12-gauge shotgun with a laser scope, a bandolier of extra shells draped across their chest and shoulder, and burlap bags each of Heaven’s Fire. Sarah withdrew her kukri knifes. Cushing pulled a single stake from the pocket of his overcoat.

“That’s it?” asked Drake.

Cushing looked confused. “Why not? It’s served me well so far.”

“You got balls, I’ll give you that.” Drake pulled a pair of night vision goggles from his travel bag and passed them to Cushing. “You’ll want to use these.”

Cushing took the goggles. “What’s wrong with flashlights?”

“The vampires can see the beams and will be waiting for us. With these we have a better chance of sneaking up on them.”

“Do you always fight the undead with such hi-tech devices?”

“Pal, you ain’t seen nothing yet.” Drake patted Cushing on the shoulder. “You lead the way.”

The hunters shut off their flashlights and donned their night vision goggles. As they switched them on, the world around them morphed into various shades of green. Cushing stepped over to the exit, removed the piece of lumber, and opened the door. Drake’s finger tightened around the Glock’s trigger, ready for the attack he anticipated, but nothing happened. He followed Cushing into the hall, looking each way down its length. The only movement came from a lone mouse scurrying away.

“Any idea where the nest is?” whispered Drake.

Cushing shook his head. “I only checked out the basement.”

“Then let’s start at the top and work our way down. According to the map Smith gave me, there are two stairwells at either end of this hall.” Drake pointed to his left. “Alison, Jim, Sarah. You three take that stairwell and head up to the eighth floor. Alison and Sarah, go room from room, and if you find anything call us. Jim, you guard the stairwell and make sure nothing escapes or sneaks up behind you.”

He turned to the others. “We’ll take the other staircase. Cushing and I will flush out the rooms. Rodriguez, you watch the stairwell.”

“Then you’ll need this.” Rodriguez handed Drake the burlap bag.

“Thanks.” Drake slid it over his left shoulder. “Good hunting, people.”

Alison reached out and clasped Drake’s hand. “Be careful.”

He squeezed it gently. “Aren’t I always?”

Alison, Jim, and Rodriguez simultaneously answered, “No.”

The hunters split up and headed for their respective stairwells. Drake noticed the entry door had been removed from its hinges. Cautiously sticking his head through, he peered upstairs. In the green glow emitted by the goggles, he saw no movement except for a few bugs and a frightened rat that scampered across the floor. Drake slowly ascended, followed by Cushing and Rodriguez. He kept his back to the wall and his Glock pointed down, ready to raise and fire. Every few steps he glanced up to make certain nothing waited for them in the dark. At the door to each floor he paused and stared through the square pane, scanning the hall for activity. The first few times he saw nothing other than insects or the occasional rodent.

At the landing to the eighth floor, after looking through the pane to check out the hall, he turned to the others. “I don’t see any signs of vampires.”

“Maybe they abandoned the nest?” Rodriguez’ voice contained a tinge of hope.

Cushing shook his head. “The vampires are on one of these upper floors.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because we stopped seeing rats after we cleared the fourth floor.”

Drake had not realized it until Cushing brought it to his attention.

Alison’s hushed voice came over the two-way radio. “Are you there, Boss?”

Drake keyed his microphone. “What’s your position?”

“We’re on the eighth floor.”

“Same here.” He could not see them through the pane of glass because of the dogleg in the corridor. “You and Sarah start checking out the rooms on either side of the hall. We’ll meet in the middle.”

“Roger that.”

Drake turned to Cushing. “Ready?”

“As you Yanks say, ‘Let’s roll’.”

The two men exited the stairwell. Rodriguez positioned himself with his back against the door to keep it open so he could monitor both the stairs and the corridor.

Approaching the first apartment on the right, Drake noticed that it had no knob. Cushing slowly pushed open the door with his hand. Drake slid into the room and placed his back against the wall, his Glock raised into firing position. A spacious living room/dining room stretched in front of him. On the opposite wall stood twin sliding glass doors leading to the balcony, each boarded up tightly so sunlight could not filter in. The kitchenette stood off to the right, separated from the main room by a counter. Drake crept along the wall until he could see behind the counter. The wooden cupboards had been removed, along with the appliances. Nothing lurked in the shadows.

Cushing snapped his fingers, attracting Drake’s attention. The Brit pointed to the door opposite them leading to the bedroom, and moved in that direction, keeping close to the wall. Drake followed, crossing in front of the counter and passing by the sliding glass doors. When both men reached the bedroom, Drake looked around the corner. Again, the windows were boarded up, and the closet door had been removed. The apartment looked as though no one had been inside it in years.

Exiting the apartment, the two men continued the same procedure with every other unit on that floor until they met Alison and Sarah at the bend in the corridor.

“No luck?” whispered Drake.

Alison shook her head. “Looks like no one’s been up her since they shut up the place.”

“There’s still seven more floors to check out,” reminded Cushing.

The two groups split up, made their way back to their respective stairwells, and descended to the seventh floor to repeat the process.

THE HUNTERS FOUND the seventh floor as empty as the eighth. As Alison and Sarah returned to Jim, they could see the frustration on his face even in the dim light of their goggles.

“Nothing?” he asked.

“You sound disappointed,” chided Sarah.

“I just wish all hell would break loose so we can get this over with.”

As Alison descended to the next level, she silently sympathized with Jim. The suspense drove her nuts. With every room they checked out, she could feel her insides becoming wound tighter and tighter. Her nerves were on edge, so much so that every creak of the stairs threatened to send her into fight-or-flight mode. At the sixth floor landing she took a deep breath, held it for ten seconds, and slowly exhaled. The tightness in her chest barely subsided. She told herself that, when this was over, she would gladly join Drake in a couple of shots of bourbon.

Alison and Sarah stepped into the corridor. As Jim took up position by the open door, the two women crossed over to the apartment on their right and began the search.

They had checked out five apartments on that floor and were crossing the corridor to the sixth when Jim got his wish. As Alison stepped onto the stained carpet in the center of the corridor, she felt the floor beneath her give way. She tried to pull back, but forward momentum propelled her through the opening. As the carpet ripped beneath her, Alison plunged into a hole four feet in diameter. She reached out to grab onto something. Her fingers dug into the material, slowing her fall but not stopping it. Alison would have crashed through to the next floor if Sarah had not dropped her kukri knives, fallen to her knees, and grabbed Alison around each wrist.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sarah’s voice strained against the weight. “Come on. I’ll pull you up.”

“Just let me drop down to the next floor.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

Alison leaned her head back and looked down, immediately realizing why. A similar hole had been cut beneath this one through the next three floors.

Sarah leaned back, using her weight to lift Alison’s upper body above the rim of the hole. Before Alison could climb out, an angry snarl echoed down the hall from behind Sarah. Two vampires stood at the bend, a large male and a petite woman six feet behind him, both staring hungrily at the hunters. With a howl of defiance, the vampires set off toward them.

“Shit,” huffed Sarah.

Alison shifted her hands from Sarah’s arms over to the wood along the edge of the hole and grabbed on as best she could. Her grip was precarious, but it would have to do. Sarah felt the movement and looked down.

“Go ahead,” ordered Alison. “I’ll be fine.”

JIM STARED DOWN the stairwell when he heard Alison fall through the hole in the floor. He turned to see Sarah on her knees, trying to pull Alison to safety. He keyed his microphone.

“Boss, get down here fast. We need help.”

Without waiting for an answer, he headed down the hall to help.

GRABBING HER KUKRI knives from off the floor, Sarah spun around to face the approaching threat. The male vampire was only a few feet away. Stepping to one side, she swung her left arm in an arch. The blade cut through the vampire’s neck, slicing off its head. Its body sailed over the hole and tumbled onto the floor, blood staining the carpet. The disintegrating head fell onto Alison, the ash momentarily blotting out her night vision goggles.

Sarah did not have time to recover her stance when the second vampire slammed into her. Sarah fell on her back, with the vampire landing on her abdomen. The blow knocked the knife out of her left hand. She tried to raise her right to hack at the vampire, but it grabbed her wrist in both hands and slammed Sarah’s hand against the floor, pinning her. Sarah leaned to the right and placed her left hand on top of the vampire’s. The two were locked in a death grip for the weapon, but Sarah knew the vampire was stronger and would easily overpower her within seconds.

DANGLING FROM THE edge of the hole, Alison looked for a way to pull herself up so she could help Sarah. A pair of hands grasped her around the waist and pulled. She looked down, hoping to see Drake or Rodriguez. Instead, the image in the goggles showed a vampire, fangs bared and eyes blaring bright green in the dim light.

JIM RACED DOWN the corridor to help Sarah. He watched as the female vampire knocked her down and pinned her to the floor. Raising the shotgun, he took aim but could not get off a shot without riddling Sarah in the crossfire. Jim retreated to the stairwell, removing a bottle of Heaven’s Fire as he fell back.

He placed the bottle of Heaven’s Fire against the wall by the door. Raising the shotgun again, he aimed for a spot on the floor ten feet in front of Sarah and fired. The pellets and crystallized holy water slammed into the floor, half becoming imbedded in the wood, the other half ricocheting into the air. None of the blast hit Sarah, but it peppered the vampire’s face. It yelped, and then glared down the hall at its attacker.

“Come and get me, bitch.”

A sneer distorted the vampire’s horrendous features. It snarled, sprang off of Sarah, and raced down the hall toward Jim. Jim knelt down, depressed the blasting cap on top of the bottle, and ducked into the stairwell. He closed the door, bracing his shoulder against it and one foot against the railing. The vampire slammed into the door a second later, pushing it open a few inches. Jim felt the pain shoot down his shoulder and up his leg, but the vampire did not break through. It shoved a second time, slowly pushing the door open inch by inch. Every muscle in Jim’s body strained to hold it back.

That was when the bottle of Heaven’s Fire ignited.

A fireball erupted, shattering the small glass pane and engulfing the end of the corridor, including the female vampire. It thrashed around trying to put out the fire, but the detergent flakes caused the kerosene to adhere to its skin, making it impossible to extinguish. It bellowed as the flames charred off skin and seared through to muscles and tissue. The death cry became an agonized wail as fire consumed the vampire, turning it into a pile of burning embers.

Jim pulled off the goggles and looked through the windowless pane. Sarah was getting to her feet, with Drake and Cushing standing next to her.

Feeling intense heat by his feet, Jim looked down. Liquid fire flowed under the door, forming a burning puddle that lapped at his shoes. The flames were too intense for Jim to exit, so he made his way down to the next level.

DRAKE AND CUSHING had just entered the bedroom of the sixth apartment when Jim’s excited voice came across their radios.

“Boss, get down here fast. We need help.”

“Be right there.”

Drake bolted for the hall, with Cushing close behind him. They turned the bend just as the bottle of Heaven’s Fire ignited. Drake’s night vision goggles flared, the brilliance blinding him. He stopped running and ripped the goggles off his face, letting them drop to the ground. When he opened his eyes, bright blotches of light obscured his vision. He squinted against the discomfort. Slowly the light display on his irises dimmed, and when he again opened his eyes his vision had partially returned to normal.

Drake saw Sarah on her hands and knees, yelling into the hole in the floor. “Alison!”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know!” yelled Sarah. “She was hanging onto the edge when the snuffies attacked.”

Drake pulled his flashlight from off its belt loop and shone it down through the hole.

ALISON DANGLED ABOVE the hole in the floor. The vampire held her over the opening, clutching her waist and squeezing tightly. She felt the pressure building on her organs, and for a moment thought her insides might rupture. Not that she would live that long. The vampire pulled her close. Its jaw gaped open and its head twisted, aiming for her throat.

Alison intertwined her fingers, drove the cupped palms into the vampire’s chin, and locked her elbows. Tightening every muscle in her arms, she strained to hold the vampire at length, praying it would not just decide to let go and drop her into the hole. Its hunger was too great, and it wanted to feed.

When it could not pull her any closer, the vampire swung Alison to its right and rammed her back against the wall. Her leather overcoat cushioned most of the blow. The vampire rammed her into the wall several more times, each harder than the one before. Because of the constant pounding, her lungs could not draw in enough air. On the fifth blow, Alison had the wind completely knocked out of her. A few more seconds of this and her arms would give out.

“Hey, bloodsucker.”

Alison and the vampire turned their heads toward the voice. Jim stood a few feet down the corridor, the shotgun aimed low. His finger tightened around the trigger. A loud shot rang out, followed by a howl from the vampire. The round had torn through its ankle, tearing off its left foot and peppering its right leg with pellets and crystallized holy water. As it fell to the floor along the rim of the hole, it let go of Alison. She dropped and fell back against the wall.

Alison removed the burlap bag from her shoulder and crawled around behind the vampire. She wrapped the strap around its neck, pressed one of the detonator caps, and shoved the vampire over the edge. She rolled away from the hole.

Five seconds later, a small detonation ignited the twin bottles of Heaven’s Fire. A fireball mushroomed through the hole, and the opening glowed orange-red. Crawling over to the rim, Alison peered over the edge. Four floors below, a raging inferno burned. The vampire flayed round in the center of the flames, desperately tearing at its skin. Its flesh and muscles seared off, leaving a charred skeleton that crumbled into ash. She thought that this is what hell must look like.

“Are you two all right?” yelled Drake from the floor above.

“No thanks to you,” she chided him as she climbed to her feet.

“Is Sarah okay?” asked Jim.

Sarah poked her face over the rim and smiled. “I’m fine.”

“You two stay there,” ordered Drake. “We’ll be down in—”

They all heard it at the same time. The sound of feet racing up the stairwell. A moment later, Rodriguez came running down the corridor, fear evident in his voice. “Vampires are heading this way. I counted five of them.”

Two vampires flung open the door to the fifth floor and rushed into the hall as the rest continued on to the next floor. The larger of the two, a heavyset black man in a grey, gore-soaked t-shirt, stared at them. He weighed at least two-hundred pounds, mostly muscle, probably a body builder. From behind him stepped a teenager dressed in Goth attire. The male vampire’s face broke into a sneer. It roared a guttural battle cry, and the two vampires lunged toward the hunters.

Alison raced to the nearest apartment and shoved the door aside. Jim followed, pausing just long enough to depress the detonator gap on their last bottle of Heaven’s Fire and drop it in front of the entrance. As he dove into the apartment, Alison closed the door and slid the dead bolt into place. She jumped back just as the home-made napalm ignited. Smoke billowed from around the jamb.

Alison leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees as she took a deep breath. “That ought to hold them for a few minutes.”

Jim looked around the room. “But now we’re trapped like rats.”

“Then we’ll do what a trapped rat would do.”

“What’s that?”

“We’ll dig our way out.”

Alison took the shotgun from Jim and aimed it at the boarded-up sliding glass doors. She fired off five rounds. Each shot punched its way through the wood, creating dozens of holes that let in tiny shafts of sunlight. Rushing over, she battered the weakest board with the stock of the shotgun until it fractured down the middle. Alison grabbed its edge and started to yank it off.

“Come on. We don’t have much time.”

ON THE FLOOR above, the rest of the hunters found themselves between a rock and a hard place. Behind them, the fire Jim had set at the stairwell burned its way along the corridor, fueled by the dried wood inside the walls and floors. It provided more than enough light to see by, but it also blocked any chance of escape. In a few minutes, the hall would be an inferno.

Suddenly, three vampires exited the stairwell. Two males with long, scraggily hair and wearing old, tattered clothes, obviously homeless vagrants who had run afoul of the vampires, flanked either side of an Asian female in leather pants and a torn silk blouse. The female tilted its head slightly to the left, sizing up the situation. A shriveled tongue ran along its dead lips.

“It’s over, hunters. Give up now and we’ll kill you quickly.”

Drake reached under his leather jacket and withdrew his Glocks. “If you want us, come and get us.”

“Have it your way.”

The three vampires charged the hunters.

THE H.A.R.D. TEAM milled about the ready room. Having spent the morning training down at the range, the team had opted to stop by headquarters and grab lunch there rather than attempt to fight the city’s noon traffic. As O’Donnell cooked up two pounds of pasta, the others lounged around, watching the local news.

Their lunch plans were interrupted by the ringing of Braddock’s cell phone, the one dedicated to incoming calls from dispatch. The rest of the team watched warily as he slipped the cell phone out of its case on his utility belt and flipped it open.

“Braddock here.”

“How fast will it take you to assemble your team?” The dispatcher had a frazzled tone to her voice.

“We’re already at the station. What’s up?”

“We’re getting numerous calls from Southwest of something going down in an abandoned apartment building near South Capitol Street.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“No. Local residents report gunfire and explosions coming from inside the building, and thick smoke pouring out the windows. Emergency equipment and other police units have been dispatched, but Roach wants your team to enter the building with the fire crews.”

“Roger that.” Braddock snapped his fingers and pointed to the garage where Rolling Thunder was parked. The team understood and started to deploy. “What’s the address?”

“I’ll download it into the command vehicle’s computer.” He heard the clicking of a keyboard over the phone. “There. It’s waiting for you. Good luck.”

Braddock closed his cell phone and ran out after the rest of his team. Renee was already behind the driver’s seat, turning over the ignition and raising the electronic garage doors. The others were in back. Carissa was booting up the computers. Braddock jumped in, closing and securing the armored door behind him. A few seconds later, Rolling Thunder switched into gear and headed out of the garage. The driver’s computer and GPS navigation were on all the time, so she already had the street address and directions. The team donned their combat gear as the computers downloaded their files.

Kim Chon-wee stepped over to Braddock as he tightened the straps of his flak jacket. “What’s going on?”

“We’re getting reports of gunfire and explosions from an abandoned apartment building down near the Anacostia. There’s black smoke pouring from the building. We’re going to provide cover for the Fire Department.”

“What’ll we find inside?”

Braddock inserted a clip into his gun and pulled back the slide. “We won’t know until we get there.”

RODRIGUEZ WATCHED AS the vampires closed in for the kill. “Which ones do you want, Boss?”

“I’ll take the two on the ends, and you worry about the one in the middle.” Drake glanced at Cushing and Sarah. “You cover our asses if they make it this far.”

Sarah shifted her left leg forward and held the kukri knives out in front of her. “I don’t like these odds.”

Drake smiled. “Remember the Alamo, kid.”

Cushing grasped one stake in each hand and braced himself for combat. “Didn’t you Yanks lose at the Alamo?”

“Yeah.” Rodriguez pumped a round into the shotgun. “But us Mexicans kicked ass.”

Rodriguez raised the shotgun and squeezed the trigger. The round ripped into the Asian vampire’s abdomen, the buckshot tearing its way through flesh and tissue. The crystallized holy water caused the greatest damage. Imbedding themselves in the vampire’s organs and skin, they burned away at its insides. The vampire fell to its knees, clutching its abdomen against the searing agony that shot through its body. Rodriguez pumped the shotgun and fired three more times in rapid succession. Two rounds peppered the vampire around its chest and shoulders. It bellowed an anguished screams as the pain became unbearable. The last shot missed, ricocheting off the empty floor as the vampire jumped to its feet and raced into the nearest apartment on the left, clutching its chest and howling as it disappeared into the shadows.

Drake fired at the same time as Rodriguez, simultaneously emptying one clip each into the two homeless vampires. The hollow point rounds collapsed on impact, ripping through the vampires and leaving chunks of skin and gore on the wall behind them. As each round collapsed, it dumped holy water into the wounds. The liquid coursed through their internal organs, leaving trails that burned like magma. The larger of the two vampires tumbled to the ground and rolled around, snarling. Despite the hail of gunfire and its own wounds, the second vampire ran over, helped the first one to its feet, and led it to safety in the apartment off to their right.

“What now?” asked Cushing.

“We go after them.” Drake ejected the empty magazines from each Glock and reloaded.

“I’ll take the bitch,” said Sarah. “You three worry about the other two.”

Sarah raced off after the Asian vampire. The other hunters headed for the apartment the homeless vampires had entered.

INSIDE THE APARTMENT, Sarah scanned the living room, ready for an attack from the front or sides. She did not see the vampire clutching the ceiling above her. It dropped down behind Sarah and wrapped its right arm around her neck, closing off her windpipe.

“I’m going to enjoy ripping out—”

Sarah stepped forward with her right foot and shifted her body, knocking the vampire off balance. With her right hand, she slammed the knife into the vampire’s face. The blade cut through skin, slicing open its left forehead and eye and cracking the skull. Yelping, the vampire shoved Sarah away. Sarah spun around and regained her footing. The vampire stood in shock, a five-inch gash running down the left side of its face that exposed bone, its left eye ruptured and oozing fluid.

It lunged at Sarah. Sarah jumped forward, applying a roundhouse kick with her right leg that caught the vampire in its wounded abdomen. It doubled over. Grabbing the back of its head, Sarah smashed her knee into the vampire’s face and chest until it collapsed to the floor. The huntress stepped back and brought the knives out to her side. When the vampire looked up, Sarah swung her right hand in an arch. The blade sliced through the vampire’s neck, grazing its vertebrae. Blood spurted from the wound. Sarah took aim and swung her left hand, severing the vampire’s spine. Its head toppled onto the floor and rolled toward the kitchenette, disbelief still showing in its eyes. Its torso began disintegrating around the severed neck, spreading rapidly through the body until the vampire fell apart.

ACROSS THE HALL, the hunters raced into the apartment and formed a semi-circle by the front door. From the dim light provided by the flames in the hall, they saw one of the vampires dart into the bedroom.

“They’re in there.” Rodriguez raised the shotgun and set out after it.

From the kitchenette, the larger of the two vampires jumped over the counter and attacked Drake. Caught by surprise, he tried to get out of the way but did not move fast enough. The vampire collided with Drake and pushed him to the floor, landing on top of him. It raised a taloned hand, ready to rip out Drake’s throat.

Cushing stepped forward and backhanded the vampire across the face. A sickening crack filled the room as the front of its skull fractured and several teeth flew out of its mouth. The vampire flew off of Drake and sailed across the room, slamming into the counter. As the vampire scrambled back to its feet, Cushing raced across the living room and body checked it, pinning it against the counter. It snarled through a bloodied and battered face. Cushing drove the stake through the vampire’s heart. Blood geysered from the wound. A grimace distorted its features, followed by a look of contentment as the vampire crumbled into ash.

Rodriguez had stopped and turned toward Drake and Cushing, watching the battle as it played out. He did not see the second vampire double back. It grabbed Rodriguez from behind and dragged him into the bedroom, slamming the door behind them. The vampire spun Rodriguez around and threw him against the door with such force that the hunter dropped the shotgun. Placing one hand around Rodriguez’ neck, the vampire lifted him off the floor, sliding the hunter’s back along the wood. As the vampire drove its hand into his neck, Rodriguez felt his larynx and spine being crushed under the pressure.

On the other side of the door, Drake and Cushing shoved their weight against it, but could not budge it. Cushing dropped to the floor and peered under the space between the door and the carpet. “I see only one pair of feet. It’s holding Rodriguez up against the door.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

Drake aimed the twin Glocks at the bottom panel and fired, shifting the angle slightly with each pull of the trigger. The first five bullets punched through the wood and ricocheted harmlessly off the floor between the vampire’s legs. The sixth bullet slammed into its right ankle. As the hollow round collapsed, it tore a chunk out of the flesh and sent holy water seeping through the wound. When Drake heard the cry from the vampire, he aimed both Glocks at that point and emptied the two magazines. Four more bullets blasted the vampire’s right ankle, shearing off its foot. The vampire loosened its grip around Rodriguez’ throat enough for the hunter to catch his breath, but it still clutched his throat as it toppled over to the right, dragging Rodriguez along with it.

When Cushing heard the thud of bodies hitting the floor, he pushed against the door. It opened half way before banging into Rodriguez. It was enough. Cushing bolted into the room.

The vampire kept its hand around Rodriguez’ throat, tightening its grip and pushing him back onto the floor. Cushing circled around behind the vampire. Wrapping his left arm around the vampire’s neck, he cupped the V of his elbow against its throat and clutched his wrist in his right hand to tighten the vise. Cushing yanked the vampire off Rodriguez and dragged it across the bedroom floor, keeping it off balance.

Pulling a stake from its pouch inside his jacket, Drake raced over to Cushing. The vampire lashed out at Drake with its arms and legs, trying to ward off the deadly blow. Cushing closed his elbow even tighter around the vampire’s neck, causing it to reach up to loosen Cushing’s grip. When it did, Drake drove the stake into its heart.

The vampire thrashed around so violently Cushing could not maintain his grip, so he let it drop to the floor. Blood gushed from the wound, spraying around the room. Finally, the vampire rolled onto its back and arched its spine upward as if hoping to eject the stake, the blood shooting into the air in a macabre fountain of death. The disintegration spread rapidly, consuming the vampire until only the ashen outline of the creature with its arched spine hung in the air for a split second before collapsing onto the rug.

Drake rushed over to Rodriguez. The latter had pulled himself into an upright position and leaned against the wall, panting for air.

“Can you breathe?”

“I’ll be fine,” he gasped, coughing heavily. “Help me up.”

Drake and Cushing each offered Rodriguez a hand and lifted him to his feet. He took a step on his right leg and collapsed. Drake caught Rodriguez before he fell too far.

“Is your leg okay?”

Rodriguez nodded. “Just sprained. It happened when you pushed open the door.”

“Sorry,” said Cushing. “But at least you’re alive.”

“I know.” Rodriguez looked at Drake and Cushing. “Thanks for saving my life.”

The hunters heard Sarah calling to them from the living room. “Are you guys in here?”

Drake threw Rodriguez’ right arm over his shoulder and helped him into living room. “We’re coming.”

“You better hurry. The fire has consumed half the hall and the smoke’s getting heavy. We won’t be able to breathe much longer.”

Drake saw that Sarah was not exaggerating. The hall glowed a brilliant yellow-orange, and a dense layer of smoke extended down from the ceiling, growing thicker by the second. As they stepped into the hall, the heat became so intense it felt as though someone had opened the door to a blast furnace. Drake found it difficult to breath.

The hunters rushed down the hall toward the stairwell.

OUTSIDE THE FIFTH floor apartment where they had trapped the humans, the female Goth vampire danced around the flames. Every few seconds it would move toward the door, but immediately jump back due to the intensity of the fire.

“Why doesn’t it die down?” it whined.

“The humans used kerosene to light it.” The bodybuilder vampire inhaled through its nose, expanding its muscular chest. “Can’t you smell it?”

“I only smell their blood.” The Goth vampire looked again at the door and began dancing impatiently. On the floor above, gunfire erupted, accompanied by howls from other members of the coven. The bodybuilder looked up, contemplating whether to help, but decided otherwise. Four humans were no match for three vampires. Besides, fresh blood waited on the other side of that door. All they had to do was get to it.

Stepping over to the hole in the floor, the bodybuilder dug up one edge of the carpet and ripped it loose, tearing off a portion approximately six feet square.

“What are you doing?”

The bodybuilder flung the carpet in front of the door and used its foot to tamp out the flames, leaving only the door jamb on fire.

Pushing the bodybuilder aside, the Goth vampire pushed open the door and rushed into the apartment, directly into a wall of sunlight from the uncovered sliding glass doors. It fell to the floor, writhing as the sun seared off the top layer of flesh. Rolling onto its hand and knees, it reached for the exit. The bodybuilder stepped inside to help, but when the sunlight fell on it, it retreated.

Watching from out in the hall, the bodybuilder vampire cowered in the shadows as the Goth vampire went into its death throes. Sunlight had already burned off its flesh and now consumed the muscles. It began to crawl for the exit when the two humans ran out of the kitchenette. Grabbing the vampire by its arms, they dragged it across the floor to the sliding glass doors. It howled and whipped around. Once the sunlight reached its internal organs, the breakdown accelerated. The Goth vampire arched its back and screamed, its cry cut off when its body dissolved into ash.

With the Goth vampire dead, the humans stepped back against the window, silhouetted in the sunlight. The female held a stake in her right hand, while the male aimed a shotgun at the door.

The bodybuilder vampire shuddered. These humans were not like their normal prey. They must be the hunters Walker had talked about. No matter, it did not want to die. Its only chance of survival was to make it to the basement where it could escape through the sewers.

The bodybuilder vampire bolted for the stairwell.

ALISON AND JIM watched, dumbfounded but relieved when the large vampire abandoned the attack and ran down the hall.

Jim chuckled nervously. “Well, that’s a lucky break for us.”

“Now all we have to worry about is being burned alive.” Alison felt around for her two-way radio, only then realizing she had lost it in the melee. She tapped Jim on the arm. “Give me your radio. I want to call Drake.”

Jim unclipped his from his belt, handing it to Alison. She placed the headset over her ears and adjusted the volume. “Boss, are you there?”

An agonizing few seconds passed before Drake replied. “We’re fine. How are you and Jim?”

“We hurt like hell. But what else is new?”

“We’ve killed all the vampires, so head back to boiler room. We need to get out of here before this whole place goes up.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Boss.” Alison stepped into the hall, quickly moving through the jamb to avoid the flames. “We still have one snuffy left. He’s heading for the stairwell. I think he has the same idea you do.”

AS DRAKE AND the others entered the stairwell, the door on the floor below them burst open. A heavyset, muscular vampire rushed onto the landing and gazed up at the hunters. Rather than attack, it spun around and raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“We have to stop it before it reaches the sewer.” Drake turned to the others. “Cushing, you’re with me. Sarah, help Rodriguez.”

Rodriguez lifted his arm off Cushing’s shoulder and placed it on the railing. As Sarah slid in beside Rodriguez to help him down the stairs, Cushing ran off after Drake in pursuit of the last vampire.

ROLLING THUNDER PULLED up in front of the abandoned apartment building. As Braddock jumped out to assess the situation, he could tell that it was bad. The last two apartments on the sixth floor were engulfed in flames, the fire having burned through the boards covering the windows. In the next three apartments in line, smoke seeped through the boarded-up windows. It would not be long before those units ignited as well. Four fire engines and three squad cars were out front. The fire teams waited to go in, standing around as four District Police officers used a metal battering ram to bust open the boards blocking the main entrance.

A tall African-American dressed in full firefighter gear came over to Rolling Thunder as the H.A.R.D. team gathered around Braddock. The name JOHNSON was sewn onto his uniform breast pocket.

“It’s about time you got here. That place is about to go up like a candle.”

“You didn’t have to wait for us.”

“Yes I did. Orders from the chief.” He quickly scanned the team. “Are you ready?”

“Let’s rock.”

“Good. Grab some air tanks from my SUV before you go in. I don’t want my men wasting time carrying your sorry asses to safety.”

Two minutes later, the H.A.R.D. team was equipped with portable air tanks and stood with the firefighters by the main entrance. Braddock and Johnson went in first, with Kim and Renee behind them on the left and Carissa and O’Donnell on the right. The firefighters followed.

They passed through the lobby into the main corridor on the first floor. To the left, the hall ran for a hundred feet and ended at a stairwell, and to the right it ran for ten feet before bending to the left.

Johnson stopped and turned to his teams. He pointed down the hall to the stairwell. “Team Able, you go that way and head up to the sixth floor. The rest of us will—”

The stairwell door opened and a man stepped out. Six sets of flashlights fell on him. He was a huge son of a bitch and well-toned, but with a hideously deformed face. Even in the dim light, they could tell that his clothes were doused in blood. Braddock did not know who the blood came from, and he was not about to take any chances. He raised his TP9SF and aimed.

“This is the police. Put your hands above your head and walk towards me slowly.”

The man just looked at him and snarled.

“I said, put your hands above your head—”

With an animalistic growl, the man charged them.

“Stop or I’ll shoot. This is your only warning.”

The man continued to rush at them. Braddock fired a short burst of three rounds. Each 9mm bullet slammed into his chest. The man stumbled, but quickly righted himself and kept on charging. Braddock pulled the trigger again. Twelve more rounds punched their way through the man’s chest and abdomen, knocking him off his feet and propelling him back down the hall.

As Braddock changed magazines, he heard Kim beside him say, “What the fuck?”

Braddock looked up, not believing his eyes. Despite taking fifteen rounds to the chest, the man got back on his feet. At first Braddock thought he might be wearing body armor, but then he saw more than a dozen wounds to his chest, with blood flowing from each one. No one should have been able to survive such an assault. Not only had this guy survived, it seemed as though the barrage had barely fazed him. He arched his chest, snarled furiously, and charged again.

This time the entire H.A.R.D. team joined in, each member firing until they were out of ammunition. Seventy-five rounds ripped into the man, tearing him apart, yet he kept coming. O’Donnell aimed high, going for a head shot. His last five rounds found their target, blowing away the man’s face and pulverizing his skull, effectively beheading their attacker. The body continued forward, propelled by its own momentum. The H.A.R.D. team members stepped aside. As they watched, the body fell to the floor in front of them and exploded into a cloud of ash.

“Jesus Christ!” Johnson and the rest of his firefighters took several steps back. “What the fuck just happened?”

Braddock thought he knew, but was not stupid enough to say. Instead, he took control of the situation.

“Come on. The area’s clear. We’ll escort you to the sixth floor.”

“Screw that. We ain’t going if more things like that are in there.”

“What about the fire?”

“We’ll contain it from outside.” Johnson turned and ordered his men out. None of them needed to be told twice. Johnson looked over at Braddock. “Are you coming?”

The H.A.R.D. team followed the firefighters, with Braddock checking over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure no more of those things were following.

DRAKE AND CUSHING reached the first floor landing just as they heard a short burst of automatic weapons fire, followed by a longer burst. They stopped and looked through the door’s glass pane. The bodybuilder vampire lay on the floor in front of a squad of police armed with assault rifles. As they watched, the vampire got to its feet and charged. This time the entire squad fired. Drake and Cushing moved away from the door and crouched behind the walls, hoping to avoid any stray bullets. When the firing stopped, they looked through the window again in time to see the vampire disintegrate. A few seconds later, the police retreated from the building.

Drake leaned back against the wall. “That’s one snuffy we don’t have to worry about.”

“Do you think there’s any more in this coven?” asked Cushing.

“If there are, the fire will take care of them.”

Alison and the others turned the corner of the stairs and descended to the landing. “What was all the gunfire?”

“I’ll tell you later. Come on. We have to get back to the sewer.”

The hunters continued to the basement and made their way to the boiler room. Five minutes later, they were in the relative safety of the sewer and packing their gear. Drake grabbed Rodriguez’ arm. “Do you think you can make it back to the vehicles?”

Rodriguez forced a smile despite the ache in his ankle. “As long as you don’t order double time.”

“Deal.” He turned to Cushing. “You want a ride?”

“No thanks. My car is not far from here. Besides, I want to stay around for a bit in case any of those things are still left and try to escape.”

“Do you want one of us to stay with you?”

“No. I can handle them. But thank you.”

“Have it your way.”

“You’ll want these.” Cushing handed over the night vision goggles. Jim took them and slid them into his travel bag.

Drake held out his hand. “Good job back there.”

Cushing took the hand and gave it a firm shake. “Thanks. I’ll see you tonight at your office.”

As Cushing took up position a few feet from the entrance, Drake led his hunters through the sewers and back to their vehicles.

8

CLOSING THE DOOR behind him, David Helms entered his hotel room and tossed his backpack onto the freshly-made bed. He had left the curtains open, but by now night had settled over the city, plunging his room into shadows. Stepping over to the business desk, he switched on the table lamp and booted up his laptop. It would take a few minutes for everything to download, so he headed for the bathroom where he took a much-needed leak, stripped out of his clothes, and prepared a hot shower. Several minutes later, as he stepped into the stall and the pulsating water punched into his shoulder blades, he sighed in relief. He needed this shower because he had walked his ass off today.

Being his first full day in Bucharest, David had decided to visit the city’s churches right after an early breakfast. However, the task had been more daunting than it first seemed. Scores of churches and monasteries dotted the city. Since he could not possibly visit them all in one day, he had opted to prioritize his visits based on their prominence.

He had started with the Mihai Voda Church, one of the oldest in Bucharest dating back to 1591. Given its location on a hill overlooking the Dambovita River, and the fact that Michael the Brave had fortified the structure by surrounding it with a defensive wall, it seemed an ideal place to begin. Once at Mihai Voda, it had taken him nearly thirty minutes to find someone who spoke passable English, an altar boy who summoned one of the church elders and who also served as translator. The elder had never heard of the “son of the devil” or the Protectors of the Treasures of the Temple of Solomon. When questioned by the elder as to what he was looking for, David had explained he sought a religious artifact supposedly hidden in a Rumanian church in the late fifteenth century. The elder had apologetically informed David that even if the artifact had been located here, the original building had been gutted by fire in 1761 and later rebuilt, so it was doubtful anything survived. Besides, Mihai Voda had been extensively renovated in the mid-1980s, and to his knowledge no such artifact had been found at that time.

David had pretty much found the same story with all the places of worship he visited – Old Court Church, the oldest in Bucharest built in 1558; the Orthodox Cathedral on Patriarchal Hill, the seat of power of Orthodoxy in Rumania; Antim Monastery off of Unirii Square; Stavropoleas Church; and Domnita Balassa. At each one, none of the ecclesiastics he had spoken with had even heard of the “son of the devil” or the Protectors of the Temple of Solomon. In fact, the patriarch of Stavropoleas Church had suspiciously asked David if the Protectors had any affiliation with Masonic history, apparently fearing becoming involved in a vast conspiracy. In most cases, the original buildings had been restored at some point in their history following fires that had consumed the structure, making it likely that the artifact he sought may have been destroyed hundreds of years ago. Nor did it help that none of these churches were even built at the time Antonio Ferrar tried to hide the Vampyrnomicon.

Stepping out of the shower and drying himself off, David planned out his next move. Tomorrow he would visit the remaining churches in Bucharest and see if he had any better luck with them, though he doubted his chances for success. If that did not work, on Friday he would hit up the local library and make some inquiries, hoping one of the local researchers might be able to supply a clue.

Stepping back into the room and going over to the desk, David logged onto the Internet and accessed his e-mail account. While the files downloaded, he grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-bar and swigged down half in a single gulp. By the time he returned to his laptop, his e-mail was available. He would read them before going to dinner.

The fourth e-mail down was from Reese. The subject line read: “IM me when you get back. I’ll be in my office until midnight your time.”

Calling up the laptop’s instant messaging program, he typed up the message: “I’m here. What’s up?” and hit the send button. He started reading through the rest of his mail. Thirty seconds later the IM screen popped up.

Histprof85: Any luck?

David began typing.

Dshelms07: Nope. I hit six churches today and no one has heard of the “son of the devil” or the Protectors. I feel like I’m chasing ghosts.

Histprof85: Those ghosts may not be as elusive as you think. I have some more info for you.

Dshelms07: Go ahead.

Histprof85: We think the “son of the devil” actually refers to the “son of the dragon,” who is Vlad Tepes (aka Vlad the Impaler). Rebecca did some research on Vlad. His tomb is at Snagov Monastery. You might want to focus your search there.

Dshelms07: Where is Snagov Monastery?

Histprof85: On an island in the middle of Lake Snagov, just outside the town of the same name. About twenty-five km north of Bucharest.

Dshelms07: Do you know for certain that what I’m looking for is there?

Histprof85: No. But it’s the best clue we have so far. The book was sent to a priest who later told Ferrar that it was being protected by the “son of the devil.” Our research shows that Snagov Monastery is the only known church associated with Vlad.

Dshelms07: I guess that’s as good a place as any to start.

Histprof85: That’s what we thought. Rebecca is researching other sites in Rumania associated with Vlad. If Snagov Monastery doesn’t turn up anything, I’ll forward you the list of those other sites via e-mail.

Dshelsm07: Sounds good to me. Anything more on the Protectors?

Histprof85: Nothing definitive. We’ve found several references to them in other books from that era, so we know they did exist. Nothing more than that. Sorry.

Dshelms07: Don’t be. I have more to work on now than I did this morning. I’ll e-mail you tomorrow and let you know what I find.

Histprof85: Thanks. Good hunting. Bye.

David finished reading his e-mail and deleted those that did not require a response. He would answer the rest later. Right now, he needed something to eat. Then he would see the concierge about renting a car for tomorrow morning.

DRAKE PLOPPED INTO the chair behind his desk, sending it rolling toward the wall. Reaching out with his left hand, he grabbed the inner rim of the desk well, stopping his motion. With his legs, he walked the chair back to its original position. Even this minimal effort hurt. His legs ached from running up and down eight flights of stairs in the apartment building, and his back throbbed from being thrown to the floor by the snuffy that ambushed him. Every time he moved, his muscles sent physical protests to his brain. But it still beat being dead. Besides, a little pain was a small price to pay for destroying one of the nests with no losses to themselves.

That deserved a drink and a cigar.

Drake crossed over to the shelf that served as a bar. He poured himself a double shot of Baker’s Bourbon, then removed a Macanudo from his humidor, snipped off the end with a pair of clippers, lit a match, and held the flame to the tip and puffed until the tip glowed orange-red. Crossing back to his desk, he slid into the chair, this time much gentler than before. He lifted up the window pane six inches to let the smoke out, allowing the crisp December air to flow in. It felt good against his skin.

“I could use one of those.” Alison stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb.

“A cigar?”

“No. I don’t have any phallic-erotic tendencies.”

“Ah, but even Sigmund Freud said—”

“I know. ‘Sometimes a cigar is only a cigar.’ You tell me that all the time.” Alison motioned toward the tumbler. “I meant the drink.”

“Help yourself. You earned it.”

Alison crossed over to the shelf and poured herself a double shot of bourbon. Drake watched her as she prepared the drink. Alison still wore the leather pants and white shirt she always dressed in when hunting, only now covered in dirt and soot from the melee in the apartment building. Sweat matted down her hair, several strands sticking to her forehead. Despite the disheveled appearance, Alison was still one of the most beautiful women he had ever known.

Alison let out a heavy sigh as she plopped into one of the easy chairs opposite Drake’s desk. She drank down half the bourbon in one gulp, and sighed again, this time more contentedly. A rosy glow tinged her cheeks. “I needed that.”

“You did well this afternoon.”

“Yeah, right.” A tinge of self-loathing tainted her words. “If it wasn’t for Sarah and Jim, you’d be driving a stake through my heart right now.”

Drake forced that mental image from his mind. He did not even want to think about killing someone he loved who had been turned. He quickly changed the subject.

“Sarah is one hell of a hunter.”

“Tell me about it. You should have seen the way she took out the snuffy that attacked me in the hall.” Alison took a sip of bourbon. “I envy her skill and youth.”

“I’ll take brains and mature good looks any day of the week.”

Alison flipped him the finger. The grin on her face told him she took the kidding with good humor.

Drake puffed on the cigar and blew the smoke toward the open window. “I’m glad she’s on the team for the big showdown. Same goes for Cushing. He’s able to handle himself.”

“Rodriguez was telling me about how he took down those two snuffies that attacked you in the apartment.” Alison leaned forward in her chair, resting her arms on her knees. She stared into the glass, focusing on the amber liquid. “Doesn’t it seem strange to you that a man his age can throw around vampires like they were school kids?”

Drake had not thought about it before Alison brought it up. “I just assumed it was adrenaline.”

“Maybe.” Alison’s tone indicated she did not believe it. “Or maybe I’m just paranoid from being stressed. But doesn’t it seem coincidental that we get two new hunters joining us in as many days?”

“I’m an optimist. I just assumed we were getting lucky.” Drake took a swig of bourbon, followed by another puff on his cigar.

“You’re right.” Alison leaned back and swigged down the remainder of her bourbon. “I’m probably just paranoid.”

One thing Drake had learned spending so much time with Alison was to trust her intuition. It had kept them alive so far. He would not dismiss those concerns as easily as she had. “Well, we’ll know better tonight. Smith is dropping by after work. He says he found some information on Cushing.”

“Do you want me to stick around?”

“No need to. Go home and get a good night’s sleep.”

“Are you sure?”

Drake nodded. “Where are the others?”

Alison perked up a little, glad to have changed subjects. “I told Rodriguez to go home and rest. He got bruised pretty badly. He’s upstairs taking a shower first so he doesn’t scare his wife when he gets home. Jim and Sarah are upstairs checking out the equipment and sharing war stories from this afternoon.”

“Looks like he’s in love.”

“Who’s in love?” Jim stood in the doorway.

“The Boss is,” answered Alison. “With himself.”

Drake chuckled, glad to see the old Alison back. He turned his chair to face Jim. “Why don’t you and Sarah take the night off and go have some fun.”

“We will.” Jim answered without really meaning it. “But there’s something you have to see first.”

“What’s that?”

“Sarah and I were checking out the equipment from today’s hunt.” Jim entered the office and crossed over to the desk. He held a pair of night vision goggles, which he placed on the desk in front of Drake. “These are the goggles we gave Cushing to use inside the apartment building.”

“So?”

“Put them on.”

Drake lifted the goggles off his desk and placed them over his head. There was no image. He adjusted the controls, but still could not see anything. After several seconds without success, he pulled them off and put them back on the desk.

“Okay, so they were damaged in the fight. We can get more.”

“They weren’t damaged,” corrected Jim. “I forgot to put batteries in them before we left.”

“Are you sure?”

Jim nodded. “I double checked before I came to you. The cover to the battery compartment was secured, so the batteries didn’t fall out during the fight. The goggles didn’t work at all.”

Alison seemed uncertain of what Jim was implying. “So you’re saying that….”

“That Cushing maneuvered his way through that pitch dark apartment building without the aid of night vision goggles.”

Alison turned to Drake. “That’s strange.”

“‘Troubling’ is the word I’d use.” Drake finished off his bourbon. He did not like the implications of Jim’s discovery. It gave more credence to Alison’s intuition.

“So what do we do now?” asked Alison.

Drake took a long puff on his cigar as he contemplated his response. He swirled the smoke inside his mouth for several seconds before slowly blowing it out in a stream, watching the bluish-white eddies of smoke as they churned toward the ceiling. He did not need much time to consider his next move because there was really only one option open to them.

“It looks like tomorrow morning we’re going to be paying Cushing a visit.”

BRADDOCK FINISHED HIS walk, but still had no better an understanding of what had taken place at the abandoned apartment building. When the H.A.R.D. unit arrived back at police headquarters, he told his team to go ahead inside and store their gear. He knew his team would ask him questions about what they had witnessed back at the building, and he needed to be certain about how he would answer.

Those answers didn’t come easily, as it turned out. Sure, Preston had let him read the previous reports about similar incidents and showed him the security camera footage. Hell, Preston had all but told him what the evidence pointed to, that Washington’s crime emergencies were the result of a vampire infestation. Preston might be a lot of things, including a self-aggrandizing son of a bitch, but Braddock would never accuse him of being gullible or unrealistic. Despite the evidence, Braddock had not fully accepted the reality himself, clinging to the illusion that he was either dealing with a form of mass hysteria or that Preston was putting him through some type of elaborate yet twisted test of his abilities. Those illusions had been shattered this afternoon. Having seen it with his own eyes, Braddock had finally accepted the truth.

The question was, would his team reach the same conclusion?

Heading into the police station, Braddock made his way to their ready room, mentally preparing what he would say to his team. Roach stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the rest of the squad who were bombarding him with questions. The chief hesitated in his responses, his nervousness and uncertainty apparent. Preston stood off to the side, a smug look of satisfaction on his face, clearly enjoying his boss’ discomfort. Upon hearing him enter, Roach stepped away from the team and turned to Braddock.

“Lieutenant, tell your men to stand down.”

Braddock stepped forward. “What’s going on?”

“I came down to congratulate you and your team on the fine work you did this afternoon. Instead, your team decided to berate me over what happened.”

O’Donnell turned to Braddock. His words came fast and furious. “No one warned us what to expect. We almost got our asses kicked.”

“Stand down.” Braddock glared at O’Donnell, who took a step backward.

Roach tried to regain command of the situation. “I’m surprised you allow such insolence.”

Braddock was not about to let the chief off the hook that easily. “They have a right to be pissed, sir. We all do. You lied to us.”

Roach bristled. “I never lied to you.”

“You sent us into combat without telling us the truth about the enemy we faced, which is the same thing.”

“You’re out of line, lieutenant.”

“No, sir. I’m not.” Braddock stood directly in front of Roach, his arms folded across his chest. “Do you know the details about what happened today?”

“Yes. Johnson called me half an hour ago to say your team took down a particularly violent gang member that threatened the lives of his firemen.”

“Are those his words or yours?”

Roach did not answer.

“Did Johnson tell you that I emptied an entire magazine of 9mm rounds into that thing and only pissed it off?”

No response.

“Did he also tell you that it took the five of us emptying our weapons into that thing before we finally stopped it?”

Still no response.

“So how do you account for that?”

Silence followed the last question. When Roach finally answered, his voice trembled. “I told Johnson we’re dealing with gang members hyped up on drugs and outfitted with body armor who—”

“Bullshit. I once saw an armored SUV in Iraq take half as many 9mm hits as that thing in the apartment building took, and the SUV was inoperable. There is no body armor on earth that can withstand ninety rounds from an automatic weapon, and no human that can absorb that type of punishment.” Braddock stepped closer, shoving his face inches from Roach’s. “What exactly are we dealing with?”

“You are out of line.” Roach spoke each word slowly, his voice quivering in anger.

“Maybe so, sir. But I want answers. And I want them now.”

For ten seconds no one spoke. Braddock watched as the anger in Roach boiled. He thought the chief would take a swing at him, which he would have preferred. It would have been the first honest response Braddock had gotten from him. Instead, Roach turned and stormed out of the ready room, throwing out his last command almost as an afterthought.

“Lieutenant Braddock, you are suspended without pay for insubordination until further notice. Your team is to stand down until a decision is made whether their assistance is needed any longer. Preston, you’re with me.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Preston’s tone oozed with contempt.

Roach paused to stare at his executive officer, obviously smarting at this final act of betrayal. The chief continued walking, slamming open the ready room door on his way out. Fuck him, thought Braddock. The bastard had dug his own grave. Let Preston bury him in it.

Once Roach had left, Preston stepped over to Braddock. “Now you see what this city has had to contend with.”

Braddock would not give the little prick the satisfaction of a response.

“You and your team stay close and wait until I call you.”

“Sir, in case you hadn’t noticed, Roach just ordered us to stand down.”

“I know.” Preston’s spoke in the same condescending tone a parent would use on an obnoxious child. “This situation is going to come to a head sooner rather than later. When it does, I’m going to need your team to help put things back in order.”

Preston exited the ready room with a swaggering confidence. Braddock bristled. That little prick thought he had won him over. Which he had, Braddock hated to admit. He despised Preston, but the bastard was right. The H.A.R.D. team had been formed to protect Washington from the threat facing the city, which is what he and the others had taken an oath to accomplish. Since Roach was a coward, when the time came to deal with that threat, the team would have to follow Preston.

“What just happened?” asked Rebecca.

Braddock sighed. By not apprising his team of what they would face, he had let them down. Each of them had every right to walk, and he would not stop them if they did. Before he could ask them to follow him into battle again, he would have to regain their trust. No time to start like the present.

“Grab a seat. We have a lot to talk about.”

ROACH STORMED INTO his office suite, barking at his secretary to leave him alone when she tried to tell him the mayor had called.

“Sir, what about the mayor?”

“No one’s to bother me. Especially that bastard Preston. Is that clear enough for you?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Roach practically kicked open the door to his office. He knew he shouldn’t take out his anger on her, probably the only one right now he could rely on, but he didn’t really give a damn. He needed to be alone for a few minutes.

Going up to the window overlooking the front of the police station, Roach gazed out onto the street below. Several of his cops milled around, chatting amongst themselves. Probably about how bad a job he was doing as chief. Though no one said as much to his face, Roach knew the hall gossip centered on how he had mismanaged the continuing crime emergencies and how both the mayor and the police force were losing confidence in his ability to handle the situation.

The truth was he had lost control of the situation. Washington was experiencing the worst period of violence in its history, even worse than in the 1970s. Disappearances, murders, and random violent crimes were at record levels. Residents were afraid to go out at night, and local leaders demanded that the police do something to protect the city. And his response? To treat the emergency as normal and do nothing to rectify the situation. Preston had a much more realistic grasp of the crisis, and as a result had gained the trust of most of the force. Worse yet, while his police remained on the sidelines due to his own ineffectiveness, civilians like Drake Matthews took to the streets and actually did something about the violence. The talk at City Hall centered on replacing Roach with a chief who could be more effective, which would more than likely be Preston.

Roach had every reason to be furious. At himself. How could he blame anyone for losing confidence in him when he had lost confidence in his own abilities? Despite the rumors, he was not out of touch about what was going on in Washington. He had read the incident reports filed by the officers involved and by witnesses. The evidence was overwhelming for anyone willing to believe it. Gang members hyped up on drugs were not causing the violence in the city. Vampires were.

Roach gazed at his reflection in the window and averted his gaze. It had taken him months to finally say the word. By now it was too late. The vampire threat had practically taken over his city due to his inability to accept reality. Whether out of stubbornness, pride, or a false sense of duty, it no longer mattered. He had abrogated his responsibility, and in doing so had failed his city. Failed his force. And failed himself.

Time was running out, both for his city and his dignity. Roach knew the situation with the vampires would come to a head soon. He had always known that, but had refused to confront it. Now others were doing his job for him. While those like Drake Matthews were looking out for the city’s best interests, Preston only cared about advancing his own career. Roach would rather give the city over to the vampires than that son of a bitch.

At some point soon, the vampire threat would have to be dealt with. Whether Roach handled it, or Drake or Preston did, depended on his actions over the next few days. He had a lot of work to do to regain the trust of his men and lead the effort to save the city.

Roach just hoped he had enough time left to do all that.

SHIFTING HIS WEIGHT on the sofa so his right shoulder did not rest against the backrest, Rodriguez grimaced as the spasms ran up and down his back muscles. He involuntarily drew air in between his teeth, which only partially muffled his grunt. From her position in front of the sofa, Dolly raised her head, her jowls dripping saliva. When she saw her master was all right, she lowered her head back onto her paws and dozed off again. Rodriguez wished he could ignore the soreness that easily.

His back muscles were badly bruised from where the vampire pounded him into the door. Alison had given him a bottle of prescription pain killers, joking with him that she practically lived on the stuff. He could see why. Taking two of the pills when he got home decreased the constant throb in his muscles to little more than a dull ache. Hopefully they would be just as effective tomorrow morning when the real discomfort set in.

Rodriguez spent the next twenty minutes switching through the satellite channels trying to find something interesting to watch, and then he heard Sophia jingling her keys outside the front door. Dolly jerked her head up with a snort, happy that her mistress was home. The joyous homecoming was short lived. Rodriguez could tell by the way the front door slammed shut behind her that Sophia was in a foul mood. She stormed down the hall, flashing him a withering look as she passed by the living room.

“How was your day?” he asked.

Stony silence.

Rodriguez waited for his daughter, knowing she at least would greet him with a hug. Seconds passed, and no little girl raced into the living room.

“Hon, where’s Vanessa?”

“You should know. You were supposed to pick her up from school this afternoon.”

Shit. He had been so involved with the hunt he forgot he had promised to pick up Vanessa so Sophia would not miss an important meeting at work. That explained her being pissed off.

“I’m sorry. I got called into work for a special case and lost track of time.”

No answer.

“Where’s Vanessa now?”

Sophia’s heels clomped across the kitchen floor and through the dining room. “When you didn’t show to pick up your daughter, one of Vanessa’s friend’s mothers let her go home with them. I got a call in the middle of my meeting letting me know Vanessa was safe. She’s spending the night over her friend’s house.”

“Bummer. I was hoping to get a hug from her.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t forgotten about her you would have had a chance to see her.” Sophia tossed the bottle of pain killers onto his lap. “And what the hell are these for?”

Rodriguez thought up an answer quickly. “I slipped on the ice out in front of the police station and hurt my back.”

“Right.”

The tone in Sophia’s voice left little to doubt that she thought his answer was a crock of shit. For a moment, Rodriguez considered telling her the truth about what he did for a living, but quickly thought better of it. If she did not believe him now, she would never accept that he hunted vampires. Instead, he went back to watching television. He could feel Sophia glaring at him for several seconds before she stormed out of the living room toward the kitchen.

“What’s for dinner?” Rodriguez asked innocently.

“Whatever you make for yourself.” Sophia practically yelled her answer. She barged out of the kitchen, down the hall, and started up the stairs. She paused just long enough to lean over the railing and peer into the living room. “I need to get a good night sleep for an important meeting tomorrow, so you can stay down here tonight.”

Before Rodriguez could respond, Sophia stomped up the stairs. Ten seconds later, the bedroom door slammed shut. The noise disturbed Dolly, who raised her head again. Rodriguez reached over petted her.

“Looks like it’s you and me tonight, girl.”

Dolly placed her chin on Rodriguez’ leg. He scratched behind her ears, eliciting a contented whimper. Too bad he could not make Sophia as happy just as easily.

“THIS IS IT.” Jim opened the door to his apartment and held it in place with his left hand, allowing Sarah to enter.

She stepped in and looked around, whistling. “Man, this is all yours just because you hunt vampires?”

“It’s not as cushy as it sounds.” Jim closed the door and set the deadbolt. “It’s small compensation for nearly getting killed every time I go on a hunt.”

“I’ve been hunting vampires for years and never stayed in digs as nice as this.” Sarah breezed over to the balcony and looked out over Washington. “I usually stay in dumps so bad they charge hourly rates.”

Jim slipped off his coat and draped it over the back of the dining room chair. “If you’re interested in joining us, maybe Smith can set you up in an apartment like this.”

“I wish.”

“It might be arranged.” Jim stood in the middle of the floor, admiring Sarah. Though he would never admit it to Drake or the others, he desperately wanted Sarah to join the team. Not only because he thought she was hot, but he enjoyed having someone his own age he could relate to.

“We’ll see. I’m not even sure if the Boss likes me yet.”

“What’s not to like?”

Sarah turned from the window and sighed in playful frustration. “I’m talking about my fighting skills.”

“Again, what’s not to like. You kicked ass this afternoon.”

“Thanks.” Sarah smiled. “It’s just that a lot of times there’s no room for two Alpha females.”

“You mean Alison?”

Sarah nodded.

“Don’t worry about that. Alison’s not territorial in that way. I think she likes the idea of having someone else around who can help. She spends a lot of her time saving Drake’s ass.”

“Are Alison and Drake involved?”

“No.” Jim chuckled. “Alison’s in love with Drake. It’s why she followed him down to Washington and keeps fighting vampires. She’d go out with him in a second. The problem is the Boss. I don’t think he has a clue about how she feels.”

“Then you two have a lot in common.”

“Huh?”

Sarah arched her shoulders back, letting the leather jacket slip down her arms and drop to the floor. She unbuttoned the top three buttons of her blouse. “Do you really think I invited myself over just to see the view from your balcony?”

Jim was at a complete loss for words. He desperately wanted to say something cool, but managed only a pathetic, “I thought….”

“Stop thinking.” Sarah glided over to Jim. Placing her hand on his chest, she gently pushed him backwards. His legs bumped into the sofa, and he fell backwards into the cushions. Sarah climbed on top and straddled him. “Start feeling.”

Leaning forward, her blonde hair fell across Jim’s face. She gently cupped his cheeks in each hand, holding his head still as their lips met.

DRAKE LEANED BACK in his chair, his feet propped up on his desk, enjoying the quiet. Everyone else had gone home, Alison being the last to head out about twenty minutes ago. He stuck around waiting for Smith, who had mentioned he would swing by after work with some information on Cushing. So Drake took advantage of the time to take a nap.

He must have been more tired than he realized because the next thing he knew, a voice called to him from the outer office.

“Drake?”

“I’m in here,” Drake answered groggily. He glanced at the wall clock. Almost eight o’clock. He had been asleep for nearly thirty minutes.

Smith poked his head through the office door. “Are you okay?”

“Just tired.” Drake swung his feet off the desk and spun the chair to face forward. He was about to offer Smith a seat but yawned instead.

“You need to get some rest.” Smith slid into one of the easy chairs.

“I will. After this I want to go home, take a hot shower, and spend some time with Van Helsing.”

“Sounds like you guys had a bad day.”

“We’ve had worse. We took out one of the nests. Eight snuffies, by my count. I don’t think we missed any.”

“I agree. The fire department let the building burn itself out. I’d be surprised if anything survived.”

“Good.” Drake ran his thumb and forefinger across his eyes toward his nose, cleaning the sleep out of them. “I’ll tell you one thing. We would have been in tough shape if it wasn’t for Sarah and Cushing. The two of them accounted for half the snuffies we killed today.”

“Then you might not like what I have for you.”

“Bad news?”

“More like no news.” Smith reached into the interior pocket of his suit and pulled out a single piece of paper folded in thirds. “I had the FBI and Interpol conduct a name trace. Neither have any records of an Andrew Cushing, so he’s either lying about being a hunter, or he’s very good at keeping a low profile with the police.”

“Ah, a show off.”

“You could learn something from him,” Smith said with good humor. He passed the folded paper across the desk. “I tried doing a records search on Cushing to see what I could come up with, and I found over thirty Andrew Cushings, half within the ten years of the age range you gave me for him. But without a date of birth, social security number, or something else to go on, I’ve run into a dead end.”

“No problem. Cushing didn’t lead us into a trap or get us killed, so I’m not too concerned.” Drake contemplated telling Smith his concerns about the anomalies they witnessed during today’s hunt, but decided to wait until after he confronted Cushing.

Despite himself, Drake yawned a second time.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” asked Smith, genuinely concerned.

“I’m just exhausted. The combination of working nights and constant battles with the snuffies is wearing me down. Once this is over, I plan on taking a long trip where the only things I struggle with are beach chairs and beer bottles.”

Both men forced a laugh. Even if they refused to admit it openly, each man knew the chances of completely eradicating the vampire threat, and having them all live to see the end, were extraordinarily slim.

An awkward silence passed between the two. Finally, Smith asked, “Would you walk away from all this if you had the chance?”

“Without ever looking back. I’d like nothing better than to run away with Alison and live a normal life again.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“We’re at war. Like any soldier, I have a duty. I’ll see this through to the end.”

“The war’s end? Or yours?”

“Whichever comes first.”

The conversation had taken a morbid turn even for Drake and Smith.

Smith stood and straightened his suit. “I have to get going.”

“Thanks for dropping by.” Drake also stood and ushered Smith to the door. “If you get any more information on Cushing, let me know and I’ll do more research on him.”

“I will.”

The two men shook hands. Smith departed and hurried down the stairs. Drake waited until his friend reached the sidewalk, and then went back to the office to shut it down before heading home.

AKERS RAISED THE cup of coffee to his mouth and drank, grimacing at the bitter taste. The convenience store where he purchased it along with a pre-made sandwich brewed some of the worst coffee in Washington. When it got cold, it had the consistency of motor oil, but did not taste as good.

By now he should be used to it. He had been parked out in front of Drake’s office almost every night this week, waiting for one of the hunters to leave so he could follow them back to their apartment. For the most part, however, that had been a bust. He could not follow them the nights they worked because the hunters went straight home afterwards. The other nights were hit-and-miss. It had been easy to find out where the Latino cop lived because he drove to the office, so trailing him had been easy. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the others since they used public transit. Two nights ago he had attempted to follow the female hunter, but had lost her in the Metro. At this rate, it would take several weeks to find out where each of them lived, a prospect he felt certain Chiang Shih would not be happy about.

Lowering the driver’s window, he poured the remainder of the coffee into the gutter and tossed the empty cup into a plastic bag with the rest of the garbage. As Akers folded over the opening, out of the corner of his eye he detected someone leaving Drake’s office. It was the guy in the expensive suit. Akers had not seen him before tonight, so he doubted he was a hunter. Given the fancy clothes and the confident manner, Akers reasoned this guy must be the Mister Smith the hunters referred to, the middle man for their anonymous boss. Sweet Jesus, what a coup that would be if he could figure out who backed the hunters.

As Akers watched, Smith descended the stairs, looking up and down the street to make certain no one was watching him. Once on the sidewalk, he continued up 14th Street heading away from Pennsylvania Avenue. Two blocks down, he unlocked a black BMW, slid inside, and started the engine. Akers started his own car and pulled out of his parking space. He cruised down 14th Street, hoping he had judged the timing right. Sure enough, before he made it the two blocks, Smith pulled his BMW out of its parking space and drove off, with Akers three car lengths behind him.

AN ICY WIND cut across Lake Snagov, churning up small waves on the otherwise calm surface. Each gust slammed into the flank of the small rowboat, rocking the dilapidated vessel from side to side. The pilot seemed oblivious to it all, seated on the stern bench. A cigarette dangled from his mouth at an awkward angle, the inch-long cylinder of ash at its end somehow remaining intact in the wind. Maybe it was the heavy, oversized peacoat he wore draped over his gaunt frame, or the fact that he maintained a steady drumbeat of rowing, but the cold did not appear to bother him. Seated near the prow of the tiny boat, Helms wished he could be so blasé. The cold sliced into him despite his winter jacket. He could not figure out what bothered him more, the weather or the fear that the boat would capsize.

“No ice.” It was the first time that Nicolae, the pilot, had spoken since leaving shore.

“What?”

“You lucky. Not cold enough… for ice.” Nicolae said each phrase in rhythm with his rowing.

“That’s good.” Big deal, thought Helms. There’s no humidity in hell, but that still doesn’t make it pleasant.

Helms scrunched down on his bench and pulled the coat’s collar up around his neck. It had been a long, exasperating day. And it wasn’t even noon.

The concierge had his rental car waiting for him just after sunrise. The drive to Snagov, twenty-five kilometers north of Bucharest, had been uneventful, and he found the lake-side town to be quite pleasant. Mostly a tourist location, there was minimal traffic in the middle of winter, and he had found the lake front with little effort.

Finding a way across to Snagov Island, however, provided more of a challenge. All the tourist boats had been dry docked for the season. Several privately owned boats were moored to the docks, but no one wanted to brave the weather to schlep an American tourist out to the island. It took almost ninety minutes before he stumbled across Nicolae who agreed to make the journey out and wait on the island to bring him back for a hundred dollars. No one knew how to bilk a capitalist like a former communist. Helms had agreed, paying half up front and the remainder upon his return to dock. He did not want to be stranded out there overnight.

Nicolae approached from the south side. A line of pine trees obscured most of the island from view. Through the tops of the trees, Helms made out the light-blue domes of the church’s triple steeples. At least he would not have too far to walk once he reached shore.

Pulling parallel with the shoreline, Nicolae rowed for a hundred feet before steering toward a small alcove a dozen yards across and shaded by trees. A wooden pier jutted out twenty feet from shore. Nicolae maneuvered against it. Placing both oars in the boat, he reached out and grabbed a rope tied to one of the pilings, then pulled the boat alongside the pier. As he wrapped the rope around the stern hook with his left hand, with his right he tapped Helms on the shoulder and pointed toward another rope dangling from the next piling.

“Tie off, please.”

Helms wrapped the rope around the bow hook. Once secured, he gingerly rose and reached out for the dock. Thankfully, the pier and the gunwale were at the same level, so he had no difficulty in disembarking. Helms stretched his back and legs, snapping out the stiffness from the ride over, and slung his empty back pack over his shoulder.

“You be long?” asked Nicolae.

“I should be back soon. You’ll wait, right?”

“You pay me fifty?”

“You’ll get the rest of your money when I get back.”

“Then I wait.” Nicolae smiled. The few teeth that remained were yellow and stained. He settled down into the bottom of the boat, leaned back against the bench, pulled a cigarette from his peacoat pocket, and lit up.

Helms turned and headed down the pier. A dirt path ran up the bank and into the trees. Helms followed it, making his way inland. A peaceful silence enveloped the island, the only sounds coming from the occasional bird and his own feet crushing the patches of ice along the dirt path. He walked for only a few minutes before the path led him out of the trees and into a clearing.

Ahead of Helms was the church building. According to the guide book, this was not the original structure. The monastery had been founded as a small religious settlement that Vlad the Impaler had later turned into an island fortress. In the centuries following Vlad’s death, the monastery had been ransacked by invading Turks, leveled by a violent storm, converted into a prison, abandoned for almost thirty years and stripped clean by peasants, and suffered damage from two earthquakes. Though architecturally restored to its fifteenth century façade, the current building dated back slightly over a hundred years. If the Vampyrnomicon existed, the chances were slim it had survived the ravages of time.

Walking up to the heavy wooden door, Helms turned the knob and pushed. It was unlocked. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him and glanced around. Floor-mounted candelabras stood by each of the eight pillars; along with the candles surrounding the altar, they provided the only interior lighting. Several Persian-style rugs covered the stone floor. Not surprisingly, the chapel was empty.

Helms walked toward the opposite end. A large stone slab covered the floor in front of the nave. It looked newer than the surrounding floor, probably having been replaced after the previous slab was removed centuries earlier. The only indication of its significance came from an eight by ten photograph of a wood cutting in an old metal frame atop a table beside the slab. The photo depicted a man with a handlebar mustache, long flowing hair, and a hooked nose that offset a pair of eyes that, even in the wood cutting, accurately portrayed the evil that possessed the man’s soul. Helms stood in front of the grave of Vlad the Impaler.

He had reached a dead end in his search.

“Te uiti dupa mormantul lui Vlad?” asked a voice from behind him.

Helms had not heard anyone enter the chapel. He turned around. A man dressed in a modest brown wool frock approached. He pulled the hood back off his head, revealing close-cropped white hair complementing a pair of blue eyes. His features were plain yet rugged, as if he had seen more than his fair share of a hard life. He possessed an aura of serenity, and did not at all seem threatened by Helms’ sudden appearance.

“I’m sorry,” said Helms. “I don’t speak Rumanian.”

“Ah, you’re English.”

“American, actually.”

“Welcome to Snagov Monastery.” The man stopped a few feet in front of Helms and bowed slightly at the waist. His arms remained folded across his stomach, hidden by the long sleeves of the frock. “I’m Father Florescu, the abbot of this monastery.”

“Glad to meet you.”

Florescu joined Helms and stared at the slab. “We don’t get many tourists at this time of year.”

“I can see why. It’s not very comfortable here in December.”

“We forego comfort as part of our service to God,” said Florescu, merely stating a fact. He stepped behind Helms and moved over to the table, his eyes focused on the photograph. “So, you came all the way out here looking for Vlad’s tomb?”

“Not quite.” Helms paused. He tried to find a way to broach the subject without sounding like a nutjob. “I’m actually looking for an artifact that belonged to Vlad.”

“You’ve come to the wrong place. Everything relating to Vlad is in the National Museum in Bucharest.”

“I’m interested in the Vampyrnomicon. Cartea Strigoiler. The Book of the Undead.”

Helms watched Florescu for a reaction. Nothing altered the abbot’s facial expression, as if he had not heard him. However, his eyes switched from friendly and inviting to distrustful and cautious. A barely noticeable change, but enough to tell Helms he had struck a nerve.

“Sorry,” said Florescu, still smiling. “I’ve never heard of it.”

Helms assumed the abbot was lying, and gambled on the direct approach. “I thought all the Protectors of the Treasures of Solomon’s Temple knew about the Vampyrnomicon. Antonio Ferrar sent it to Rumania almost six hundred years ago to entrust it to the care of the Son of the Dragon.”

Florescu stared at Helms without saying a word. He tried to gauge the abbot’s reaction, but could not decipher his stoicism. For a moment, he thought Florescu might take a swing at him, or bolt for the door. Helms shifted his weight onto his right foot, preparing for any eventuality. Instead of fight or flight, Florescu stepped over to the altar, stood in front of the icon of Jesus, and crossed himself.

“Thank you, Heavenly Father, for bringing us the Chosen One.”

“Chosen One?”

“Yes.” Florescu turned to Helms and placed his hands on the man’s shoulders. “The one who will defeat the undead, Satan’s minions.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, father. I don’t fight the undead. I’m here on behalf of the one who does.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re still doing God’s work.” Rushing away from the nave, Florescu raced across the chapel toward the door. “Ever since Father Gogol took possession of the Vampyrnomicon from Antonio Ferrar, we always knew that one day someone would show up looking for it, either a hunter or one of the evil ones. Thankfully God sent you to us.”

“How do you know I’m not a familiar working for the undead?”

Florescu locked the door to the chapel. “The Vampyrnomicon is too important to the undead for them to entrust it to one of their familiars. If they knew where it was, they would have come looking for it themselves.”

“I take it the book is still safe?”

“Very much so.” Florescu rejoined Helms back at the nave. “When Father Gogol read it, he immediately realized its significance, and he swore that the book must be protected until the time arrived when someone like yourself came looking for it. But he also knew that Rumania was a very dangerous place, at that time a battleground between Muslim Turks and Christendom. So he needed a secure place to hide the Vampyrnomicon.”

“Where’s that?”

“Beneath Vlad’s tomb.” Florescu knelt down and felt around the edge of the slab until he found a circular plug of stone three inches in diameter. He removed it, exposing a metal latch. Florescu pulled on the latch, lifting the stone slab off the floor. Beneath it was a shallow, empty grave. “Or as Father Gogol told Antonio, under the protection of the Son of the Dragon.”

Helms held the slab for Florescu, balancing it on its edge. “What about the Protectors of the Treasures of Solomon’s Temple?”

“We’re the Protectors.” Florescu knelt down by the grave. “Or, more accurately, I’m the Protector. Myself and the nun assigned to this monastery.”

“Now you’ve lost me.”

“I’m sorry. I sometimes forget that outsiders do not know our history.” Florescu bent over as he talked, using his hands to shovel dirt out of the grave onto the stone floor of the chapel. Clods of dirt fell onto and soiled his frock, but the abbot seemed not to mind. He dug away, the frantic pace of his digging matched by the rapid recounting of history.

“Father Gogol read the Vampyrnomicon when it arrived at Snagov and immediately formed the Protectors. At that time, they were a large group, nearly a hundred princes, knights, and clerics. Their task was to travel Europe, Asia Minor, and the Middle East in search of a particular holy relic once enshrined in the Temple of Solomon and lost to Christendom when Jerusalem fell to the Muslims during the Crusades. The Protectors spent the next century and a half scouring two continents in search of that relic. When they found it, they brought it to the monastery. With their mission accomplished, most of the Protectors disbanded and continued with their lives, leaving only two of their number behind. An abbot, who would be the protector of the relic’s final resting place, and a nun who knows the entire story and can brief a successor if something unexpected happened to the abbot.” Florescu stopped his digging and looked up at Helms. “I am the current Protector.”

“What’s so special about this holy relic?” asked Helms.

“According to the Vampyrnomicon, it is what will finally defeat the vampires.”

“What is it?” Helms asked anxiously.

“You’ll see.” Florescu went back to digging.

Helms knew no amount of pestering would get an answer, so he switched his line of questioning. “What else does the Vampyrnomicon say?”

Florescu shrugged his shoulders in mid-dig. “No one knows. After Father Gogol read it, he spent several days praying in solitude. Afterwards, he made the rest of the Order swear that no one would ever read the book.”

“And no one ever snuck a peek to see what was in it?”

“If they did, they never mentioned it. I never looked at it. I take my vows seriously.”

“I meant no offense, Father.”

“None was taken.” Florescu only briefly glanced up from his digging to give Helms a reassuring nod. “All any of us knows about the book is what Father Gogol told us. He called it the ‘tome of Satan himself’ and declared it should not be read by mortal men. It supposedly provides the means for evil to triumph over mankind, or for mankind to defeat evil, depending on who possesses the book.”

“Is all that true?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” Florescu stood. Clumps of dirt fell from his frock back into the shallow grave. The abbot brushed off as much of the soil as he could. “Please help me with this door, my son. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Helms lowered the slab onto the stone floor and bent over the grave. Only then did he notice that Florescu’s digging had exposed a stone door approximately three feet square at the bottom of the grave. A large metal ring was attached to one edge. Helms grasped the ring and pulled. The door weighed at least fifty pounds. He lifted it open and let it rest against the edge of the stone floor, revealing a stone staircase that descended into a pitch black void.

“I’ll go first,” said Florescu. The abbot took one of the small candelabras off the altar and led the way. Helms followed.

The stairs were three feet wide with a ceiling just under five feet, forcing the two men to bend as they descended. The corridor was cold and damp, and contained a musty smell similar to the basement of an old house. Helms estimated they went down twenty feet before the stairs opened onto a corridor six feet high and twenty feet long. Another stone door sat in the wall at the end of the corridor.

“Father Gogol had this vault built to protect the Vampyrnomicon and the holy relic from looters. The only ones who have ever known about it have been himself and his successors. For nearly six centuries it has remained hidden.”

“Have you ever been down here?”

“Only once, when I first became the Protector. Each of us is allowed to see what it is we are protecting. Then we never come down here again.” Florescu stopped at the door and turned to Helms. “You are the first person outside of the Protectors to ever see this vault and its contents.”

Florescu reached under his frock and removed a large key attached to the end of a chain. He placed the key in a metal lock and turned. Helms heard the tumblers clicking. The abbot grasped the door knob in his wrinkled hand and pulled it open. He laid the candelabra on the floor, removed a single candle, and stepped into the room. Helms followed. Tipping the candle on its side, Florescu placed the flame onto the surface of a trough that jutted out of the wall three feet above the floor. A blue flame ignited. Helms watched as the flame raced along the trough, which ran along the interior walls of the vault. Within thirty seconds, the entire trough burned bright, illuminating the vault.

The vault was ten feet in diameter with a ten-foot-high ceiling. In the center was a waist-level stone alter draped in a purple, mildew-covered cloth with a gold cross embroidered onto the surface and trimmed with gold lace. On top of the cloth were two black stone boxes about the size of a safe deposit box. Each box was plain.

Helms stepped to the altar and paused, turning to Florescu. The abbot nodded for Helms to continue. Rubbing his palms together to wipe off the nervous sweat, Helms reached for the stone box on the left and lifted the lid. A wool cloth filled the inside. He folded out the two ends of the cloth.

Nestled within the cloth sat the Vampyrnomicon. The book appeared to be centuries old. It had a thick cover wrapped in a red leather binding. The pages inside were made of thick paper, so swollen and warped with age that the book did not close tightly. Helms lifted it out of the stone box. The leather felt awkward.

Florescu stepped up beside Helms. “It’s bound in human skin.”

Helms suppressed a shudder. He placed the Vampyrnomicon back in the box and stepped over to the next one. Removing the lid, he saw another wool cloth. Unfolding the ends, he exposed three wooden stakes.

“What are these?”

“According to the Vampyrnomicon, it’s the only thing that can kill the master vampire. A stake cut from the cross on which Our Lord Jesus was crucified. It is to be driven through the demon’s heart.”

Helms picked up one of the stakes, admiring its historical value. “Why are there three of them?”

“When the Protectors were traveling through Europe, they found hundreds of churches that claimed to own a piece of the Christ cross. The Protectors were able to discredit most of those claims, except for those of the three churches where these relics came from. To be certain of killing the master vampire, all three cross sections were brought back to Snagov and sharpened into stakes.”

“If everything I hear about this master vampire is true, whoever takes her on will not get more than one chance to kill her.”

“Then we must pray that God grants him success with the first stake he tries.”

“Yeah.” Helms placed the stake back in its box and folded the cloth over them. “Can I take these with me?”

“Of course.”

Sliding the empty backpack off his shoulder, Helms placed it on the altar between the two stone boxes. Removing the Vampyrnomicon, still wrapped in its wool cloth, he lifted the backpack’s rim and slid the book inside. He did the same for the stakes. Zipping up the backpack and slinging it over his shoulder, he turned to Florescu.

“I’m ready.”

Florescu nodded his ascent and led the way out of the vault, pausing to pick up the candelabra and to close and lock the door behind Helms. A minute later, they exited the stairwell.

Helms stood by the shallow grave, looking into the void. “Can I help you pick up?”

“Thank you, but no.”

Helms nodded his approval and started to leave. When he reached the door, Florescu called out to him. “Go with God, my son. And remember, you are doing His work.”

Replying with a grin and a half salute, Helms unlocked the door and exited. He made his way along the dirt path back to the pier. Nicolae waited for him in the rowboat, still reclined against the bench with a cigarette dangling from his lips. When Helms approached, Nicolae grabbed the pier, holding the rowboat steady as Helms climbed in. Helms dropped onto the front bench, placing the backpack between his feet.

Nicolae unlashed the rowboat and pushed it away from the pier. He placed the oars back in their hooks and began rowing back toward Snagov.

“You find what you look for?”

Helms looked over his shoulder at the triple steeples of the monastery, and then back to Nicolae. “More so then you can imagine.”

9

DRAKE PULLED THE Dodge Ram into an empty parking space on 14th Street and shut off the engine. He climbed out, followed by Alison and Rodriguez. The three gathered around the bed of the pick-up. Drake opened a duffel bag and handed a single stake to each of the hunters.

“What are we doing here?” asked Rodriguez as he slid the stake under his jacket and lodged it between the small of his back and his trousers.

Drake motioned with his head toward the Crown Plaza Hotel farther down the street. “Smith checked the hotel registries for Washington. This is where Cushing is staying. Alison and I want to talk to him.”

“But why armed? It’s the middle of the day.” Rodriguez straightened out the flaps of his jacket. “Are you expecting to run into snuffies in the hotel?”

“Let’s hope not. But better safe than sorry.” Drake folded the empty duffel bag and tossed it back into the bed. “Ready?”

The others nodded. Leading the way, Drake headed down 14th Street and around the corner. Entering the lobby, they walked past the reception desk and straight to the bank of elevators, behaving as if they belonged. No one noticed or cared as they waited for an elevator. When one finally arrived, the three hunters stepped to one side to let its passengers off, and then quickly boarded the empty car. Drake pushed the “7” button.

“Is he expecting us?” asked Rodriguez.

Drake shook his head.

“How do you know he’ll be in?”

“Trust us,” replied Alison. “He’ll be there.”

The elevator stopped on the seventh floor, announcing its arrival with a loud ping. As the doors slid open, Drake stepped out and turned into the corridor.

“Which room?” asked Alison.

“734.”

The mounted floor plan indicated Room 734 was at the far end of the corridor to the left. Drake led the way.

Three doors down from Room 734, a maid service cart was parked along one wall, the door to the room opposite it pushed open. The whirr of a vacuum cleaner spilled out of the room. Drake slowed as he approached and examined the cart. As he hoped, the maid had left the lanyard carrying her master key card draped over the cart’s handle so it would not get in the way while she cleaned. The maid had her back to the hall, concentrating on vacuuming. Drake reached out and pulled the lanyard off the handle.

Rodriguez leaned forward toward Drake. “The hotel security cameras will have recorded that.”

“But they’ll only check them if she reports the card key missing. I’m just borrowing it.”

Once in front of Room 734, Drake inserted the card key into the door lock. The green light lit up, accompanied by a metallic click. He pushed the door open an inch and removed the card. Handing it to Rodriguez, he pointed back to the cart. Rodriguez rushed down the hall and peered into the room. The maid was still vacuuming, so he draped the lanyard onto the cart’s handle and jogged back to Room 734.

Drake had already entered the room. Using the light from the hall, Alison crossed over to the living area and found the switch for the table-mounted lamp. Drake waited for Rodriguez to join them, and then slowly closed the door so it made no noise. As he secured the deadbolt, Alison switched on the lamp.

They stood in a combination living room and kitchenette. A closed door opposite them led to the bedroom. Drake took a deep breath and spoke to Alison in a whisper. “Ready?”

“No,” replied Alison.

“Ready for what?” asked Rodriguez in a hushed tone.

Alison raised a finger to her lips. “Just stay close and follow my lead.”

The hunters crossed over to the bedroom door. Drake leaned his head against it and listened. Placing his hand on the knob, he slowly turned and pushed until the door moved slightly. Drake looked to the others, making certain they were ready, and then opened the door.

The hunters entered, with Alison going in last and closing the door behind her. The bedroom was in near total darkness. Blackout curtains had been closed over the window, allowing only a sliver of sunlight to filter in. Drake made his way to the curtains, moving cautiously so as not to make noise. As he did, Alison locked the bedroom door and positioned herself by the light switch. Rodriguez stood three feet to her left. When Drake reached the window, he turned to face the bed and whispered a single command.

“Now.”

Alison flipped on the switch.

Cushing lay in bed on his back, his body rigid and straight, with his arms folded across his abdomen, hands clasping the opposite wrists. His head rested on a single pillow, the face pointing up at the ceiling. His eyes and lips were closed tight. He showed no movement, not even the rising and falling of his chest as he breathed. If it had not been for the white t-shirt and tan sweatpants that Cushing wore, he easily could have been mistaken for a corpse prepared for last rites.

“Good morning,” said Drake. He looked at his watch. “Or rather, good afternoon. It’s almost one o’clock.”

Rather than be startled awake, Cushing slowly opened his eyes and lifted his head off the pillow, focusing on Drake. “I’ve been expecting you, although not this soon.”

“We have a lot to talk about. I figured it would be better to do it sooner rather than later.” Drake stepped over to the window where the two edges of the blackout curtains overlapped. “Should I open these? It’s awfully dark in here.”

Cushing sat up in bed, resting his elbows on the mattress. “You can if you want to. But we both know what affect sunlight has on the undead.”

Rodriguez’ jaw dropped. “You’re a vampire?”

“Yes.” Cushing sighed, an air of resignation in his demeanor. He moved up against the headboard and rested his back against it. “I assumed you’d figure it out eventually. I just never imagined you would do so this quickly.”

“To be truthful, I only put the pieces together last night,” said Drake.

“What gave me away?”

“The night vision goggles. After we returned to the office, Jim realized that they hadn’t been charged. Only one thing could have seen in the dark of that apartment building.”

“That’s my own fault. I’m not used to technology.” Cushing looked at each of the hunters one by one as he spoke. “I was hoping to earn your trust before you found me out.”

“You earned a certain level of trust back at the apartment building, which is why I haven’t opened these shades.” Drake moved a few feet to his right and leaned against the dresser. He folded his arms across his chest. “But I need an explanation if I’m going to let you live.”

“Fair enough.” Cushing folded his legs beneath him. “My real name is Stewart Cushing. I’m a priest. At least I was back in the fifteenth century when I first began hunting the undead. I was tracking one vampire in particular. The Master Vampire.”

Drake nodded. “Chiang Shih.”

“You know of her?”

Alison held up her hand, displaying the scar in the palm. “We’ve dealt with her before.”

“So you know what I’m talking about. When Chiang Shih found out that Antonio Ferrar had taken possession of the Vampyrnomicon and sent it to be hidden in the East, she went to Mont Saint Michel to interrogate him about its location. That’s why I followed her there, to stop her. I was too late. Chiang Shih had tortured Ferrar to death, but he never told her where the book was located. She captured me before I could escape and turned me.”

“You have to agree to be turned,” Drake said suspiciously.

“I did agree.” Cushing bowed his head. “The human spirit can only endure so much pain before it breaks. Chiang Shih took a sadistic delight in watching a man of the cloth beg for eternal damnation. After three days of being tortured I was willing to do anything to ease my suffering, even renounce my faith.”

“One thing I don’t understand,” interrupted Alison. “If you’re a vampire, why aren’t you…?”

“Evil?”

“Yeah,” she answered embarrassingly.

“The evil is always there, straining to get out. Vampirism destroys human inhibitions and increases the proclivity for lust and violence. Every day of my life for the past five centuries I’ve fought the temptation to give in to my inner demon. The only reason I haven’t succumbed is because of my training as a priest.”

Alison stared at him, her eyes filled with sympathy. “If you hate what you’ve become, why don’t you just throw open the curtains and end it?”

“Suicide is a mortal sin, even if I’m already dead.” The barest hint of a smile crossed Cushing’s face. “Besides, I believe my existence is my penance for abandoning my faith. Once I’ve disposed of Chiang Shih, then I can leave this world and meet my maker, and hopefully he will forgive me my transgressions.”

“I don’t understand one thing,” began Rodriguez. “Isn’t killing humans for food a sin? Who do you feed off of?”

“The question is ‘what do I feed off of?’ I used to live off of wild animals and livestock. Lately, I’ve substituted blood from butcher shops.”

“And you don’t feel the need for human blood?” asked Alison.

“Oh, the thirst consumes me every day. I just don’t give in to it, just like I don’t give in to the other desires. It’s how I maintain what little humanity I have left.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this from the beginning?” asked Drake.

“If I had, would you have followed me into the nest?”

Drake knew the answer, but would not vocalize it. Alison and Rodriguez, however, both responded with a self-conscious “No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Cushing looked over at Drake. “So what happens to me now? Do you open those curtains and get rid of another vampire, or do you send me on my way?”

“Neither.” Drake pushed himself off the dresser and approached the bed. “You’re one of the best hunters I’ve ever met. And you have an insight into the vampires we don’t. I’m not about to give up that advantage.”

“Thank you.”

Drake offered his hand, and Cushing grasped it. Drake tried not to notice the coldness of his palm.

“Where do we go from here?” asked Cushing.

“Hang tight for the next few days. I gave my team tonight off. We’ll meet tomorrow night in my office. You’ll be there?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” Drake headed across the room toward the door. “See you then. Say around seven o’clock.”

As the hunters were leaving, Cushing called out to Drake. Drake stuck his head back into the room. “Yes?”

“Thank you for still having faith in me despite my being one of them.”

Drake shook his head. “If you were one of them, you’d be hiding away somewhere and feeding off the living. Instead, you opted to retain your humanity. As far as I’m concerned, you’re one of us.”

Cushing bowed his head in appreciation. Drake exited the bedroom, switching off the light and closing the door behind him. Alison and Rodriguez were already waiting by the door to the main hall. Drake joined them, switching off the living room light on the way out.

As they made their way back down the hall, Alison moved up close to Drake so she could talk without being overheard.

“Did you mean what you told Cushing?”

“About what?”

“About him being one of us.”

“He more than proved that yesterday at the apartment building.”

“But do you really think you can trust him?”

“Yes. Rodriguez and I would probably be dead if it wasn’t for him.” Drake looked over his shoulder at Alison, an uncharacteristic solemnity on his face. “Before this is finished, we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

CROSSING THROUGH THE underground corridor beneath the history department building to spend as little time as possible out in the cold, Rebecca saw the lights on in Reese’s office. She looked at her watch. It was almost eight o’clock. Nothing unusual about that, though. Reese often worked late at night, and most of the time forgot to eat dinner. She decided to stop by for a minute to make certain he had eaten, and if not she would run across the street to the sub shop and bring him back a sandwich.

Pausing in front of his door, she knocked against the glass pane.

“Who is it?” Reese sounded annoyed.

“It’s Rebecca.”

Reese’s tone switched to one of excitement. “Come in.”

She opened the door, and immediately saw that the professor was not alone. A man occupied the chair by Reese’s desk. Though he wore civilian clothes, she noticed that he had a military bearing about him. He looked at Rebecca suspiciously.

Reese’s head bowed over the desk, his attention focused on a book lying on top of a white piece of cloth. “Rebecca, you have to see this. It’s one of the greatest historical finds ever.”

She approached the desk, mindful that the visitor kept a wary eye on her. “What is it?”

“It’s the Vampyrnomicon. Mister Helms just brought it.” Reese looked up, suddenly realizing he had forgotten introductions. “I’m sorry. Where are my manners? Rebecca, this is Mister Helms. He just got back from Rumania. Rebecca is my teacher’s assistant.”

“Ma’am.” Helms nodded, the look of suspicion now replaced by acceptance.

“Weren’t you just in Rumania yesterday?”

“Yes, ma’am. But once I found the book, I arranged an early morning flight back to the States. I landed a few hours ago.”

“He’s taking the rest of his find down to Drake in the morning,” Reese added. His gaze fell back on the book. “You have to see this Rebecca. It’s magnificent.”

She moved up behind Reese and leaned over his shoulder. The Vampyrnomicon lay open to the title page. The paper appeared brittle and yellowed, with the edges slightly frayed due to aging. “What’s it say?”

“I don’t know yet. Mister Helms just brought it to me a few minutes ago, so I haven’t had a chance to look through it. But my God, it actually exists.”

“It’s really that important?” asked Helms.

“Important? Legend has it that this book relates the early history of the vampires. Whoever possesses it can either make vampires immortal or destroy them all.”

“Shit.”

Reese laughed. “That’s an understatement, Mister Helms. You don’t realize it, but you’ve done humanity a great service.”

Rebecca noticed a chink of awe develop in Helms’ military demeanor, and assumed he had never fully understood until now the importance of his mission to Rumania. She smiled. She had her own mission to fulfill.

“I assume you’ll be working late tonight translating this?” she asked.

“Of course. I’ve been waiting all my adult life to get my hands on this book.”

“Do you need anything from me?”

Reese shook his head, his attention focused on the book. He gingerly turned the first page.

“Have you eaten?”

“Huh?” Reese looked up. “I had a salad for lunch.”

“I meant have you had anything for dinner?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Do you want me to run across the street and get you something?”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s no bother,” Rebecca responded with a smile. “A ham and cheese sub?”

“Yes, please.”

Helms took the opportunity to make his exit. “If you don’t need anything else from me, I’ll be going, too. I need to get a good night’s sleep. I have to catch an early flight in the morning.”

“I’m fine, Mister Helms. And thank you again.”

“My pleasure.”

Rebecca and Helms exited the office, leaving Reese to marvel over his new discovery. Once in the hall, the two parted, Helms heading back toward the main building while Rebecca continued in the opposite direction. She passed through the empty cafeteria and exited into the courtyard, then turned left toward the sub shop. Once on the front lawn of the campus, she paused by an old oak tree, removed her cell phone from her pocket, flipped it open, and dialed. The phone rang three times before being answered.

“Yes?”

“It’s Rebecca. Is Chiang Shih there?”

“Just a minute.”

A few seconds passed before a familiar female voice came on the line. “What is it, Rebecca?”

“Helms just brought the book to Reese. It’s in his office.”

“That’s very good news, Rebecca.”

“Thank you, Mistress. What do you want me to do now?”

“Just sit tight and make certain Reese doesn’t move the book. I’ll be down soon.”

“Of course.”

“And Rebecca.”

“Yes?”

“You did well. You’ll be properly rewarded.”

The connection went dead before Rebecca could respond. She flipped the cell phone shut. Properly rewarded. Those words held much more than the seeming mercenary nature implied by Rebecca’s actions, for Chiang Shih promised her the one thing God in His infinite cruelty deemed fit to deprive her of. Life. Two weeks ago, the doctors had told Rebecca that she had been infected with a particularly virulent strain of HIV contracted after losing her virginity to a fellow classmate who had given her a date rape drug. She had gone to church every night and prayed that things would turn out all right, not that her pleas to the Almighty did any good. The doctors informed her that developing AIDS was inevitable, even with an aggressive treatment regime which she would not be able to afford. They had given her two years to live, maybe three if she was lucky. She had been contemplating her own mortality when dark fate intervened in the form of Chiang Shih.

She had been walking the streets of Salem ten days ago trying to figure out a way to tell her parents when Chiang Shih came up to her and offered Rebecca eternal life if she would spy on Reese and let Chiang Shih know when the Vampyrnomicon arrived. At first, Rebecca had considered running away. But then she realized that Chiang Shih was offering her a chance to survive. God had betrayed her by depriving her of a long life, so it seemed only fair that her own act of betrayal could turn the tables on God and let her live forever. She agreed to work for Chiang Shih. It was a small price to pay for righting an incredible injustice.

Sliding the cell phone back into her pocket, Rebecca headed across the street to get Reese his dinner.

JESSICA ROLLED OVER and draped an arm across Drake’s naked chest. He wrapped his right arm around her back and clasped her shoulder, pulling her to him. She sighed contentedly and snuggled closer, rubbing her cheek against his arm.

The sex tonight had been great. During dinner, Jessica had informed Drake of her new assignment to Afghanistan. Instead of the argument she had anticipated, he had been very supportive, understanding that this move would be a major boost to her career. With that concern off her mind, Jessica could concentrate on their last night together for God knows how long. The rest of their dinner had been pleasant. Back in his apartment afterwards, the sex had been phenomenal. The two had made love with a passion they had not experienced before, satiating themselves since they did not know when they would see each other again.

“I’m going to miss this.” Jessica practically whispered the words.

“These past few weeks have been awesome.” Drake kissed her on the top of her head. “I hate to see them end.”

“They don’t have to.” Jessica lifted her head and met his gaze. “Why don’t you come with me?”

“To Afghanistan?”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a job here.”

Jessica rolled over onto her stomach so she could face Drake. “You hunt vampires. There have to be vampires in Afghanistan you can hunt.”

“Maybe. But the main threat right now is here in Washington. I can’t leave until the job is done.”

“Will it ever be done?” Jessica allowed her irritation to tinge her voice. “You yourself have said this is a never-ending battle. For every vampire you kill, there are two or three more waiting in the wings. How do you defeat an enemy like that?”

“Now it’s different. Chiang Shih is here in Washington. If we can defeat her, all the vampires will die.”

“According to legend,” Jessica said snidely.

“Yeah.” The quizzical tone of Drake’s voice told her that he just did not get it.

“Drake, wake up to reality. All the other legends about vampires are false. They don’t need to sleep in coffins. They don’t turn into bats or wolves or mist. They aren’t affected by crosses, garlic, or running water. What makes you think this legend is any different?”

Drake paused. Apparently he had not contemplated that possibility before. As street wise as he was, she thought, sometimes he lacked common sense. Finally, after several seconds, he answered, his words tentative.

“I can’t guarantee that the Vampyrnomicon is accurate. But it’s the best option available right now.”

“And you’re willing to risk your life on a hunch?”

Drake nodded. “We have to try.”

“We?” Jessica rolled over and whipped the covers off of her. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she reached down, picked her panties off the floor, and slipped her legs into them.

“What’s wrong?”

Jessica stood up and slid her panties up over her hips, keeping her back to Drake. “By ‘we’ you mean you and Alison.”

“I mean the entire team.”

“But Alison is the most important part of that team.” Jessica stepped into her skirt and pulled it up around her waist.

“So that’s what this is about. You’re jealous of Alison.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? You spend more time with her than me.”

“That’s because Alison and I work together. You spend more time with your editor than you do with me, but I’m not jealous of him.”

Jessica grabbed her blouse and began to put it on, leaving her bra on the floor. “Philip and I are not in love with each other.”

Drake opened his mouth to reply, but stopped.

“So you admit it, then?”

“Yes, I care deeply for Alison. But we’re teammates, not lovers.”

“And how about Alison being in love with you? Or are you too blind to see that?” Jessica finished buttoning her blouse before turning to Drake. She had not bothered to tuck it in under her skirt. Taking her bra from the floor, she shoved it in her pocketbook. “What happens if you do defeat the vampires? What then? Do you and Alison shack up together? Where does that leave me?”

Drake did not respond. His silence told her the answer.

“I thought so,” Jessica snapped back as she slid her feet into her shoes.

“You don’t know that. Hell, I haven’t even thought that fa—”

Jessica held up her hand to cut him off. Shit, this had not gone the way she had planned. She chose her next words carefully.

“Maybe you haven’t thought about your future with Alison. Given your obsession with stopping Chiang Shih, I can believe that. But I have my own career that’s just taking off, and I can’t be held back by this diversion.”

A pained look shot across Drake’s face. “Is that all I am to you? A diversion?”

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

An uncomfortable lull in the argument passed between them. Finally, Drake pulled back the covers. “Let me at least take you home.”

“No. It’s best we end this now and don’t see each other again.”

Jessica bolted from the bedroom and raced to the front door, with Drake calling out after her. She stepped out into the main hall, slamming the door behind her, and ran to the elevator. As she waited for the car to arrive, she hoped that Drake would not follow her. He did not. Jessica did not know whether to feel upset or thankful.

When the elevator arrived, she jumped in, pressed the button for the ground floor, and kept her finger depressing the “Door Close” button until they shut.

God, she had really fucked that up. She had promised herself she would never get involved with anyone until her career was well established, but had broken that rule with Drake. She had never expected it to last forever. Hell, happily ever after only occurred in fairy tales. Their relationship was partly a diversion, and partly the result of two people who faced death deciding to share life to its fullest. She just never intended to admit as much to Drake.

The elevator arrived on the ground floor and the doors opened. Jessica stepped out and rushed across the hall. Deep down, she knew she had overreacted back in his apartment. By ending their relationship the way she had, she had subconsciously injected an irreparable air of finality into it. She just wished she could have bowed out more gracefully without hurting Drake. He deserved better than that.

Out in the street, Jessica headed for the taxi stand. She never once looked back at Drake’s apartment building.

TREJA HAD BEEN walking through the tunnel for close to twenty minutes and had not seen any signs of it still being in use. The air hung heavy and stagnant. The walls and floors were dry, showing no signs of humidity. Nor did he see signs of rats, roaches, or spiders, which usually thrived in such underground facilities. Whatever this tunnel had once been used for, it had long since been sealed up tight and forgotten.

He had discovered it earlier that evening while searching the deserted subway branch line that served as his coven. Per Chiang Shih’s orders, he had increased his efforts to populate the coven following their losses at the Freer Gallery, siring eighteen vampires in total. With the increased numbers came a loss of security, for the only access to his coven was via an old staircase that led to a street-level entrance. As such, he had decided to search for another way to infiltrate his vampires into the city. It had taken him less than an hour to find the circular hatch located between the unused tracks and, beneath that, a metal ladder that led down into this tunnel.

Treja walked for another few minutes until he reached a dead end, the passage being blocked by a makeshift wall of poured concrete. Treja knocked on the obstruction. No echo sounded on the other side, which meant the wall was too thick for him to break through.

He turned and began exploring the other branch of the tunnel, but that proved to be just as unproductive. After walking a quarter of a mile, he still had found no way out. No doors or hatches. Not even grates leading to the sewer system. The only fixtures were light sockets attached to the ceiling every twenty feet, their bulbs long since removed.

Treja was about to abandon his search when he detected something ahead of him. He quickened his pace. As he drew closer, he saw that this end of the tunnel was also sealed off. However, unlike the concrete plug at the opposite end, this time he faced a wall. In the center was a door, similar in appearance to those used to separate watertight compartments on naval vessels, about four feet long with a rounded top and bottom. A circular latch was positioned in the door’s center.

Treja placed his ear against the door and listened. He detected no sounds on the other side. Grasping the latch in both hands, Treja tried to open it. It was stiff from lack of use and would not budge. Getting a better grip, he tried again. After several seconds, the grinding of metal against metal filled the tunnel, and the latch slowly began to turn. Treja put all his strength against the latch, straining his muscles until they ached. Eventually, the steel rods slipped free from their mounts and the door popped open. Treja paused, waiting to see if anyone had heard the noise. When no one responded, he pushed the door aside and peered out.

A second tunnel stretched to the right and left, similar in design to the one he had just exited, only large enough to drive a truck through. This tunnel looked to be in constant use. The walls were painted green and well maintained, having been polished to a high sheen. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling at twenty foot intervals, brightly illuminating the interior.

Across from Treja, directions were painted on the wall in stencil-style lettering. On top, an arrow pointed down the corridor to the left with the words TO FBI HEADQUARTERS above it. Beneath it, a second arrow pointed to the right accompanied by the words TO CONGRESS.

Damn, Treja thought. He had heard stories about a maze of underground tunnels located beneath Washington, most dug during the human’s Cold War to whisk government leaders to safety in the event of nuclear war. He had never put much credence into those stories until now. If the condition of this tunnel was any indication, they were still in use. So much the better. Not only had he found another way for his vampires to swarm from their coven when the time came, but he also had found choice targets to go after.

Treja closed the door and spun the latch, applying extra strength to secure it tight. He then headed back to rejoin the coven, excited by his discovery. Experience had taught him that underground environments were ideal feeding grounds.

BERLIN, GERMANY. 30 APRIL 1945. World War II in Europe came to a close in an orgy of violence. The Germans referred to it as Gotterdammerung, the Twilight of the Gods, which sounded appropriately Wagnerian. However, the word belied the physical and psychological onslaught endured by the capital of the crumbling Third Reich, if one could still consider a few dozen square miles around the Chancellery an empire. After four years of the most destructive war in history, the Soviet armies invading Germany were wild with bloodlust. What they did not destroy outright they looted and sent back to the Motherland. That included millions of Wehrmacht soldiers captured in combat who disappeared into Siberian labor camps. Civilians fared little better, especially German women. Gang rapes by Red Army soldiers in Berlin alone already numbered in the tens of thousands, and the city had not even formally surrendered. For most Berliners, it seemed as if the ground had opened up and sucked the city into the lowest depths of hell.

For Treja, it was the ideal hunting ground.

He trudged along the rail lines of the Berlin subway, adorned in the uniform of a Wehrmacht soldier who had been killed in battle, in search of food. The surviving residents had moved underground to escape the carnage at street level, bringing only what they could carry on their backs. Treja held no sympathy for them. They lived in the dark. Dirty. Hungry. Afraid. Like he and his brethren had done for centuries.

Among the tunnel dwellers were hundreds of young women, petrified by rumors of gang rapes and willing to submit to any degradation by good German soldiers in return for the façade of safety. He thrived in this type of environment. Five times in the last two days he had stumbled upon single young women who offered to trade their bodies for protection. In each instance, he had been happy to oblige. Taking them to out-of-the-way areas, he sexually assaulted them, humiliating what little remained of their humanity before feasting. With his lust satiated, he would move on, seeking his next victim.

Unfortunately, the opportunities for feasting were becoming scarce. Wehrmacht soldiers were deserting their posts in droves, discarding their uniforms and weapons to hide out amongst civilians. When the military did make an appearance in the underground tunnels, it was usually to commandeer old men and young boys for the futile, last-ditch defense of the city. Germans had begun to fear their own troops as much as they did those of the Soviets. As Treja prowled the subway, he noticed that everyone he came across averted their gaze, hoping to avoid trouble.

Treja passed by a recess built into the subway wall when a female voice called out to him. “M-mein Herr, can you help me?”

He stopped and looked around for the voice. A teenage girl emerged from the shadows. He quickly sized her up. She looked about sixteen years old. She wore an overcoat too large for her body, dark trousers, and soiled work boots, obviously attempting to hide her looks and deter rape. Her hair had been tied back in a ponytail. Dirt caked the blonde strands and her face. From the stutter in her voice, he could tell she was terrified, and looked to him for protection.

This was not her lucky day.

Treja stepped over to her. “What’s wrong, Fraulein?”

“I-it’s my brother and sister. W-we’re all alone.”

Looking past the teenager, Treja saw a young boy and girl no more than ten years old huddled together in the corner of the recess. They looked more scared than their older sibling.

“Where are your parents?”

“My father died on the Eastern front a year ago. My mother went up to look for food. That was three days ago, and we haven’t seen her since.” The young girl reached out and desperately clasped Treja’s sleeve. “C-can you protect us? Bitte?”

“It’ll cost you.” The sardonic smile that formed on Treja’s lips left little doubt of what he expected in return.

She dropped her head, resigned to her fate. “A-all right. But let’s go somewhere private.”

“Right here will do fine.”

“Not in front of my brother and sister.”

“They should know the sacrifice their sister is making for them.” Treja sneered. “Besides, the Reds won’t be as accommodating as I am.”

With a heavy sigh of resignation, the girl stepped back into the recess and removed her coat. She knelt down beside her siblings and placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “I want you both to close your eyes. I have to do this to—”

“Enough talking, bitch.” Treja shoved the girl face down onto the floor. She attempted to get back up, but he placed his left hand on the back of her neck and held her in place. With his right hand, he grabbed the top of her trousers and tore them down past her hips. The siblings began to whimper, but obeyed their sister and closed their eyes. Treja undid his trousers, removed his engorged cock, and with a violent thrust plunged it into the young girl’s ass. She cried out, the squeal degenerating into a heavy sobbing as Treja raped her.

He barely had begun violating the girl when a burst of sub machinegun fire echoed down the tunnel, followed by shouting. Treja pulled out of the girl and zipped up his trousers. The bitch’s tight little ass could wait. He needed to know what danger approached. Stepping out from the recess, Treja looked in the direction of the shots.

Twenty feet away stood three SS soldiers, their pristine black uniforms looking eerily out of place among the dirt and refuse. One of them held an MP-40 machine pistol. Wisps of smoke flowed from its nozzle. In front of the soldier, and elderly man lay on the ground, clutching his stomach and moaning. An elderly woman knelt beside him, cradling the man’s head and crying. The tallest of the three soldiers, the one wearing an officer’s cap, clutched a twelve-year-old boy by the upper arm. The boy struggled to break free, but the officer held him in place.

“Why did you shoot him?” the old woman bawled.

“All able-bodied men are needed at the front.”

“He was seventy-two.”

The officer seemed unimpressed. “Heroes older than him are serving the Fatherland. Cowardice is punishable by death.”

“You bastards.” The old woman wailed.

The officer turned to the soldier carrying a Mauser and pushed the boy in his direction. “Take this one to the nearest Volkstrum unit. Maybe he’ll have more courage than his grandfather.”

Treja stepped from the shadows and headed for the SS soldiers. “Leave the boy alone.”

The three soldiers spun around to face him, the Mauser and MP-40 aimed directly at him. Startled at first by the intrusion, the officer suddenly became furious when he saw Treja’s uniform. “You’re Wehrmacht. Why aren’t you defending the city?”

“This is not my fight.”

“Then you are under arrest. By orders of the Fuhrer, you will be hanged for desertion.”

“By now your Fuhrer is in hell where he belongs.”

The SS officer trembled with fury. Withdrawing his Luger, he fired three shots into Treja’s chest. Each round tore its way through flesh and organs before exiting out his back. The wounds hurt like hell, but were not fatal.

The soldier closest to Treja raised his MP-40. Treja lunged at him, ripping the weapon out of his hands and tossing it aside. Clasping his right hand around the back of the soldier’s neck, Treja squeezed, applying an increasing amount of pressure. The soldier flailed about, trying to free himself. Finally, his spinal cord ruptured with a loud crack and the body went limp. Treja released his grip, allowing the corpse to drop to the floor.

The other two men were backing down the subway, their weapons trained on Treja. He snarled at the cowards and attacked. The officer fired several rounds, each one erratic. Ducking down, Treja raced up beside the officer and flung him against the subway wall. His head struck the cement with a loud crack and he fell to the floor, dazed.

The soldier turned and ran, desperate to escape. Treja threw himself onto the soldier’s back, knocking him to his knees. Grabbing the soldier’s hair in one hand and shoulder in the other, Treja exposed his neck. He could smell the blood pumping through his veins, the adrenaline rush of bullying civilians mixed with the panic of impending death. Treja savored the aroma for a few seconds and then, morphing into his vampiric form, plunged his fangs into the soldier’s neck and fed. As he drained the human, the soldier lost his grip on sanity, his terrified chorus of “nein, nein, nein” devolving into deranged laughter. After several minutes, the soldier fell silent. Treja loosened his grip, and the shriveled corpse slid to the subway floor.

Returning to his human form, Treja retraced his steps. The SS officer had rolled onto his hands and knees and was trying to stand. With the heel of his boot, Treja stomped down on the back of the officer’s knee, shattering the bone. The officer collapsed and cried out. Treja grabbed him by the back of the collar and dragged him to where the old man had been murdered, dropping him in front of the family.

“This coward is yours to deal with.”

Neither the old woman nor the boy said anything. They did not have to. The vengeance that burned in their eyes spoke volumes. As Treja turned to leave, out of the corner of his eye he saw them crawling toward the officer, and heard the latter whimpering for mercy. Treja paused just long enough to pick up the discarded MP-40.

When he reached the recess, he found the three children still there. The two youngest cowered in the farthest corner. Their older sister knelt in front of them, the remnants of her torn trousers pulled back up over her hips. She held them in place with her right hand.

“This is your lucky day, little girl.”

Treja threw her the MP-40. She caught it in her arms, but quickly wrapped her hands around the handle and trigger, pointing it at Treja.

He laughed heartily. “You might just make it through this after all.”

The girl kept the MP-40 trained on Treja as he walked down the subway and disappeared into the dark.

10

REESE BARELY NOTICED that his pot of coffee had gone cold hours ago, or that he had worked all through the night. He had never intended to become this engrossed in the Vampyrnomicon. But once he had started reading, he dove into its pages like it was an addiction. Now, eighteen hours after he had first opened the book, he was still at his desk, physically and emotionally drained. His eyes burned from the long, sleepless night, and his mind waged a futile struggle against the fog of exhaustion that drifted into his thoughts. Being overtired would pass after a few hours’ sleep. The psychological strain of what he had read would stay with him for much longer.

After Rebecca had brought him supper the night before, Reese had sworn he would spend only an hour or so thumbing through the Vampyrnomicon to get a feel for what it contained, and wouldn’t begin examining it until morning. It was a promise much easier made than kept. The book had an almost hypnotic quality about it, compelling him to read further.

Unfortunately, most of it was in different languages, many of which he had no knowledge. The Vampyrnomicon contained twenty-eight chapters, each apparently hand-written by separate authors since none of the scripts matched the other chapters. The first nineteen were written in non-European languages, mostly Chinese and Arabic. One was in Farsi. Three were written in languages he could not detect the origins of. The final nine chapters were a mix of Latin, Spanish, Slavic, and German.

Reese had skimmed through those chapters in Latin and Spanish. As near as he could tell, the Vampyrnomicon was a sort of Bible for the undead, a history of the early vampires as composed by various storytellers. Of the chapters he could read, each recounted the history of individual vampires, providing a goldmine of background information.

The final chapter was left unfinished. Written by Emilio Carius, the master Antonio Ferrar had interrogated and executed, it had not been completed at the time of his detention. Most of it contained prayers to Satan that at first glance had no significance. What piqued Reese’s interest was the final two paragraphs, the last only partially completed.

I have researched this topic exhaustively these past ten years and have concluded, based on variations of vampire legends and their histories, that only the force which created the ultimate Good can rid the world of the ultimate Evil. That of which I speak is a stake carved from the wood of the cross on which the Romans crucified Jesus Christ. From that cross, the Son of God arose from the dead, and only from that cross can the Daughter of Satan be returned to Hell.

Once that task is done, then she, every master sired by her, and all the vampires turned by them will be forever banished

Reese had contemplated how the course of human history hung so precariously on small acts of fate. If the Inquisition had arrested Carius a few days earlier, before he had a chance to write those paragraphs, the secret of how to defeat the undead would have been lost forever.

Reese had typed that text into an e-mail, along with a brief explanation, and sent it off to Drake.

Chapter Twenty had also caught his attention. Because it was written in Latin, Reese had been able to translate it. The author provided little information about himself, but the style of writing indicated an educated man well versed in religion, either a scholar or a priest who had come under the influence of evil. It purported to be a Latin translation of the book’s first chapter, written in Chinese, detailing Chiang Shih’s origins. Enticed by what he would find, Reese had dove into it, writing out an English version on a pad of notepaper. The task had taken him fifteen hours, none of it made any easier by the exhaustion threatening to overtake him. Once he had started, however, he could not stop.

With the translation finally complete, Reese read it through a second time. Each word made his blood run cold as the book’s significance slowly dawned on him. The Vampyrnomicon was more than just a history of the vampires. It was the Gospel according to Satan.

The below are not my own words, but a translation made in the year of their Lord one thousand and sixty-nine of the original prophesy foretold a millennium ago.

Many have undertaken to draw up an account of the things that have been fulfilled among us, just as they were handed down by those who were the first eyewitnesses and servants of the Dark Word. Therefore, I myself have carefully investigated every event from the beginning.

In the beginning was the Dark Word, and the Dark Word was with Dark Lord Satan, and the Dark Word was the Dark Lord Satan. She was with the Dark Lord Satan in the beginning. Through Her all things will be destroyed; without Her nothing that was made will be unmade. In Her was death, and that death brought out the darkness of men. The true darkness blots out the light that gives hope to every man coming into the world. To all who receive Her, to those who believe in Her name, She gave the privilege to become children of Satan. We have seen Her infamy, the infamy of the One and Only who came from the Unholy Father, full of demeaning and deceit.

This is how the birth of Chiang Shih came about: The Dark Lord Satan sent a demon to Beijing, a city in China, to a whore pledged to be married to a man named Wu, a descendant of Wudi. The whore’s name was Qing. The demon went to her and said, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Dark Lord Satan is with you.” Qing was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. But the demon said to her, “Do not be afraid, Qing, for you have found favor with the Dark Lord Satan. You will be with child and give birth to a daughter, and you are to give her the name Chiang Shih. She will be infamous and will be called the Daughter of the Underworld. The Dark Lord Satan will give Her dominion over all mankind, and She will reign over the earth forever; Her kingdom will never end.”

“I am the Dark Lord Satan’s servant,” Qing answered. “May it be to me as you have said.” Then the demon left her. And she gave the child the name Chiang Shih.

As Chiang Shih grew in age, so did the spirit of the Dark Lord Satan grow inside of Her. She treated her parents’ servants with disrespect and loathing, beating and mocking those tasked to serve Her. As early an age as twelve She lay with men, some as much as three times Her age, enticing men of respect and importance to Her bed.

Unable to control the evil spirit that ruled Her, Her parents betrothed their daughter to a husband, Yuan, a local noble of advanced age with influence and means. Rather than temper Her lusts, such a betrothal offered Chiang Shih the means to satiate Her carnal desires without restraint.

Ten and nine years passed. Yuan, an elderly man of seventy years, took to his deathbed while Chiang Shih took to Her bed a new young lover. Yuan’s death was approaching, and the eunuchs and court servants to the prince were looking for some way to get rid of Chiang Shih, for they were afraid of the evil influence She would hold over the household if She became heir to the court. Then god entered Wang, one of the eunuchs. And Wang went to the household staff and local civil servants and discussed with them how he might betray Chiang Shih. They were delighted and agreed to cooperate. He watched for an opportunity to hand Chiang Shih over to them when no crowd was present.

The opportunity presented itself upon the death of Yuan. After the burial, before the ceremony disbanded, a crowd came up, and the man who was called Wang, one of the eunuchs, was leading them. He approached Chiang Shih. Chiang Shih said to the eunuchs, who had come for Her, “Every day I was with you in the court, and you did not lay a hand on me. But this is your hour—when death reigns.”

The men who were guarding Chiang Shih began mocking and molesting Her. They took Her against her will, enticed by Her wiles. And they said many insulting things to Her. At daybreak a council of civil servants, attended by both the eunuchs and the household staff, met together, and ordered Chiang Shih put to death. Chiang Shih was led out and was flailed to death. During Her flailing, Chiang Shih cried out, “Unholy Father, curse them, for they do not know whom they are dealing with.”

Chiang Shih’s body was wrapped in silk cloth and placed in a tomb cut in the rock, one in which no one had yet been laid. The eunuchs saw the tomb and how Her body was laid in it. Then they went home and prepared to check on Her the next day.

On the next day, very late at night, the eunuchs went to the tomb. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they entered, they did not find the body of Chiang Shih. While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. In their fright the eunuchs bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the undead among the dead? She is not here; She has risen!” The eunuchs remembered his words. When they came back from the tomb, they told all these things to the household staff.

This is what is foretold by our Dark Lord Satan: Chiang Shih will suffer and rise as one of the undead, and vengeance and the perpetuation of sin will be enacted in His unholy name to all nations.

Reese turned from the notepad and opened the Vampyrnomicon again, thumbing through the pages. On his original perusal of the book he had stumbled across a one-page drawing of a monster so hideous he had originally discounted it as a caricature, much in the same way as woman accused of witchcraft were often portrayed as old hags with pointed teeth, pointed noses, scraggily hair, and warts—deliberate distortions to make their persecution seem less heinous. As he studied the drawing again, he realized that this was no Christian representation of evil. This was the true manifestation of Chiang Shih.

Dear God, thought Reese. Drake and the others faced a situation more dire than any of them could imagine. He needed to warn them.

Reese switched on his computer, impatiently waiting as it booted up.

DRAKE STARED DOWN at his desk in disbelief. The three stakes lay in front of him, still nestled in the wool cloth that Helms had transported them in. He ran his fingertips along the shaft of each one, marveling at their historical significance. One of these stakes had been carved from the cross on which Jesus had been crucified. According to Reese’s e-mail, which he had received earlier that morning, that was the only weapon that could kill Chiang Shih, sending her, and all the masters and vampires created from her, back to Hell.

The problem was in determining which stake was the right one.

Drake looked up at Helms. “Did the abbot give you any indication which one of these is carved from the Christ cross?”

Helms shook his head. “Father Florescu said that the Protectors searched all over Europe for relics of the cross, and these were carved from the artifacts they could not debunk as false. I did some research myself back at the hotel. During the Middle Ages the trading in religious artifacts, real and fake, was big business. Two different churches both claimed to possess the head of John the Baptist. And if every church that claimed to own a piece of the Christ cross was telling the truth, than that cross would be fifty feet high and thirty feet wide.”

“That doesn’t help me much. I doubt Chiang Shih will stand still while I drive three stakes into her heart.” Drake glanced back down at the artifacts. “Damn.”

A commotion outside his office attracted Drake’s attention. Jim and Sarah passed by the open door, their arms around each other.

“Jim, come here a minute.”

Jim broke free from Sarah and entered the office. Sarah followed as far as the door.

“What’s up, Boss?”

“Jim, Sarah. This is David Helms, our man in Bucharest. He just brought me three stakes, one of which is supposed to kill Chiang Shih.”

“Cool. Which one?”

“That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me. The one that will kill her was carved from a piece of the cross that Jesus was crucified on. The Protectors believed that one of these is from that cross, but they weren’t certain which. Is there any way you can tell which one is authentic?”

“Sorry, Boss. I’m an engineer. Historical dating of artifacts is way out of my league.”

“What about sending them out to one of the local colleges?” offered Sarah. “I’m sure one of them has an archaeology department that could conduct such a test.”

“That’s a thought,” added Jim. “I bet you Smith could help with that.”

“I don’t like the idea of letting these out of my sight. If something happens to these, we’re screwed.”

“Well, I could try and devise a way to deliver all three of them at once.”

“Do you think you can?” asked Drake hopefully.

“Give me a day or two to figure it out, but I’m sure it’s possible.” Jim thought for a moment. “What happens if none of these are from the crucifixion cross, or if the legend is false?”

From the doorway, Sarah huffed. “Is he always this gloomy?”

“Pretty much.” Drake tried to make a joke of it, but the thought had not really occurred to him until Jim brought it up. If these stakes did not take down Chiang Shih, then he would be facing one pissed off daywalker. “See what you can do and get back to me.”

“Will do.”

Jim turned and left the office. On his way out, Sarah lightly punched him in the arm and muttered something about him being a pessimist.

Helms stood up. “If you don’t need me any longer, I’m going to head out. I have a noon flight out of Reagan National.”

Drake stood and came around his desk, offering his hand to Helms. “You’ve done more than enough. Thanks.”

When Helms left, Drake returned to his desk and wrapped the stakes back in their cloth. He went over to the wall-mounted safe, removed the picture covering it, and opened the vault door. Placing the stakes inside, he closed the vault door and secured the lock.

“Are you busy?”

Drake turned to see Cushing standing there. He seemed more reserved and awkward, not surprising considering the confession he made the other day. Drake tried to make him feel comfortable. “Come in and have a seat.”

“Thanks.” Cushing’s demeanor picked up at the invitation. He hurried inside and took a seat in one of the armchairs opposite Drake’s desk. “Alison said you heard from your professor friend. Anything useful?”

“Very much so. Helms dropped off the Vampyrnomicon to him yesterday, and he’s been reading it. According to the book, the only way to kill Chiang Shih is to drive a stake made from the cross on which Jesus was crucified through her heart.”

“Hmm.” Cushing contemplated the information for a moment. “Makes sense. But where will you ever find it?”

“The Protectors already did that. Along with the Vampyrnomicon, they gave Helms three stakes they claim were carved from the cross.”

“Are they certain they’re from the crucifixion cross?”

“They think at least one of them is. I guess we really won’t know until we try.”

Cushing exhaled loudly. “It’s not going to be easy.”

“Tell me about it.” Drake paused, uncertain how to broach the next subject, and finally opted for the direct approach. “There’s one other thing you need to know. According to the Vampyrnomicon, once Chiang Shih is destroyed, every master ever sired by her will also die. That includes you.”

“I’m already dead.”

“It means you’ll no longer exist.”

“I welcome it.” Drake thought he detected a tinge of anticipation in Cushing’s voice. “I hate what I’ve become. I dedicated my life to God, but in a moment of personal weakness condemned myself to spending the last six hundred years possessed by evil. The only thing that has kept me going in all that time was my desire to rid this world of vampires.”

“Are you sure?”

Cushing nodded. “Despite my condition, I’ve spent the last six centuries doing God’s work. Hopefully it’s been enough to redeem myself in His grace. I won’t know for certain, though, until I stand in front of Saint Peter.”

“For what it’s worth from someone who hasn’t gone to church in years, you’re a good man. He should take that into account.”

“I hope so. I’ve always believed in a merciful God.”

“Jim is trying—”

Alison called from the outer office, interrupting their conversation. “Boss, can you come out here? Reese is on a video link. He says he has to talk to you about something important.”

Drake stood and exited his office, motioning for Cushing to follow. Alison vacated her chair to let Drake sit in front of the terminal. Reese’s image filled the computer screen. He seemed agitated, which did not bode well.

“Reese, I’m here.”

Reese did not bother were courtesies. “Did you get my earlier e-mail?”

“Yes, I did. Thanks.”

“And the stakes?”

“Yup. Helms dropped them off less than an hour ago. I have them hidden in a secure place.”

“There is no secure place from Chiang Shih,” Reese said tersely. “We’re dealing with an evil far worse than anything we imagined.”

Now Drake became concerned. “What do you mean?”

“The Vampyrnomicon is the vampire’s Bible,” blurted Reese, his voice distressed. Drake had never seen Reese so upset. “It’s a series of stories about the history of the vampires. I translated one of the chapters, and it’s frightening.”

“Calm down. What did it say?”

Reese took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “Chiang Shih is literally the anti-Christ. She and Jesus were born on the same day, but in opposite parts of the world. While Jesus was born in poverty to a virgin, Chiang Shih was born to a whore from one of China’s noble families. While Jesus spent his life preaching kindness to man and faith in God, Chiang Shih gave reign to her carnal desires and sins. They were both betrayed by one of their own, Judas doing so out of greed for a few pieces of gold, Chiang Shih’s betrayer a servant who did so out of a sense of righteousness to end the evil terrorizing his household. They were both condemned to death, Jesus by a group of religious leaders who feared his message to the people, Chiang Shih by a household staff who feared her influence over their master. Jesus was crucified for our sins, was buried, and rose from the dead three days later to bring mankind the Kingdom of Heaven. Chiang Shih was killed for her own sins, was buried, and rose from the dead three days later to bring Hell on earth to mankind.”

Drake could feel Reese’s mounting terror even through the video link. “Calm down and listen to what you’re saying.”

“I am!” Reese nearly shouted. He paused, getting hold of himself. “Look, I know it sounds insane. But so doesn’t the existence of vampires, and we know they’re real.”

In the background of the video link, Drake saw the door to Reese’s office open and close, but paid little attention to it. “Chiang Shih is the master vampire. That’s all.”

“Then why does she have powers the other vampires don’t? It’s because she’s Satan’s daughter. I can prove it. There’s a drawing of Chiang Shih in her vampire form in the Vampyrnomicon.”

Reese reached over to take the book off his desk. As he did so, a feminine hand entered the video frame. It rested on top of the book, preventing Reese from picking it up. He looked up at the intruder, and his eyes went wide with terror. Drake had seen that look many times before, always on those encountering a vampire for the first time. Reese’s lower jaw trembled momentarily. Finally he stammered, “Oh my God.”

“God has nothing to do with me.” The same hand from the book moved up and wrapped itself around Reese’s throat, pushing him back into his chair. From behind Reese, a female form entered the frame and leaned forward over his shoulder. Chiang Shih’s face appeared on the video link. “Nice to see you again, hunter.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

Cushing moved closer to the video camera. “Leave him alone.”

“Stewart? Is that you?”

“Surprised to see me after all these centuries?”

Chiang Shih laughed. “Not really. You were always my greatest disappointment as a master. I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d team up with these pathetic humans.”

Reese struggled to break free. Chiang Shih squeezed her hand on his throat, causing him to flinch.

“Let him go,” ordered Drake. “He has nothing that you want.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, hunter. He has two things I want.” Chiang Shih reached in front of Reese, picked up the Vampyrnomicon, and held it up in front of the camera. “Thanks to you, I now have the Vampyrnomicon and the means to establish our dominion over man.”

“What’s the second thing?”

Chiang Shih smiled. “The professor himself. He’s been coaching you for months on how to defeat us. Now he’s about to get his own private lesson on vampirism.”

The Mistress bent forward and opened her mouth, pausing a few inches short of Reese’s neck. Reese frantically pushed back into his chair and rocked from side to side, but Chiang Shih’s grip was too strong. He tried to call out, but his words were cut off when she crushed her hand around his larynx.

“No!” Drake yelled into the microphone.

Chiang Shih looked up at the video monitor, clearly enjoying the suffering she was inflicting, both on Reese and Drake. Reaching up, she clasped her left hand around the camera.

“Say goodbye to your friend, hunter.”

With a quick squeeze, Chiang Shih crushed the camera, cutting off the video link. Unfortunately, the audio connection remained. The hunters heard the sickening sound of a master morphing into its vampiric form. Only this time the stretching of flesh and twisting of bone sounded particularly hideous, almost as if something living were being rendered alive. Reese screamed in a series of frantic bursts. A bellow like a frenzied animal came over the speakers, followed by the unmistakable sound of teeth ripping into flesh. Reese’s screams devolved into a prolonged whimper, and eventually into a gurgling as he drowned in his own blood.

Alison reached over and pressed the MUTE button.

The three remained silent for several seconds, no one quite sure what to say. Finally, Cushing placed a comforting hand on Drake’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.” Drake reached up and patted Cushing’s hand, trying not to notice the clammy skin. “I always knew one of us would buy it sooner or later. I just never guessed it would be Reese.”

“What do we do now?” asked Alison.

“Call Smith and tell him what happened. We need to get someone up there and make sure Reese doesn’t come back as one of them. We owe him that much.”

REBECCA WAITED OUTSIDE of Reese’s office, Chiang Shih’s leather overcoat draped over her arm. She hoped all the noise didn’t attract attention. Thankfully, few people were around, so no one came to investigate.

Several minutes later, Chiang Shih emerged from the office holding the Vampyrnomicon. She was practically naked, her clothes hanging in tatters off her body. Her arms and most of her upper body were soaked in blood. Chiang Shih used the remnants of her tattered blouse to wipe the blood off her face and hands, then tossed it back into the office and closed the door. Rebecca could not muster the courage to look inside.

Chiang Shih offered the Vampyrnomicon to Rebecca. “Give me my coat before someone shows up.”

Rebecca obeyed. As Chiang Shih put on the overcoat and buttoned it shut, Rebecca looked down at the book. Splotches of blood stained the cover.

“Is Professor Reese… is he…?”

“Dead? Yes. He was too much of a threat for me to let him live.”

Rebecca bowed her head.

“You’re not having regrets, are you?” A menacing tone tinged the Mistress’ voice.

“Not at all. It’s just that Professor Reese was kind to me.”

“Loyalty is an admirable quality.” Chiang Shih took the book from Rebecca. She placed a hand under the girl’s chin and lifted her head so their eyes met. “But your loyalty is to me now. You’ve done everything that I asked, and you’ll be appropriately rewarded.”

“You’ll make me one of you?”

“Once we get back to Washington.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you have a car?”

Rebecca nodded. “It’s in the student parking lot.”

“Then you’ll drive us back to Washington. Let’s go.”

The two women exited the building, with Rebecca leading the way. Behind them they left Reese in his bloody tomb.

11

JUANITA GAVE THANKS every day for her job as a chambermaid with the Grand Hyatt Hotel in downtown Washington. Her sister Rosie had arranged the position job for her almost six months ago. Even though it did not pay much, she made ten times what she could hope to earn in her hometown in Guatemala. It helped that the work was not too heavy, and guests often left tips. The latter especially pleased her. Not just because of the money, which she needed, but because she took special pride in her work. Whenever someone left a few dollars in the room, it meant that they had noticed.

Vacuuming her way out of the room so as not to leave footprints behind, Juanita closed and locked the door. She wiped her forehead with the back of her right hand, and toweled off the sweat onto her apron. Her watch said 6:18. My God, it had been a long day. A lot of guests had checked out this morning, meaning she had an unusually large number of rooms to clean. Juanita could have rushed through them to get the job done quicker, but that was not her way. It would be good to get home tonight, have dinner with Rosie, and watch some television before going to bed.

As she packed her cleaning gear onto the cart, Rosie came down the hall, pushing her own cart in front of her. “Are you ready?”

“Almost.” Juanita stuffed the dirty linen into the laundry bag.

“Well, hurry up. We’ve already been here an extra hour.”

“I’m finishing up now. This was my last room?”

“What about 1008?”

Juanita looked down the hall to the third door on her left. The DO NOT DISTURB sign still hung off the doorknob. It had been there for three days.

“Have you seen anyone enter or leave the past few days?” asked Rosie.

Juanita shook her head.

“Maybe we should check.”

Rosie was right. Hotel policy required that the cleaning staff check on a room that had the DO NOT DISTURB sign out for three days in a row to make certain that no one had either died, committed suicide, or been murdered. Such a policy protected the hotel from liability suits. It also cut back on expenses. A body left in a hotel room for three days could easily be picked up after. If left any longer than that, it usually required replacing the mattress and repainting the room to get rid of the smell.

Juanita wiped her hands on her apron and looked over at Rosie. “You finish picking up here while I check out the room. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Hurry up. I want to go home.”

Walking down to Room 1008, Juanita knocked on the door three times. No answer. She waited a few seconds and knocked again. Still no answer. Removing her master pass card from her pocket, she inserted it into the door. When the light turned green, she pressed down on the handle and pushed the door open a few inches.

“Maid service.”

No response. Juanita stuck her head in. The room was pitch dark. Reaching up to the light switch, she flicked it on and stepped inside. The living area barely looked used. The twin waste baskets by the television and kitchenette counter were empty. Sniffing the air, she detected a slight aroma of almonds. Damn, she thought. She had smelled that same scent before when a rat had died behind a refrigerator. As she crossed the living area to the bedroom, the odor became stronger. Gearing up her courage for what she might find, Juanita opened the door to the bedroom.

This room was even darker than the living area because someone had closed the blackout curtains over the windows. And the smell was much worse.

“Hello?”

Juanita thought she heard movement. She felt around the wall for the light switch and flipped it on.

The body of a young woman rested on top of the bed. Juanita gasped. God only knew what happened to the poor thing. She had pockmarked, leathery skin across her chest and most of her head, the latter containing mottled clumps of brunette hair on the sides and upper forehead that drooped down to her shoulders.

Suddenly, her eyes sprung open and she snarled like an animal. Juanita shrieked and quickly backed out of the room, slamming her back against the door. The monstrosity lunged off the bed and landed on top of Juanita, knocking her to the floor. Juanita pounded against its face with closed fists, desperately trying to knock it off. Instead, the thing grabbed her wrists, pinned her arms to the floor, and bent over her. It sunk its teeth into her neck and began drinking her blood.

“Juanita, are you… oh my God.”

Juanita turned her head, the movement restricted by the thing sucking at her neck. She saw Rosie standing in the doorway to the room, frozen in terror by the sight that greeted her. The thing also looked up, its mouth and teeth covered in blood and pieces of torn flesh. It snarled and sprang off Juanita, leaping across the room and tackling Rosie. The two tumbled into the hall. Rosie hit the wall and slid to the floor. She let out a terrified scream as the thing ripped into her neck with its fangs.

TREJA WATCHED A re-run of an old 1930s horror movie with some untalented actor named Lon something playing the vampire. Not that it mattered. He always found Hollywood’s portrayal of vampires to be insulting. Either as an East European count with a faggot cape, or as some sort of mindless animal. It infuriated—

A scream came from Antoinette’s room. It was audible even through the walls, and it definitely sounded human. He heard the sounds of a scuffle, and then another set of screams.

Walker raced out of the bedroom, only half dressed. “What the fuck was that?”

“Sounds like someone stumbled across Antoinette.” Treja had already jumped out of his chair and ran to the door. When he whipped it open, he saw Antoinette kneeling on the hall floor, feeding off one of the hotel maids. He started to go after her, but Walker clasped his shoulder and pulled him back inside.

“What are you doing?” asked Treja. “We have to help her.”

Walker closed the door and pushed Treja back into the room. “We can’t be associated with her. Especially after this.”

“But what’ll happen to Antoinette?”

Walker turned to the door. On the other side, the sounds of carnage filtered through. “She’s on her own now.”

“ARE YOU OKAY?” asked Alison.

Drake did not answer. He stared out the window into the back alley, his thoughts preoccupied with Reese and the horrible way he had died. Although none of them had witnessed his murder, they all had heard it. It could just as easily have been him or any member of the team.

“Boss?”

Before this affair was finished, some of them would probably meet the same fate.

“Boss!”

Drake snapped out of his reverie. Spinning his chair around, he looked at Alison and Cushing. They stared at him, obviously concerned.

“What?”

“You’ve been staring out that window for close to ten minutes. Are you okay?”

“I was just thinking about Reese.”

“I’m sorry about your friend.” Cushing’s sympathy was genuine. “If it’s any consolation, he died giving us the means to eliminate the vampires once and for all.”

“I know. And he would have been proud of—”

The ringing of the office telephone cut him off. Alison ran into the outer office. Drake heard her answer, and a few seconds later she began typing furiously on the computer.

“Hey, guys. Come here. Quick.”

Drake and Cushing rushed into the outer office. Alison was in front of her computer, calling up the video display. She cradled the receiver between her left ear and shoulder. “It’s Rodriguez. He’s home watching television. He wants us to turn on the local news.”

“What for?”

Alison shrugged. Seconds later, Fox Five came onto the screen. A chesty blonde stood in front of the Grand Hyatt in downtown Washington. A large, red BREAKING NEWS banner stretched across the lower portion of the screen. The scroll bar along the bottom reported that hotel staff and visitors had been attacked by “something inhuman.”

“Where’s the sound?” asked Cushing.

Alison maneuvered the mouse until the arrow hovered upon the volume button, then clicked off the MUTE button.

“…police have surrounded the hotel and are preparing to enter the building. So far no one has been able to provide us with any definitive information, but a police spokesman said that once their forces have entered the hotel and assessed the situation, we will be apprised of what is going on. According to the account of one hotel worker who witnessed the attack, the assailant looked like a woman, but with a horribly deformed face and body, and attacked guests like a wild animal. At least a dozen people are reported dead or badly mauled, with dozens, perhaps hundreds more, still trapped inside the hotel. Back to you Liz and Wendy.”

Drake reached over and used the mouse to click the MUTE button again. “What do you think?”

“It sure sounds like the master,” responded Alison.

“Where’s Jim and Sarah?”

“They already left. Do you want me to call them?”

“We don’t have time.” Drake looked at Cushing. “You up for another hunt?”

“What is it you Yanks say? ‘Let’s rock.’”

Drake patted Cushing on the shoulder.

“Rodriguez wants to know if you want him to meet us there?” asked Alison.

“Tell him to sit tight and keep the news on. I’ll contact him once we get on the road for updates. You join us in the garage. I’ll get the SUV ready.”

BRADDOCK SHOVED OPEN the door to the ready room and rushed in, hoping to find the squad there. Instead, he found only Renee Sommers emptying her locker. He looked around the room. “Where are the others?”

Renee stared back at him. “We’ve been stood down. Remember?”

“I was hoping you’d all be here.”

“Why?”

“Something’s going down at the Grand Hyatt.”

“Another vampire?” There was an edge of anticipation in Renee’s voice.

“Sounds like it to me.”

“What about Roach?”

“Is your job to protect and serve the people, or Roach’s ass?”

Renee barely hesitated as she slammed shut her locker. “I’m right behind you.”

TONI CROUCHED IN the hall, draining the blood from a partially-dressed KAL flight attendant who had opened her hotel room door to check on all the noise. Unfortunately for the young Asian woman, Toni had been standing only a few feet away, ripping out the throat of a hotel security officer foolhardy enough to try and stop her. Turning and lunging, Toni took down the woman before she even knew what was happening.

It barely registered with Toni that she was attacking humans out in public in direct violation of Chiang Shih’s orders. Desire consumed her. The lust for blood. The thrill of a feeding frenzy. What little remained of the rational part of her conscience had been overwritten by the primordial instinct to hunt, and this hotel provided ample opportunity for that.

Her ears detected the click of a deadbolt unlocking and a door slowly opening, followed by a male voice whispering, “Come on. We can make it.”

A tall black man of about thirty stood in the hall. Toni paused, trying to figure out if it was the same man who spent so much time taking care of her. Then a young black woman and a girl of about eight stepped out. Had he brought her another meal?

“Walker?” she asked.

The three people turned to stare at her. The man was not the one called Walker. He was food.

“Run!” he yelled. The woman and little girl raced down the corridor. The man stood his ground, taking up a fighting stance. Toni sprung at him. As she got close, the man swung at her with a closed fist. Pathetic human. She blocked the punch and used his arm to spin him around. Grabbing him on both sides of his head, she twisted her arms rapidly. His neck snapped and the body went limp. Toni let him drop to the floor and darted off after the two women.

As she turned the bend in the hall, she saw that two cops had ventured into her feeding zone. One ushered the two women toward an elevator in the tenth floor lobby while the other stood with his gun drawn and aimed. She snarled and rushed toward him. He fired seven shots, all of which struck her in the chest. The bullets hurt, but nowhere near the pain she had endured the past few weeks. She slammed into him, knocking him to the floor. His gun careened down the hall.

“Brian, help m—”

Toni clutched the cop around his throat, dug her talons into the skin, and tore it out. He convulsed, his yells becoming a gurgle as he drowned in his own blood.

The other three had reached the bank of elevators. Both women cowered inside an open car, the little girl screeching at the top of her lungs. The other cop reached in, pulled out the emergency stop button, and jumped back into the hall just as the elevator doors slid shut. Toni watched the red display meter go from 10 to 9 as the elevator began its descent.

Toni rushed the cop, reaching him just as he aimed his firearm. She grabbed him by the crotch and neck and, with a violent heave, flung him over the railing. He plummeted ten stories to the main lobby below, landing on one of the tables set up on the indoor patio. He crashed through the table top onto the tiled floor, shattering glass and bones in the process.

Toni paid no attention to his death, being more concerned with not letting her prey escape. Wedging her fingers between the two elevator doors, she pushed them aside. The car descended five floors below her. Diving through the opening, Toni plunged down and landed on the top, denting its roof. Below her, the two women shrieked in terror.

DRAKE PULLED THE SUV to a stop in front of the hotel and shifted into PARK. The three hunters jumped out and ran toward the main entrance where several police cars circled the drop-off area. Cushing carried the duffel bag with their gear. Upon seeing them approach, a young female cop blocked their path.

“I’m sorry, sir. No one’s all—”

“Can that crap, Johnson.” A middle-aged cop joined her. Drake recognized him as Sergeant Reynolds. The female cop looked at him confused, but finally shrugged and went back to take up her position.

“Thanks,” said Drake.

“Don’t thank me. I’m going to get my ass chewed for this, but you handle shit like this better than we do.” Reynolds escorted the hunters past the police barricade, yelling at the other officers to let them through. No one protested.

“What are we dealing with?” asked Drake.

“I have no fucking idea. Something attacked two maids and several guests up on the tenth floor. From what the eyewitnesses said, it ripped them apart. Some of the guests on the lower floors evacuated when the shit hit the fan, but most are still inside held up in their rooms. I also have two of my men inside trying to clear the halls.”

“We’ll be careful about them.”

As the hunters approached the main doors to the hotel, Reynolds called out after them. “Good luck.”

Drake led the way inside. An inner courtyard dominated the main lobby and extended to the ceiling, allowing line of sight to the each floor of the hotel and the rooms that ran along the exterior wall. A café and the reception desk stretched along the left wall, while a series of shops ran down the right. A large open area in the center of the lobby overlooked a sub-lobby dominated by an island filled with dining tables and surrounded by a decorative pool of water. On the far wall opposite the entrance stood two elevators. None of them could detect any movement save for the right side elevator in ascent. It stopped at the tenth floor. As the hunters watched, two police officers exited and cautiously made their way down the hall where the rooms were located.

“Mount up,” ordered Drake.

Cushing placed the duffel bag onto the floor and unzipped it. Each of them removed several stakes. Alison withdrew the shotgun. Drake already carried his Glocks in his shoulder holsters.

“So what’s the plan, Boss?” asked Alison.

“Kill the snuffy without getting killed ourselves.”

Alison forced a smile. “Brilliant plan.”

“That’s why—”

Female screams came from the tenth floor, followed a few seconds later by gunfire. As they watched, one of the cops rushed a young woman and her daughter across the mini-lobby and into the same elevator he had come up in. As the elevator began its descent, a horribly misshapen master emerged from the hall. Drake and Alison immediately recognized it as the one they had been battling since the beginning, the same master he had shot through the head with a holy water-laced round back at the Freer.

Alison pulled back the slide, loading a round into the chamber. “The bitch is mine.”

As the hunters watched, the master tossed the cop over the railing. He disappeared below the level of the main lobby, landing with a sickening thud and the shattering of glass. By now, the master had forced open the elevator doors and jumped on top of the descending car. It reached down to the access hatch and started to pry it open.

Drake took off across the lobby toward the elevator with the others close behind. “Cushing, you’re with me. We’ve got to save that family. Alison, you distract the bitch.”

“My pleasure.”

Alison broke off from the other two and made her way along the railing overlooking the sub-lobby. She kept her eyes on the master. By now, it had gotten a grip on the rim of the access hatch and yanked it open, snarling down at the trapped family. Alison did not have time for niceties. Raising the shotgun, she aimed it high, hoping the buckshot would not penetrate the car, and fired.

Most of the buckshot and crystallized holy water shot past Toni, peppering the inner wall of the elevator channel. Only a few pieces ripped into her head and shoulder, not enough to seriously wound her, but enough to get her attention. Toni ignored the two women in the elevator and looked around for the source of the gunshot. It took only a second to zero in on Alison. Her eyes locked on the hunter. Alison felt a chill run down her spine as the master sized her up. That chill turned ice cold when recognition ignited in the master’s eyes. Alison knew the master had placed her as one of the hunters who had so badly disfigured her.

The elevator passed by the second floor as Alison chambered another round. She raised the shotgun to fire in the same instant Toni dove off the car toward her.

ROLLING THUNDER CAME to a stop just outside the police barricade. As Renee climbed out of the driver’s seat, Braddock emerged from the back carrying a pair of TP9SF assault rifles and two belts loaded with plenty of spare ammunition. He opted to forego all their hi-tech gear, which had done them little good last time out, concentrating instead on the one thing he knew he could rely on–firepower. Renee fell in behind Braddock as he approached the main entrance.

A middle-aged cop came up to them and extended a hand. “My name’s Reynolds. I’m the senior officer here. Are you guys the cavalry?”

Braddock shook the sergeant’s hand. “Close enough. We’re H.A.R.D.”

“I thought you guys were disbanded.”

“You want me to go home?”

“Hell, no.”

Braddock headed for the door, urging Reynolds to follow. “Give me a brief rundown.”

“Something’s slaughtering people up on the tenth floor. Most everybody has either left the building, barricaded themselves in their rooms, or are dead. I have two of my men inside checking on the situation. We heard gunshots a little while ago, but my men haven’t reported in yet. Oh, and Drake Matthew’s team went in a few minutes ago.”

“Drake Matthews?” asked Braddock.

“The hunters,” reminded Renee.

Shit, it was worse than Braddock had imagined. He stopped at the main entrance and placed a hand on Reynolds’ shoulder. “Round up a bunch of your men, about five or six, and arm them with the heaviest weapons you have. I’m going in to scout the area. I’ll be back in five minutes, so have them ready when I return. Then we’ll go in to hunt this thing down and start getting out the survivors.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Reynolds ran off to the get his squad ready, Braddock placed a hand on the hotel door and glanced over at Renee. “Ready?”

“Not really, but let’s go.”

Braddock pushed open the door, letting him and Renee into the main lobby.

TONI TOOK THE full blast of the shotgun round to the left side of her face. It ripped off most of the skin and gouged out her right eye. Yet not even the force of the blast could stop her dive off the elevator car. She landed on Alison’s chest. The two women tumbled backwards and toppled over the railing into the sub-lobby.

From his location by the elevators, Drake watched as the master crashed into Alison and the two of them went over the railing. At that moment, the elevator reached the main floor and opened, revealing the terrified mother and daughter cowering in the corner. For a moment, Drake did not know who to help.

Cushing made the decision for him. “Go help Alison. I’ll take care of them.”

Drake broke into a run. When he reached the railing and looked over, his heart sank. Alison lay face down in the pool, motionless. The master waded toward her. Drake pulled out one of his Glocks and fired. The first two rounds plunked harmlessly into the pool. The next three found their mark, digging into her chest. She thrashed around. Drake continued the barrage until, on the eighth or ninth bullet, the master howled and ran in the opposite direction. She jumped out of the pool onto the patio and made for the stairwell leading to the main level. Drake ran for the same stairwell, switching his Glock with the one that still had a full magazine of ammo.

Toni reached the top of the stairs first. Upon seeing Drake, she sprinted for the main entrance. Drake ignored her, focusing his attention on saving Alison. Steering into the stairwell, he ran down to the sub-lobby, taking two steps at a time.

BRADDOCK AND RENEE entered the main lobby and barely had time to take in the situation when they were faced with a monster rushing toward them. It looked similar to the thing that had attacked them at the apartment building, but much more grotesque. Since he had only just entered the hotel and had not yet prepared his weapon, he dove out of its path.

Renee raised her TP9SF, took aim at the thing’s head, and squeezed the trigger. The trigger would not budge. She had forgotten to flip off the safety. Her thumb felt around for the knob, but by now it was too late. The vampire lashed out at Renee with its right hand, slicing its talons across her throat and creating three red slivers that slowly opened and grew in length. Blood gushed from the wounds, first in trickles that increased to a steady flow. Renee’s head tipped at an awkward angle as she collapsed onto the floor.

Bursting through the hotel doors, Toni rushed the barricade of police cars, leaping over the nearest one and disappearing down the street before any of the police could get off a shot.

BACK INSIDE THE hotel, Drake ran down the stairs as fast as possible, his eyes fixed on Alison. She had not moved since hitting the pool. Once on the sub-lobby, he jumped into the water and waded over to her. Flipping Alison onto her back, he wrapped his hands under her shoulders and dragged her up onto the patio, then crawled out of the water to kneel beside her. Nearly frantic with panic, he began to administer CPR, alternating between mouth-to-mouth and chest pushes. Neither did any good, and with each passing second Drake feared the worst.

Suddenly, Alison hacked up a lungful of water. Drake rolled her onto her side. She coughed up more water until she finally spit out enough to breathe, gasping several times until she could inhale normally. Only then did she open her eyes and look up at Drake.

“You know, you don’t pay me en—” Alison slipped into unconsciousness before completing the sentence.

Cradling Alison’s head in his arms, Drake yelled for someone to call an ambulance.

12

REBECCA LET OUT a throaty moan as Chiang Shih’s tongue circled the areola of her nipple. Chiang Shih placed her right hand over the girl’s mound and massaged in a circular motion. When she felt Rebecca’s lip moisten, she slid a finger inside the girl. Rebecca arched her back and pushed against the Mistress’ hand, gyrating and frigging herself into a sexual frenzy. Chiang Shih enjoyed exciting this one, not for the whorish spectacle she presented, but because Rebecca’s lust would sweeten her blood.

Rebecca’s breathing grew rapid and heavy. Chiang Shih placed her mouth over the girl’s breast and gently sucked, holding it in place between her lips as her tongue darted back and forth across the nipple. She could feel Rebecca about to cum. Sliding two more fingers inside of her, Chiang Shih increased both pressure and tempo until Rebecca thrust her pelvis forward and cried out. As she did, Chiang Shih clamped her fangs down on Rebecca’s breast. The girl yelped when the points first broke skin, but sighed contentedly as Chiang Shih drank. She wrapped her arms around Chiang Shih’s head, cradling the Mistress as she nursed. Chiang Shih drank enough so that Rebecca would eventually bleed out and die, leaving plenty of time to sire her as a master.

Gently breaking Rebecca’s grip, Chiang Shih lifted herself off the girl. Rebecca fell back into the pillows and sighed. “That was wonderful.”

“We’re not through yet if you still want to join us.”

Rebecca propped herself on her elbows. “As long as it takes away the pain.”

“It will. And you’ll know pleasures you never could dream of as a human.” Chiang Shih placed her hand on Rebecca’s shoulders and pushed her back down onto the bed. “But first, it’s your turn to please me.”

Chiang Shih straddled Rebecca and lowered her mound over the girl’s mouth. With all inhibitions long since shattered, Rebecca licked away hungrily, making love to the Mistress with her tongue. Chiang Shih could feel her passions burning. It had been so long since someone so young and talented gave herself so willingly. That only excited Chiang Shih even more. She felt her own passions ready to explode. Reaching down, she used a taloned finger to carve a slit in her vulva two inches in length. Blood flowed from the wound, mixing with her fluids. The aroma drove Chiang Shih mad with desire.

“Drink, my child. It’s the only way you can become one of us.” Grabbing Rebecca’s hair in her hand, Chiang Shih pulled the girl into her mound. Rebecca forced her lips into the vulva and drank lustily, her moans muffled by Chiang Shih’s sex.

Unable to hold back any longer, Chiang Shih felt an orgasm rush over her with the intensity of a tidal wave. She thrust into Rebecca’s face, smearing her in blood and cum. The girl responded by placing her hands on Chiang Shih’s ass, holding the Mistress firmly in place as she buried her tongue deep into her sex. Physically spent, the two women collapsed in each other’s arms, both covered in crimson.

As they lay side by side, Rebecca slowly bled out, spilling her life fluid onto the sheets. In a few minutes she would be gone. Chiang Shih pulled Rebecca close and heard a silent sigh of satisfaction. She pushed a few sweaty strands of hair off of Rebecca’s forehead and gently stroked her cheeks.

A quiet knock interrupted the moment. The bedroom door slowly opened. Walker stuck his head inside and whispered, “We’re ready if you are.”

“I’ll be there in a few,” she mouthed.

Walker shut the door. Chiang Shih went back to stroking her new master. This time she got no response. Placing a finger against Rebecca’s carotid artery, Chiang Shih felt no pulse. She waited several minutes to be certain, and then quietly slipped out of bed and dressed. Occasionally she would cast a glance over at Rebecca, admiring her beauty. The girl was as attractive as she was loyal, and for that she would be rewarded. When Rebecca awoke tomorrow evening, she will have become one of the undead.

Exiting the bedroom, Chiang Shih joined the others in the living room. Melinda and Treja were on one of the sofas, with Akers nervously fidgeting on the opposite one. Walker had taken up his usual position by the windows, only now he did not look out. The curtains were closed, with extra blankets hammered into the walls above the frames to block out the sun. After the incident at the Grand Hyatt, Walker and the other masters needed a place to hide out, so Chiang Shih let them stay with her. The accommodations would not be for long.

Taking her seat between the two sofas, Chiang Shih looked at each of her masters and her familiar. “This is unusual for us. We rarely meet in the morning.”

“Last night was a bit unusual,” said Walker.

“What happened?”

“As best as we can tell, one of the hotel’s maids entered Antoinette’s room to clean it and was attacked. Once Antoinette tasted blood, she went into a feeding frenzy. We couldn’t have stopped her if we tried.”

“So you didn’t try?”

Walker shook his head. “It would have brought attention to us, which we didn’t want. We locked ourselves in our room like the rest of the hotel guests, and when they evacuated the humans we snuck out with them.”

“And you let her hunt openly among the humans?”

“By the time Treja and I heard the commotion, Antoinette had already killed the two maids. There was no way we’d be able to cover that up.”

Treja glared over at Melinda. “Maybe you should be blaming the one who was supposed to be watching Antoinette but left early to go hunting.”

“Fuck you.” Melinda’s eyes glowed red. “I’d been watching the bitch all day and—”

“Enough!” Chiang Shih was not in the mood for petty excuses from Melinda. Her gaze burrowed into the young master, warning her to remain quiet. She turned to the others. “Where’s Antoinette now?”

“With my coven,” answered Treja. “Once things quieted down, Walker and I went looking for her. We found her hanging around the burnt-out row house she and Ion used for their coven. She’s heavily sedated. Even if she does wake up, my vampires will make sure she stays put.”

“Which raises a question we’ve been putting off for too long.” Walker stepped over to the sofa and sat beside Akers. “What are we going to do with Antoinette? She’s become too much of a liability. After last night, I doubt there’s anyone in the city who doesn’t know about us.”

“That doesn’t matter any longer.” Chiang Shih smiled. “Thanks to Rebecca, in a few days the whole world will know we exist.”

Akers lowered his head, the look of dejection evident on his face.

“What’s wrong, human?” The words seethed from Melinda.

Akers fidgeted on the sofa. “Nothing.”

Chiang Shih leaned forward and bent her head to meet his gaze. “You’re upset because I sired Rebecca before you, is that it?”

Akers nodded meekly. “I’m afraid I let you down somehow.”

“Not at all. You’ve done everything I have asked and more. Rebecca has already completed her mission. But I still need you as a human for a few more days. After that, you will join us.”

“And what did she do?” asked Treja.

“She brought us the Vampyrnomicon.”

Four pairs of eyes stared at Chiang Shih incredulously. Walker broke the silence. “You’re joking.”

“Far from it.” Chiang Shih stood and went over to the cabinet behind her, opened the main drawer, and removed an object wrapped in a cloth. She brought it to the coffee table and placed it on the glass. The others were on the edge of their seats, silently watching as she folded back the ends of the cloth to reveal a large, ancient book bound in human skin. Each of the masters and Akers stared at the Vampyrnomicon, awestruck by its presence.

“Dear Satan,” said Treja. “It’s real.”

“You doubted?” Chiang Shih asked coyly.

“We all did.” Walker reached out and pulled the book toward him, opening it up to scan the pages. “It’s been lost for so long, most of us thought the stories about it were just legend.”

“As you can see, it’s far from being a legend.” Chiang Shih moved over to stand behind Walker. “Once I read the incantation, every master sired and every vampire created will become a daywalker like me.”

Walker shifted in his seat to look up at the Mistress. “Will we be as invulnerable as you?”

“Unfortunately, no. But you’ll be impervious to sunlight. Once that happens, nothing will stop us. We’ll be able to attack the humans day and night, stopping only to feast. Then we can begin our final assault on mankind and gain dominion over the humans.”

Melinda could hardly contain her excitement. “Read it now.”

“Patience, little one. All in good time.”

“When will that be?” asked Treja.

“Very soon. First, we need to lay some groundwork.” Chiang Shih headed back to her chair as she talked. “We have to put this city into such a state of terror that when we begin to establish our dominion, the local authorities will be too paralyzed to stop us. And we must neutralize the hunters.”

“When do you intend on doing all this?” asked Treja.

“We move against the humans tonight, the longest night of the year.”

“How do you plan on doing it?” asked Walker.

Chiang Shih proceeded to tell her masters how they would establish the first successful vampire nation on earth.

SITTING IN AN extraordinarily uncomfortable easy chair by the edge of Alison’s hospital bed, Drake maintained his vigil. He absentmindedly thumbed through the same magazine for the umpteenth time, reading the articles but not absorbing the information. It gave him something to do to occupy his time. He had been here since the hospital admitted Alison last night, almost twelve hours ago, waiting for her to wake up, and all that time praying that she would.

Finally, Alison shifted her head slowly from side to side and let out a muffled moan. Drake dropped the magazine and scooted his chair closer to the bed. With his elbows resting on the mattress, he leaned closer and whispered to Alison.

“Come on, hon. Wake up. You can do it.”

The moaning became more pronounced. Alison turned her head in his direction. Her eyelids fluttered several times before she opened them. The slightest trace of a grin spread across her face.

“I must be having a nightmare.”

“That’s my girl.” Drake chuckled and took her hand in his, squeezing gently. “Welcome back.”

“Where am I?” she asked groggily.

“Arlington Hospital. Do you remember anything about last night?”

“Not much.” Alison tried to sit up. She made it only a few inches and winced. Taking the bed’s remote, Drake raised the head and helped her into an upright position. Alison leaned back into the pillows and grimaced. “The last thing I remember is firing at the master on top of the elevator. She jumped from the car, clipped me, and the two of us tumbled over the guardrail. After that, everything’s blank.”

“You’re lucky to be alive. You fell into the pool of water on the basement floor and drowned. I gave you CPR. You came to for a few seconds but passed out again.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Almost thirteen hours. But that’s mostly because the nurses gave you a sedative and some pain killers to make sure you slept through the night.”

“Other than dying, how am I?”

Drake smiled. “Damn lucky. No concussions, broken bones, or internal injuries. Though your chest and back are going to hurt for a few days from where the master hit you and knocked you over the guardrail. Standard bruises for you.”

“Did you kill the bitch?”

“No. She bolted out of the hotel after knocking you into the pool. I saved you rather than go after her.”

“At least you have your priorities straight.” Alison squeezed his hand. Drake wrapped his fingers around her palm and did not let go. “How many were killed at the hotel?”

“I didn’t stick around long enough to find out.”

“I can answer that.” The voice came from the hospital room doorway. They looked over to see Smith standing there. As always, he was impeccably dressed in a dark Savile Row suit, his London Fog overcoat draped over his arm. “I’m glad to see you’re okay.”

“Relatively speaking,” joked Alison.

Smith entered the room and crossed over to the opposite side of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like hell.”

“Well, you’re going to be fine. I talked to the nurse on the way in. She said they’re going to keep you one more night for observation. If there are no complications, they plan on releasing you tomorrow morning.”

“That’s fine by me as long as they give me some pain killers before letting me go.”

Smith chuckled. “I’ll make sure they do that.”

“Thanks for coming,” said Drake.

“No problem. I wanted to check on my star hunter. And I wanted to update you on what happened last night.”

“Bad?”

Smith nodded. “Very. The master killed eleven people before escaping. She fed off of most of them.”

“Shit,” Drake whispered.

“The dead were taken to various hospitals in the area and to the morgue. I tracked down seven of the bodies so far and told the staff to cremate them immediately. Made up a bullshit story about the killer having a highly contagious disease, so the corpses had to be destroyed quickly to contain the outbreak.”

“Good thinking,” said Alison.

“Not good enough. I’ve yet to track down the final four. In all the confusion, the police don’t know where all the bodies were taken.”

Drake shrugged. “Having to deal with four undead is better than dealing with eleven.”

“I still have all day today to track them down, so let’s hope for the best. But we still have to face the fact that Chiang Shih now has the Vampyrnomicon.”

Drake released Alison’s hand. “I’ve called everyone together tomorrow morning to discuss strategy. Can you make it?”

“I wouldn’t miss it. My boss called this morning and told me to tell you that your team can have anything it needs to find and stop Chiang Shih before she implements her plans.”

“All I need is to know where that bitch is located. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“Good. I have to get going.” Smith focused his attention on Alison. “If you need anything, let me know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

After Smith left, Drake took Alison’s hand again. “I need to get going, too. I want to go home and get some sleep, and then prepare for the meeting.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

“Cushing is coming by later to spend the night with you, just in case some of the snuffies track you down. Do you want me to get someone to sit with you today?”

Alison shook her head. “I’ll be fine. The best thing for me right now is rest.”

“Okay. I’ll be by to pick you up in the morning. Call if you need anything.”

Drake leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek. He then grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and left the room, stopping just long enough to wave goodbye.

AFTER DRAKE HAD left, Alison leaned back into the pillows and closed her eyes. The conversation had tired her out. She would get all the rest she could now, because as of tomorrow it would probably be days before she got a good sleep.

Last night’s experience had brought home to her how fragile life was. She had faced death more times than she wanted to think about. Her luck finally had run out, and thankfully Drake was there to save her. This time. Luck was finite, hers more so than most people’s. She no longer felt confident about making it through to the end, about surviving long enough to see the eradication of the vampire threat. For months she had avoided asking Drake out for fear it might impact their working relationship. Such concerns could no longer dictate her life. She deserved some happiness and planned on taking it while she could.

Tomorrow, when Drake picked her up, Alison would tell him that she wanted to be his lover.

“KEEP ME POSTED.” Jim closed the cover of his cell phone and tossed it on top of his work bench.

“What’s up?” Sarah nursed along a mocha cappuccino.

“That was the boss. Alison’s awake and doing fine. He’s been with her all night, so he’s heading home to get some rest.”

“I assume our strategy session is still on for tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah,” Jim said with a sense of resignation.

“What’s wrong?”

“Those stakes Helms brought us.”

Sarah took another sip of her drink. “Still haven’t figured out what to do with them?”

“Drake asked me to find some way to verify which one is authentic. To do that, I’d have to send them out for testing, which the boss won’t let me do.”

“So, we use all three of them.”

“That’s the problem.” Jim leaned forward and rested his arms on the work bench. “If the first stake doesn’t kill her, Chiang Shih won’t give us a second chance.”

“What about having three of us attack her at once?”

“Too risky. If one of us gets taken down, and they’re carrying the real stake, we’re screwed.”

Finishing her mocha cappuccino, Sarah dropped the empty cup into the trash bin. “Too bad you don’t have a Gatling gun like Hugh Jackman did in that movie. Then you could fire all three stakes at once.”

“What?” Jim asked excitedly.

“I was joking.”

“Maybe. But you gave me a great idea.” Jim leaned toward Sarah and kissed her. “We’ve got work to do.”

RODRIGUEZ’ MUSCLES ACHED, but not as bad as when he had started his jog half an hour ago. The first quarter mile had been the worst, especially after having been laid up for several days. He had almost turned around and trudged back home, but then the pain subsided, being replaced by the familiar burn. Now that he had caught his second wind, he increased the intensity of his workout. Of course, Rodriguez was trying to work out his own guilt as much as the stiffness in his muscles. He had felt like a slacker watching the attack at the Grand Hyatt play itself out on television, especially after he heard that Alison had nearly drowned. Rodriguez knew he would be useless to Drake and the others if he did not get his ass in gear. By the time he turned back on his street again, he felt like his old self.

As Rodriguez opened the front door to his townhouse and stepped into the foyer, he saw Sophia standing by the bottom of the steps, wearing her winter coat. She stood with her back to him as she looked up the stairs.

“Hurry up, Vanessa.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” responded the tiny voice from her bedroom.

“Now!”

Rodriguez winced. It was not like Sophia to be so abrupt with their daughter. He wished he knew what bothered his wife, but the last time he had asked she nearly bit his head off. This time he tried a different approach.

“Where are you going?”

Sophia barely turned to look at him. Her eyes narrowed angrily, and she set her lips tight. “Out.”

“I can see that, but where?”

“To the mall,” answered Vanessa from the top of the stairs. Holding her purse in one hand and the railing with the other, she descended one step at a time. Dolly dutifully followed, pausing every few seconds so she did not rush past the girl. “Mom promised me if I was good she’d take me to see Santa. Do you want to go with us?”

“I’d love to.” Rodriguez instantly forgot about the ache in his muscles. “Just give me a few—”

“We don’t have time to wait for you.”

“Oh, come on. You know it doesn’t take me—”

“We don’t have time!” Sophia nearly shouted. Her voice contained such vehemence that even Vanessa and Dolly stopped short on the stairs and stared in disbelief. Sophia turned to her daughter. “Hurry up if you want to see Santa.”

Vanessa looked between her mother and father, uncertain what to do. Rodriguez nodded to her and mouthed, “Go with your mother.”

When Vanessa reached the bottom of the stairs, Sophia took her hand and practically dragged their daughter out the front door. Vanessa barely had time to turn and wave goodbye to her father. Sophia rushed the girl out, slamming the door behind them.

Rodriguez looked down at Dolly. “What was that all about?”

Dolly twisted her head to one side and stared at him with big, soulful eyes.

“Come on, girl. After I take a shower, I’ll make us some lunch.”

Dolly followed Rodriguez upstairs, keeping pace beside him and slapping his leg repeatedly with her tail.

BRADDOCK WENT THROUGH Renee’s locker, removing her personal belongings and placing them in a cardboard box. A newspaper clipping about her graduation from the police academy. Her badge from when she served on the Little Rock Police. A commendation from the State of Arkansas for stopping a shooting massacre at a local high school. A letter from her father telling Renee how proud he was. And three photographs. The first was of a middle-aged couple whom he assumed were her parents. The second showed Renee and her younger brother at the beach. In the third, she cradled a Yorkie. Braddock could not recall Renee ever mentioning she had a pet, but he made a mental note to drop by her place and check it out.

Once Renee’s effects were stored away, Braddock filled in the empty spaces with packing material. On top of the contents he placed the letter he had written last night to Renee’s family. He would mail the box on his way home. It was the least he could do. It would not take away her family’s pain, but if it provided them with some closure and gave them a memento to remember Renee by, then it was worth the effort.

Braddock stared at the envelope one final time before closing the cardboard flaps and taping them closed. This had been an exceptionally difficult letter to write, and Christ knew he had written his fair share over the years. You never get used to breaking news to loved ones that their son or daughter, husband or wife, father or mother had given their life in the line of duty. This particular letter ate away at Braddock because of the circumstances behind it. Renee Sommers had not sacrificed herself for a greater cause. She died because he had put her in a situation neither of them was prepared for or adequately equipped to handle. The vampire may have been the one who killed her, but he had led Renee to her death because he had agreed to play by others’ rules.

Braddock would have to live with that for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry about your loss.”

Braddock turned and saw Preston standing at the end of the row of lockers. The little prick was the last person he wanted to talk to right now. “Are you?”

“Yes.” Preston approached and took a seat on the bench by the cardboard box. “I know I’m not the most popular person on the force, but I do feel the loss when one of the officers under my command is killed.”

Braddock huffed. “You didn’t even know her.”

“Not personally. But I read her file. She was an amazing young woman. I know that when the high school in Little Rock was being terrorized by those Columbine wannabes, she entered the building by herself armed only with her service revolver, tracked the killers down, and took them out before they could murder any more civilians. That took more courage than most of the cops I’ve known have ever shown.”

“That’s why I hired her.” Braddock finished taping shut the box. “Renee showed the same courage last night when we went into the hotel. Only this time she wasn’t dealing with two nutjobs with assault rifles. She was dealing with something far more evil and vicious, and she paid for my mistake with her life.”

“Don’t blame yourself. Bad decisions were made for you.”

Braddock bristled. Preston was trying to turn Renee’s death into part of his power play against Roach. He fought back the urge to deck him.

Preston must have sensed that he had pissed off Braddock. He stood to leave, putting a few feet between himself and Braddock before turning to face him.

“I am sorry about Renee’s death. If you want to beat yourself up about it, go ahead. I can’t stop you.”

“Fuck you.”

Preston ignored the verbal attack. “You’re still a cop, and you have a job to do. And soon you’re going to have to make a decision.”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night was not an isolated incident. Things are going to come to a head before too long. Several cops have thrown their lot in with me and are ready to deal with this threat. We could use your team.”

“You forget, Roach ordered us to stand down.”

Preston smirked. “I overrode Roach’s order. You still have access to Rolling Thunder and your gear. The question is, how will you use it?”

Pulling a calling card from his jacket pocket, Preston tossed it onto the bench. “That’s my cell phone. If you make the right decision, call me. If you don’t… well, I don’t care. I’m cleaning up this city with or without you.”

Braddock watched as Preston exited the locker room. Once the bastard had left, he picked up the card and slid it into his shirt pocket, then grabbed the cardboard box and lodged it under his arm. As much as he hated to admit it, Preston was right. Things were about to come to a head, and he could not afford to sit on the sidelines any longer. He owed it to Renee to take down those undead motherfuckers and give them some well-deserved payback.

ROACH GRIPPED THE television remote in his hand, switching between the noon coverage of the four local affiliates. Not that he needed to, for each one reported pretty much the same thing. The stations’ star correspondents stood along the police barricade surrounding the front of the Grand Hyatt, recounting the massacre that had occurred there the night before, and interviewing eyewitnesses who were inside at the time. It was a repeat of what he had watched ad nauseum during last night’s eleven o’clock broadcasts and again this morning during the early shows. He did not need to be reminded that once again the undead had successfully terrorized the city while his police stood by impotently due to his own incompetence.

Switching to Fox Five, Roach paused. Photos of Anderson and Chaney, the two cops murdered while trying to get guests out of the hotel, appeared on the upper right portion of the screen. He increased the volume. The noon anchor, a young African-American woman, talked about how heroic they were to risk their own lives to save the hotel’s patrons, and concluded with emotional sound bites from family and friends of the deceased. It tore him up inside to stare at their photographs and listen to their loved ones reminisce about how good they were. Anderson and Chaney had been good cops. Damn good cops. And now they were dead thanks to him.

Roach jammed his finger onto the power button, shutting off the television. The round-the-clock coverage made him sick, serving as a constant reminder of how miserably he had failed. He had let down his men, the mayor, the citizens of Washington, and worst of all, himself. Roach hated to think of how many men and women had died over the last few months because he stubbornly refused to accept reality and had treated the vampire threat as a normal crime spree. What really struck home was when he heard that Reynolds had allowed the hunters into the hotel to stop the slaughter, signifying that even his own men put more faith in Drake Matthews than they did in him.

The phone on his desk rang. Roach picked up the receiver. “Yes.”

His secretary answered. “Sir, Mayor Finley is on line one. And he doesn’t sound very happy.”

“Thanks.” Roach had been expecting this call all morning. He took a deep breath and pushed the button that connected him to the mayor. “Captain Roach here.”

“You’re not captain anymore.”

“Effective as of when?”

“Immediately.” Finley paused, tempering his next words with as much sympathy as he could offer. “Sorry, Mark. My hands are tied on this one. The press is having a field day covering last night’s massacre. Every member of the city council has demanded that you be removed. Hell, even members of your own force are telling me that they’ve lost confidence in you.”

“I understand, sir. I’m a political liability.”

“Damn it, Mark.” The mayor’s sympathy vanished in a fit of anger. “This has nothing to do with politics. This city is on the verge of panic. Another attack like last night’s and we’re going to lose control of the situation. I have to sacrifice you if I want to restore confidence around here. I’m holding a news conference tomorrow morning to announce my decision, but I wanted you to hear it from me first. I owe you that much.”

“Thanks.” Roach did not mean it, but he did not feel like arguing. “Will Preston be taking over?”

“I’d rather give the city to the criminals than that little shit. I’m going outside the force for your replacement. The chief of the Richmond Police has agreed to take the job.” Finley paused. “Again, I’m sorry it had to happen this way. Good luck.”

The mayor hung up. Roach replaced the receiver in its cradle. Surprisingly, being fired did not upset him as much as he thought it would. In fact, he felt a sense of relief. He had been sitting on the fence so long, compromising his sense of duty with his responsibility as chief of police, that he had become ineffective. Now that he was no longer bound by the restrictions of his position, he could finally do something about the threat facing the city.

And he knew exactly what needed to be done.

JESSICA SORTED THE clothes in her dresser and closet, carefully folding each item and deciding which ones were going with her and which would be shipped to Afghanistan later. The former went into one of her two suitcases, the latter into the several boxes cluttering her bedroom floor. These would be forwarded later after she had settled in and found herself a permanent residence. Philips had arranged to put the majority of her household belongings into storage.

As Jessica packed, however, she did not feel the excitement she thought she would. Her career was finally gaining momentum. After having made a name for herself here in Washington, she was heading to Afghanistan as The Standard’s chief correspondent. After a few years solidifying her reputation, she would then be ready to move over to a more respectable newspaper, or maybe make the jump to television. With nothing but success in front of her, she should be ecstatic. Instead, she had spent the last two days moping around her apartment.

Jessica damn well knew the reason why. She felt horrible about the way she had left things with Drake. Asking him to join her in Afghanistan had been a whim, a nice idea that she never expected him to take her up on. She had been prepared for him to say no, and planned on using that opportunity to end their relationship, making a clean break with her past so she did not carry any emotional baggage to her new life. Instead, she had completely fucked up their last night together, and had felt horrible about it ever since. Although they had nothing in common, and Jessica could not see them spending the rest of their lives together, she liked Drake and did not want to see their friendship end on such a negative tone.

Taking a break, she stepped over to her bureau and picked up the airline ticket. Philips had booked her a flight out of Reagan National for ten the next morning. She looked at her watch. It was a quarter after three in the afternoon. A part of her wanted to call Drake and see if they could meet for a quick dinner so she could say goodbye without the theatrics. That would still give her plenty of time to come home, finish packing, and grab a few hours’ sleep before she had to head out to the airport. Taking her purse, she opened it and started rummaging around for her cell phone.

No, thought Jessica. She closed her purse and placed it back on her bureau. She had to stop clinging to the past and look to her future. As much as she wanted to apologize for her behavior and set things right, she knew damn well how things would turn out. The chances were good that dinner and an apology would lead to break-up sex. Although she enjoyed the physical part, she did not need that entanglement right now. Maybe later, once her career reached the stage she wanted it to.

Going back to her dresser and resuming packing, Jessica formulated a new plan. Once in Afghanistan, she would write Drake a long letter, apologize for the other night, and ask if they could still be friends. She felt reasonably certain he would be receptive to the idea. That way she could keep her options open and not hurt Drake in the process. And who knows. Their relationship was such that maybe in a few months she could fly back so they could spend a long weekend together.

Jessica had all the time in the world ahead of her.

VAN HELSING RACED back and forth in front of the cage door when Drake entered the room. The rabbit kept his large brown eyes focused on Drake and, when he reached up to the roof of the cage, ran up to him. Standing on his hind legs and placing his front paws against the cage wall, the rabbit shoved his nose through the slats and sniffed rapidly. His mouth began chewing in anticipation of a treat. Drake removed three raisins from their bag, placed one between his lips, and pressed his face close to Van Helsing’s. The rabbit reached out with his tiny mouth and plucked the treat from Drake, munching furiously. Drake repeated the ritual two more times. After finishing off the third raisin, Van Helsing stared at Drake, his head slightly tilted.

“That’s enough, boy. You don’t want to get fat.”

Van Helsing leaned his head forward. Drake pushed his nose between the slats, and Van Helsing nudged it with his own.

“Thank you,” he said gently. “I love you, too.”

When Drake left the den for the kitchen, Van Helsing scurried off to the opposite corner of his cage to munch on hay.

Drake stepped over to the refrigerator, hoping to find some iced coffee. God knows he needed a cup. He had not wanted to rest so long, but his quick nap had become a deep, five-hour sleep. By the time he had finally woken up, it was already late afternoon. Although Drake needed the rest, he had half a dozen things he had to prepare for tomorrow morning’s meeting. And he still felt groggy.

When he opened the door, however, he found the refrigerator practically empty. His pitcher of iced coffee was down to its last dregs, barely enough to fill a shot glass. The food situation was not much better. He had nothing for supper, unless he wanted a pudding cup or the remains of a steak and cheese sub that had been sitting there for God knows how long. Much to his chagrin, he had run out of greens for Van Helsing. Add one more errand to his list.

Stepping into the hall, Drake grabbed his leather jacket from the coat hanger and checked the pockets to make sure he had money and his keys. Before leaving, he checked on Van Helsing one more time. The rabbit ran over to the cage as Drake approached, looking at him with pleading eyes.

“Sorry, boy. I know you want to get out, but I have a few errands to run first. I’ll bring you some basil and dill. How’s that sound?”

Van Helsing raised his ears at the mention of his favorite foods. Drake opened the cage and reached in. Van Helsing placed his head onto the floor, presenting himself for a pet. Drake obliged. When finished, he leaned his head in and kissed Van Helsing on the top of his head. The rabbit looked up and gave him another nose nudge.

Drake closed the cage door. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Turning around, Drake left the den and exited his apartment, making his way to the elevators.

Outside, the sun settled below the horizon.

13

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22. Customers making last minute Christmas purchases filled the Shops at National Plaza, the indoor mall in downtown Washington just off the Marriott Hotel, each blissfully unaware of the horror about to befall them.

Melinda led her coven of ten vampires through the sewers and into the mall’s basement. From there they made their way up to the main level, murdering three employees unfortunate enough to cross their path. Following the posted floor plans, the young master led her coven to the access doors leading into the main arcade. She placed her hand on the push bars and paused.

“Now, my children. This is the moment I’ve been promising you. Feed on as many humans as you can, and create more minions for the Mistress.”

A young vampire of barely sixteen cocked its head. “You mean there are no restrictions on who we can hunt?”

“No restrictions.” Melinda pushed open the door. “Kill them all!”

The vampires swarmed into the mall.

A mother pushing her son in a stroller was the first victim. Two teenage vampires in gang colors set upon the stroller, ripping out the child and scampering off down the mall, tearing at the boy like a pair of dogs fighting over a piece of meat. The mother instantly went insane at the sight of her child being rendered. She set off after them, screaming hysterically, but made it only a few yards before a female vampire tackled her. Still out of her mind, the mother did not even feel it when the female vampire sunk its fangs into her throat.

Attracted by the commotion, several bystanders rushed over to help, including three college football players confident they could handle the situation. They were wrong, and paid for their mistake with their lives. The remaining vampires poured out of the back room, attacking the young men as they came to the mother’s defense and ravaging the closest bystanders. Within the first minute, ten humans died.

Panic set in amongst those who witnessed the slaughter. They dropped their bundles and ran for safety, pushing and shoving as they tried to escape. Six vampires left their current victims to bleed out and pursued the shoppers. A few pounced on those who had fallen, tearing into their necks. The rest went after the fleeing targets.

Four vampires converged on a bookstore directly across from the original butchery. The largest of the four stood guard by the front door as the others swarmed inside. Half a dozen people who milled around the store entrance when the vampires burst in were quickly ravaged by fangs and talons. A few customers ran for the exit, only to be cut down by the larger vampire. The death toll would have been much higher, but a quick-thinking clerk ushered the remaining terrified customers into the storeroom and out the rear door into the service corridors, giving them the chance to escape.

Back out in the mall, the other six vampires had finished feeding and looked around for more victims. They saw a crowd gathered around the escalator and attacked. A middle-aged man in a Redskin’s cap saw the vampires approaching and started shoving his way down the escalator, pushing down an old lady who moved too slow and stepping on her as he tried to escape. A stampede erupted. People were pushed over the side of the escalator or trampled by those shoving to get away. A young woman in a business suit jumped from the second level to escape, breaking her leg in the fall. The vampires fed off of ten humans who could not get away in time. Twice that number were killed or crushed as a result of the panic, the latter writhing around in agony waiting to be feasted upon.

A young man in a wheelchair waiting for the elevator did not stand a chance. He was by the doors, frantically pushing the DOWN button, when a vampire dove at him from behind and wrestled him to the floor. He fought back, holding the vampire by the throat with one hand while pummeling its face with the other. After the third punch, the vampire grabbed the man’s arm and shattered the bone. Crying out, the young man released his grip to cradle his broken arm, and fell prey to the undead.

From the far end of the mall, two security guards ran through the fleeing crowds toward the carnage in front of the bookstore. As they drew closer, three vampires rushed toward them. The guards drew their service revolvers and fired. Round after round tore into the creatures, tearing out chunks of flesh, but failed to even slow them. By the time the guards realized their guns were having no effect, it was too late. Before either could react, the vampires swarmed over them, dragging both men to the ground and feasting.

Melinda strolled amidst her vampires, savoring the bloodshed. Her vampires had never been allowed to attack humans so openly. Within minutes, scores of humans had been added to the ranks of the undead. At this rate, by the end of the night Melinda’s coven would easily swell to more than a hundred. She remembered every sight, and mentally recorded every scream or cry for help. She was witnessing the first day of the end of mankind.

Flashing blue lights on the ground floor caught Melinda’s attention. She peered over the railing and saw that the lights belonged to a squad car parked by the mall entrance. Two policemen pushed their way through the throngs of customers desperate to escape, barely making it through the flood of people. They looked around. The older of the two cops, a paunchy black man with white hair, pointed to a nearby staircase leading to the second floor. His partner, a lanky white kid, nodded, and the two set off for the stairs.

Melinda grinned. It was easier than leading lambs to the slaughter. Stepping over to the vertically-mounted glass display containing the mall’s floor plan, she crouched beside it, curled up in a fetal position, and forced herself to shed tears.

A few moments later, the two cops reached the top of the stairs. The white-haired man led the way, his 9mm automatic sweeping the mall in front of him. His partner stayed a few feet behind, checking their rear for any threats. When they were about ten feet away, Melinda leaned out from behind the display.

“Help me,” she croaked.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” The white-haired cop ran over, sliding his pistol back into its holster. His partner stood back two yards, on the lookout for danger. As the older cop approached, Melinda leaned forward and held out her arms. The white-haired man held her close to him. “Are you okay?”

Melinda nodded into his shoulder.

“Where are your parents?”

Melinda pointed to a woman about twenty feet away lying in a pool of blood. She sobbed. “The monsters got her.”

“What’s your name, honey?”

“M-Melinda.”

“I’m Bill. This is Anthony. We’re going to get you out of here.”

Melinda buried her head against Bill’s shoulder and sobbed. “I’m scared.”

Bill hugged her tight. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“You promise?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cross your heart?”

“Yes.”

“And hope to die?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Melinda morphed into a vampire and plunged her fangs into Bill’s neck. His body tensed, but for a few seconds he did not respond. Then his senses registered the pain of the bite and the sickening sensation of having the blood sucked from his veins. He tried to push Melinda away, but she gripped him too tight. She dug her talons into his back, locking him in place.

“God damn it, Anthony! Get the bitch off me!”

Anthony swung his pistol toward Melinda. With Bill’s back to him, he could not get off a shot without hitting his partner. Circling around the side until he could see Melinda’s head, he aimed the pistol.

“Let go of him!”

Melinda looked up at Anthony, her mouth covered in blood and gore, and snarled. Anthony stepped forward, lowered his pistol at Melinda’s mouth, and fired. He flinched and shut his eyes as blood and specks of bone splattered his face. Moving back several steps, Anthony used his free hand to wipe his face, and then opened his eyes.

His sanity was ill-prepared for the horror that greeted him. Rather than lying dead on the floor, Melinda rested on her knees, staring at him with hate-filled eyes. The skin and muscles around her right cheek and lips were blasted away, revealing shattered teeth and gouged out gums. The bullet had blown a hole through the back of her throat and dislodged the jaw on the right side. It hung there, attached only by the left muscles, dropping her mouth into a horrifying lopsided gape. She pushed Bill away. Bill clutched his neck, blood gushing between his fingers as he gasped his last few breaths. Anthony raised his pistol, aiming for another shot.

Standing up, Melinda glared at Anthony. She used her hand to lift her jaw back into place. As Anthony watched in disbelief, the bones around the wound regenerated, retuning the jaw to normal. The ravaged gums mended themselves, and new teeth pushed their way through the surface. As she twisted her jaw from left to right, the bones snapped and ground together.

Anthony’s hand went numb from shock. He dropped to his knees and released his grip on the pistol, which clattered to the floor. Melinda stepped forward, kicked the pistol down the landing, and placed her face within inches of the cop’s. She spoke in a deep, gravelly voice, the result of her vocal chords being damaged.

“Your death will not be so pleasant.”

“Pl-please, do—”

Melinda shoved her hand into Anthony’s chest. Her taloned fingers punctured his skin and shattered his sternum, driving shards of bone into his heart. Melinda clasped her fingers around the dying organ.

“Only a heartless bastard would shoot an innocent child,” she rasped, a sardonic grin on her face. “So be it.”

Melinda clutched her fingers tight. Anthony grimaced as his heart exploded, then quickly slipped into peace. Melinda kept her grip on the ruptured organ, tearing it out of Anthony’s chest as his body crumbled to the floor. Raising it to her lips, she sucked the remaining blood out of the heart and tossed it aside.

By now, the coven had cleaned out all remaining humans from the second level and had descended to the main floor. As Melinda watched from her perch, the ten vampires swarmed outside and into a crowd of on-lookers. It was the beginning of a ten-hour rampage that would paralyze Pennsylvania Avenue.

WALKER STOOD ON the rotunda in front of National Cathedral, admiring its beauty. The twin bell towers lofting into the night sky. The rose window elegantly lit from inside. The exquisitely-detailed architectural designs that adorned the cathedral’s doors and buttresses. Although as a religious icon it represented everything he abhorred, he still marveled at its artistic elegance and appreciated the tremendous effort in time and manpower that went into its construction. Humans saw cathedrals as mankind’s testament to their faith in a divinity. Soon, they would view them in an entirely different light.

The chorus from “How Great Thou Art” emanated from inside the cathedral.

Treja stepped up beside Walker. On hearing the singing, he sneered.

“Think positively,” said Walker. “It’s Christmas, which means the place will be filled with the faithful.”

“It means the place will be filled with more food.”

“Are we ready?”

“Yes.”

Both men turned around. Behind them stood the twelve vampires of Treja’s coven. Walker snapped his fingers, commanding their attention. He pointed to the two sides of the cathedral. The vampires broke into separate groups and disappeared around the building. Walker and Treja waited until the coven was out of sight before they crossed the rotunda, climbed the cathedral’s steps, and entered. No one paid any attention to them as they bolted shut the main doors.

The two masters stood at the end of the central aisle and looked around the vestibule. Several hundred parishioners filled the pews, singing praises to their god. The hymn came to an end and the priest began communion when the twelve vampires burst through the doors surrounding the knave. Snarling and growling, the undead descended upon the closest pews. The humans had no idea what hit them. An elderly couple sitting near the pulpit was tackled to the ground, the wife dying of a coronary before she even hit the floor. A young husband inserted himself between his newlywed wife and a vampire dressed in a short skirt and tank top, only to have his face hacked off by its talons. The young woman cried out and tried to hold him, but another vampire in homeless clothes grabbed her by the hair, yanked her into him, and sunk his fangs into her neck.

“Enough!” The priest grabbed a three-foot tall brass cross from the altar and waded into the butchery. A vampire in a shabby overcoat turned to him and snarled. The priest approached, holding the cross out in front of him. “Be gone, demons! The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ com—”

The vampire lunged forward, plunging its taloned hand through the priest’s abdomen and slashing down. The smell of shit and bodily gases wafted from the wound. The priest’s abdomen opened up, revealing his intestines and organs, which spilled through the gash and plopped onto the tiled floor with a wet, sickening thud.

With the slaughtering of the priest, terror spread like wildfire through the cathedral. Those closest to the carnage ran first, shoving past the others and knocking down the innocent. More and more people panicked and joined the rush for the exits, filled with terror and the desire to escape.

As the first of the parishioners approached the vestibule doors, Walker and Treja morphed into vampires. They tore into the humans, ripping out throats and slicing chests. A few people tried to go around the two masters but were pushed forward by the surge. Dozens were driven into the undead slaughterhouse before them or crushed to death by those behind them. After several seconds, the crowd moved away from the masters, some making for the doors on either side of the main entrance. It only delayed their deaths.

Walker veered to his left and Treja to his right, leaving a score of maimed parishioners as they cut a swath toward the front doors. Those not trapped between the masters and the doors fled back into the vestibule, making their way to the rear exits where the other vampires waited. These vampires attacked the humans mercilessly, foregoing feeding to incapacitate those trying to escape, leaving the bodies to thrash about on the floor.

During the carnage, an altar boy had opened a concealed door near the front of the pulpit and was ushering parishioners to safety when one of the vampires noticed him and charged. Only enough time remained to get one person out. Rather than save himself, the altar boy grabbed a young mother cradling her child, shoved her through the opening, and closed the door shut just as the vampire pounced. Hitting the altar boy with all its might, the vampire fractured the boy’s spine. The vampire dragged him across the knave, tossed him on top of the communion table, and gutted him.

At the front of the cathedral, a teenage girl had enough foresight to unbolt the center door so they could escape, but because of the swell of people pushing to get out, she could not open it. Three men took action, two shoving back the terrified parishioners while the third forced the door open. He finally widened the gap enough for the teenage girl to squeeze through to safety. Seeing their chance to escape, more and more people pushed toward the opening, the sheer mass of escapees forcing it wider. Just over twenty people made it out when Walker noticed what was happening. He raced over and slammed it shut, crushing to death a middle-aged woman who had made it halfway through, the sound of her shattered and ruptured organs distinct even over the panicked yelling. Those trapped inside were quickly and violently dispatched by Walker and Treja.

Less than ten minutes after the vampires first broke into the cathedral, the attack ended. Walker crossed the blood covered floor and climbed the pulpit, surveying the destruction. Over two hundred people lay scattered around the vestibule, either dead or maimed. The cries of pain were overpowering. Walker inhaled deeply, holding his breath and savoring the smells of blood, decaying flesh, and fear.

“My children,” he declared loudly so the other vampires could hear. “Feast on the living, but make sure you let them bleed to death so they can join us.”

Amidst snarls of hunger and whimpers of terror, the second phase of the slaughter began.

“HURRY UP, SENATOR.” Lawrence Givens made no effort to conceal his displeasure.

“I’m coming, Lieutenant.” Senator Cassidy huffed as he tried to move his three-hundred-pound frame as fast as he could, a task made even more difficult by his being seventy-six years old and burdened with a heart condition. “There’s no need to be rude.”

“Sorry, Senator. But we’re facing a critical situation.”

Cassidy paused, leaning up against the wall of the underground emergency tunnel as he gasped for breath. “W-we’re safe down here.”

“None of us are safe until I can get you to a secure location. So please hurry.”

The senator took a deep, wheeze-filled breath. “Okay. Just give me a minute.”

We may not have that much time, Givens thought. As night shift supervisor for the Capitol Police, it was Givens’ job to ensure the safety of the members of Congress. Since 11 September, he and his men had undergone extensive training to deal with all types of threats, including terrorist attacks, bomb scares, and rampaging gunmen. None of their training had prepared them for how to deal with the widespread rioting engulfing Washington. Thankfully, it being the Christmas recess, most of Capitol Hill had returned home for the holidays, leaving behind only a handful of Congressmen and staffers. Those numbers included Senator Cassidy from Virginia, who lived in Alexandria and spent much of the recess in his office catching up on business; his twenty-something female staffer; Congresswoman Fitzgerald from California, who had stayed in Washington to have dinner with friends and was scheduled to fly home on Monday; and six interns.

His original plan had been to put them into armored cars and drive them out of the city, heading for either Fort Detrick or Fort Belvoir. Those intentions had changed when he received police reports of rioting on Pennsylvania Avenue near the White House and of a disturbance at National Cathedral. Not knowing for certain how bad the situation was topside, Givens opted to use the tunnel systems to get his charges to one of the city’s underground secure locations. From there he could evaluate the crisis and decide on a proper course of action.

Givens called over Jill Robson and Sam Bellamah, the two other Capitol Police officers who were escorting the group.

“What’s up, lieutenant?”

“I want you two to go on ahead and scout the area. Make sure we’re not running into any problems. We’ll follow in a few minutes.”

“Is that a good idea?” asked Robson.

“Just do as I say.” Givens knew better than to divide his limited force, but he felt more comfortable taking some type of action rather than standing around idly waiting for Cassidy to catch his breath.

The two officers nodded and ran off down the tunnel.

Givens stepped over to Cassidy. The Senator continued huffing, but not as bad as before. His staffer wiped the Senator’s brow with a handkerchief.

“Do you think you’re up to continuing, Senator?”

“Just leave him,” said one of the interns, a smarmy kid with blonde hair done up in short spikes. “He’s slowing us down.”

Givens spun around with a look of anger in his eyes that immediately made the intern back down. “We’re not leaving anyone behind. Is that cl—”

A shout came from the direction Robson and Bellamah had gone, followed by several gunshots and a howl that sounded like it came from a wild animal. Givens’ shoulder-mounted microphone squawked to life. The panic-stricken voice belonged to Robson.

“Jesus Christ, Lieutenant! Don’t come this way! There’s so—”

The connection went dead. A moment later, a high-pitched scream echoed down the tunnel.

“Back to the Capitol!” Givens saw the others looking around in fear and confusion. “Move!”

The last command shook the others out of their shock. Breaking into a run, the interns raced back the way they had come, leaving the others far back. Fitzgerald paused, uncertain what to do until another howl echoed down the tunnel, only closer this time. She set off after the interns.

Givens ran over to Cassidy and placed a hand on the Senator’s shoulder. “We have to haul ass, sir.”

“There’s a lot of ass here to haul, son, but I’m with you.”

The three headed back to the Capitol as fast as Cassidy could, with Fitzgerald keeping pace. They barely had covered fifty feet when Givens heard the sound of running footsteps closing in from behind. Reaching under his suit jacket, Givens withdrew his 9mm Glock, chambered a round, and spun around to face the advancing threat.

He was not prepared for the sight that greeted him. A woman chased after them. At least, it had the figure of a woman. Everything else about the creature looked like something out of a monster movie. Fangs. Blood-red eyes. Taloned fingers. Scarred, leathery skin across its chest and skull. Blotches of scraggily brunette hair. When he lined up the pistol’s sights on its chest, for a split second the image reminded him of one of his teenage son’s video games.

Squeezing the trigger in rapid succession, Givens fired off five rounds into the creature. Each bullet slammed into its chest and shoulders, knocking it off balance but doing nothing to slow its advance. As Givens fired the sixth shot, the creature ducked to the left and lashed out with its right hand. The talons sliced through Givens’ forearm, severing his hand just above the wrist. His hand dropped to the cement, still clutching the Glock. Givens yelled out and fell sideways against the wall, holding the stump in his left hand.

A cry caught his attention. He looked down the tunnel to see the creature lunge through the air onto Cassidy’s back. The Senator went down with a heavy thud. Fitzgerald started back to help her colleague. When the creature bit into Cassidy’s carotid artery, sending streams of blood spurting along the tunnel wall, she turned and ran away as fast as possible. Givens did not know what bothered him more, the Senator’s screaming or the sickening slurping of the creature as it fed off of him.

Struggling to his feet, Givens stumbled across the floor to where his Glock lay. With his left hand, he reached down, loosened the severed hand’s grip, and picked up the weapon. He plodded toward the fallen Senator, trying to center on the creature’s back, but the loss of blood combined with his unfamiliarity with shooting with his left hand made his aim unsteady. When he pulled the trigger, the first two rounds were erratic, ricocheting off the wall. The third struck the creature in the lower back. It spun its head to face him and then lunged.

Givens squeezed the trigger again, but he was out of ammo. As he lowered the Glock, the creature lashed out with its talons, amputating his remaining hand. Givens fell to his knees, his senses overwhelmed. He felt his life’s blood pouring from the stumps. He did not feel the creature grabbing him by the hair, yanking his head back, and sinking its fangs into his throat.

When it finished, it flung Givens’ mangled body to the floor to bleed out and set off after the others.

SMITH RECLINED IN his easy chair, his legs kicked out and his upper body leaning back at a forty-five degree angle. Mozart played from the stereo. A plate of sliced cheese and a glass of burgundy were within easy reach. For Smith, it was the perfect way to spend a relaxing evening and unwind. God knows he needed it.

The ringing of his cell phone, however, warned Smith that his night of relaxation was about to come to an abrupt end. The ring tone belonged to his boss. A call at this hour boded ill.

Smith picked up the remote to the stereo and pressed the MUTE button. He then reached for his cell phone, flipped it open, and held it to his ear.

“Good evening, sir.”

“It’s far from good. Are you watching television?”

“No.”

“You need to.”

Smith raised his easy chair into the upright position and stood. Stepping over to the television, he switched it on. The channel was set to the local NBC affiliate. The screen showed a long shot looking down Pennsylvania Avenue, with the camera located near the Justice Department. A massacre was taking place down by the Warner Theater. Figures were running around wildly, pouncing on bystanders, dragging them to the ground, and butchering them. Dozens of bodies lay strewn around the square. Even from this distance, the cameras could detect the glistening pools of blood. Smith immediately realized he was watching a vampire assault. The adrenaline pumping through his veins overrode the chill inching its way down his spine.

“How bad is it?” Smith asked.

“Much worse than the news is reporting. There are two major outbreaks, one near the White House and the other at National Cathedral. What the news is not reporting is that there was a third attack in the underground tunnels leading to the Capitol.”

“How many casualties?” Smith flipped to the ABC affiliate, which showed the same carnage, but from the vantage point of the roof of the Warner Theater.

“About a hundred that we know of, though that number is certain to climb before the night is over.”

Smith turned to Fox Five. He could not hear what the station anchor said, but she was crying. On the screen behind her, the video showed the front of National Cathedral with half a dozen D.C. police cars parked out front, each one covered in blood and surrounded by corpses. Two vampires rushed toward the camera, filling the video screen a split second before the picture devolved into electronic snow.

“Dear God,” Smith mumbled into the phone.

“You’re watching Fox?”

“Yeah. What happened?”

“A news crew accompanied the police when they responded to the attack at the cathedral. They were set upon by a dozen of the undead. None of them survived, not even the news crew.”

Smith shut off the television, unable to watch the death of his city. “What now?”

“I need you here to help coordinate a response.”

“Give me a few minutes to get dressed and I’ll head right over.”

“It’s too dangerous to travel by yourself. I’ve dispatched an armored car with a security detail. They’ll bring you in.”

“Roger that, sir.”

“I’ll see you in about half an hour,” said Smith’s boss. “And for God’s sake, be careful.”

Smith flipped the cell phone shut and headed upstairs for the bedroom. Opening his closet, he reached for his suit and paused. Given the situation, the boss would understand if he opted for street clothes. Smith dressed in jeans, a casual shirt, and work boots. As he slid on his jacket, a knock sounded at the door. It must be his security detail.

Smith left the bedroom and rushed downstairs. He headed across the living room for the foyer, shutting off the lights as he went. Pausing at the entrance just long enough to punch in his security system code, he opened the front door.

“Good timing. I just finished—”

Two vampires rushed into the apartment. The first, an overweight female, slammed its hands into Smith’s chest, throwing him backwards into the sofa. Smith somersaulted over the back and crashed down onto the glass-topped coffee table, shattering the surface. The second vampire, a male drug addict with stringy black hair, stepped inside and shut the door. When the security alarm went off, it ripped the keypad off the wall and casually tossed it to one side. Both vampires entered the living room, splitting up and circling around the ends of the sofa.

Smith rolled around on the floor, shards of glass crunching beneath his back. He struggled to get to his feet, but for several seconds remained too disoriented to stand. A set of hands grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet.

The female vampire pulled Smith close. He felt its cold, dead breath on his cheeks.

“We finally meet, hunter.”

“You’re as stupid as you are ugly. I’m not a hunter.”

It threw him across the room and into the fireplace. Smith yelped as his left shoulder fractured against the bricks, the pain clouding his mind and causing his vision to go black. He fell to one side, knocking over the stand holding the fireplace tools.

The female vampire came over and stood in front of Smith. “You’re worse than the hunters. They at least fight honorably. You hide in the shadows.”

Smith felt around with his right hand until his fingers fell upon the poker. As the female vampire lifted him to his feet again, he swung the poker at its head. His actions were far too slow, having been dulled by his injuries. The female vampire reached out with its right hand and blocked the swing. With the left hand, it clutched Smith’s wrist and snapped the bone. He bellowed and dropped to his knees, cradling the broken wrist against his thigh.

The male vampire knelt down in front of Smith. “This human is so pathetic. Let’s make him squeal like a pig before we kill him.”

“You might as well kill me quickly and get it over with,” Smith gasped. “I’m not going to beg for mercy.”

“We didn’t expect you to.” The female vampire grasped Smith by the collars and yanked him to his feet again, lifting him off the floor so his legs dangled helplessly. Brandishing its fangs, the female vampire lowered Smith. He tried to push away, but with his broken wrist and shoulder he did not have the strength. He futilely arched his head away as the female vampire bit into his neck and began drinking his blood.

FOX FIVE REPLAYED for what seemed like the hundredth time the video footage of the vampire attack on the police units and camera crew outside of National Cathedral. The female anchor, struggling to keep her voice calm, spoke over the image and warned everyone in Washington to stay in their homes and lock their doors. Along the bottom of the screen, the news scroll repeated the same information as well as provided quotes from Mayor Finley and Joel Preston about how the city authorities had the situation under control, statements negated by updates on the attacks that placed the death toll at over one hundred and fifty dead. Rodriguez ignored the television. He had seen too many attacks like this firsthand, and did not need to watch them on instant replay.

Punching Drake’s mobile phone number into his cell phone for the third time, Rodriguez hit the SEND button and waited. A moment later, a pre-recorded female voice came over the line announcing that all circuits were busy and urging him to try again. This time Rodriguez punched in the phone number for the office, but got the same recording. Not that it surprised him. The same thing happened in New York City during the attacks on the World Trade Center. So many people tried to call family and friends they overloaded the circuits and disrupted the city’s mobile phone service. Closing his cell phone, Rodriguez slid it into his pocket and moved over to the land line on the end table.

Sophia rested on the edge of the sofa, her attention riveted to the television. She filled her glass from the bottle of wine on the coffee table, but was too transfixed to drink. No matter how many times she watched the video, the impact of it still did not sink in. He had seen that expression many times before from innocent bystanders who had witnessed a vampire attack and survived, a combination of disbelief, fear, and shock. She could not avert her gaze.

“My God,” she finally said, never once taking her eyes off the images. “What’s going on? Is this a terrorist attack?”

“I wish it was.” Rodriguez dialed Drake’s cell phone and waited. The same pre-recorded message played over the line. Rodriguez slammed the phone back on its cradle. “Damn!”

The outburst caused Sophia to finally look away from the television. Her voice seethed with hostility. “Who are you calling?”

“Drake.”

“Who?”

“My boss.” Time to fess up, thought Rodriguez. He sat down on the sofa beside Sophia. “I quit the police force several weeks ago and have been working with Drake to combat these things.”

“I know you quit the force.”

“How did you know?”

“Your partner called two weeks ago to check on you. He told me that you resigned.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

Anger seethed in Sophia’s voice. “Because I also know about Alison.”

“Alison Monroe?”

Sophia moved away from him. “Is that your lover’s name?”

“My lover?” Suddenly everything fell into place. “For Christ’s sake! Alison works with Drake. I’m not having an affair.”

“Then what do you do every night you go out?”

“I’m fighting them.” Rodriguez pointed to the television.

At that moment, the television cut to Fox Five’s senior correspondent, who stood outside Union Station. Rodriguez grabbed the remote and increased the volume.

“…here on Capitol House is one of crisis, Victoria. We have unconfirmed reports that at least one of the rioters attacked and killed several Congressmen and staffers in an underground emergency tunnel beneath the Capitol, and may be inside the building as we speak. Mayor Finley has closed all Metro lines and suspended all bus service. Martial law has been declared for all of Washington, effective immediately for the downtown area and the outlying regions. All residents are urged to stay in their homes, lock all doors and windows, and wait for further—”

Rodriguez pressed the MUTE button and sprang from the sofa. “Come on! We have to get Vanessa and get out of here while we can.”

“Wait.” Sophia jumped off the sofa and followed Rodriguez, stopping him before he reached the hallway. “What’s going on? Who are these people?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Rodriguez tried to walk away, but Sophia grabbed his arm and yanked him around to face her.

“Damn it. You’ve been lying to me for weeks. I’m your wife. I’m owed the truth.”

Rodriguez sighed. “Those people on the television aren’t terrorists or rioters. They’re not even human. They’re vampires.”

“Stop fucking with me!” Sophia yelled.

“You should listen to your husband.”

The voice came from the hallway behind them. It was deep and guttural, and barely human. Rodriguez spun around and stepped in front of Sophia to protect her. Standing in the doorway to the living room stood two snuffies, a male and female about thirty years of age and dressed in soiled casual clothes. Rodriguez quickly assessed the situation. The male stepped into the living room and maneuvered toward Rodriguez and his wife.

“How did you get in here?” asked Rodriguez.

“You left the front door unlocked,” answered the female vampire. “Thank you for making it easy for us.”

“Who are these people?” Sophia asked her husband.

“We’re the undead,” answered the male as it stepped farther into the living room, herding the humans away from the stairs leading upstairs. “Your husband has been hunting my kind for several weeks now, and has killed several of us. Now it’s payback.”

The male vampire turned to its companion and nodded. Spinning around, the female raced upstairs, heading for Vanessa’s room.

Sophia pushed her way past Rodriguez and set off in pursuit. “Leave her alone, you bit—”

The male grabbed Sophia as she raced past, spun her around, and with its right hand clasped her against its chest. Rodriguez started to rush to her defense, but stopped when the snuffy dug the tips of its talons into the right side of her neck.

“One more step, hunter, and I rip out the cunt’s throat.”

Rodriguez stepped back several paces until he bumped into the coffee table, knocking over the glass of wine.

The male snuffy leaned into Sophia. “You and I are going to have a party. How does that sound?”

Sophia struggled to find courage, sounding defiant despite her tears. “Fuck you. I’d rather die.”

“Your choice. Either you and I party…” The male vampire ran its tongue along Sophia’s neck and up to her ear. “…or your daughter and I will.”

VANESSA WOKE UP from a deep sleep. She looked around her bedroom. In the soft glow of her Winnie the Pooh nightlight, everything seemed normal. But she knew something was wrong. Downstairs she could hear her mother and father yelling. They had been doing that a lot lately.

Something was approaching her bedroom. She knew it could not be either of her parents because the footsteps were too heavy. Whoever stood outside her door grabbed the knob and turned it. Vanessa pulled her legs up against her chest, clutched the covers, and yanked them up under her chin. As the door slowly swung open, the young girl called out in a whisper.

“Mommy?”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” The female vampire centered itself in the doorway. Vanessa’s eyes widened when she saw the vampire’s pallid skin, furrowed brow, and blood-red eyes. Her mother always told her monsters did not exist, but she was wrong.

The female vampire stepped into the bedroom. “Time to come out and play.”

A growl filled the room, but not from the vampire. From the right side of Vanessa’s bed, Dolly rose on her haunches. Upon seeing the creature threatening Vanessa, Dolly lunged. The dog landed on the end of the mattress, bounced into the air, and crashed its one-hundred-pound bulk into the vampire’s chest. Startled by the attack, the vampire did not have time to defend itself. Both were propelled backwards into the wall, partially smashing through the particle board. Dolly sank her teeth into the vampire’s throat and chomped down, tearing into the muscles and muffling its snarl. With her teeth still clenched around the vampire’s neck, Dolly dragged it down the hall, yanking and ripping at its throat.

THE SHRIEK FROM upstairs startled everyone on the first floor because it came from the vampire and not Vanessa. When the male vampire’s grip momentarily slackened, Sophia shoved it out of the way and ran for the stairs. The snuffy regained its balance and started to follow.

“Hey, fang face!”

When it turned to face Rodriguez, the hunter grabbed the bottle of wine off the coffee table and smashed it across the vampire’s face. The glass shattered, embedding shards in its eyes and dousing its face with wine. It clutched its face, ripping away at the broken pieces. Rodriguez rushed forward. Grasping the vampire by the hair, he bent the torso down and drove his right knee into its chest three times, then dragged it over to the fireplace and shoved it in head first. The vampire reached behind and swiped at Rodriguez’ hands. Rodriguez placed his knee against the small of the vampire’s back to hold it in place, and with his free hand turned on the gas.

Tiny flames flickered to life along the gas line, illuminating the artificial logs and igniting the alcohol that soaked the vampire’s face and shirt. The vampire thrashed around inside the fireplace, desperate to get free. Rodriguez held it in place as long as possible to make certain the fire took hold. When he could not withstand the creature’s bucking any longer, Rodriguez jumped to one side.

The vampire pulled out of the fireplace, its upper body engulfed in flames. It looked around, trying to find Rodriguez to get revenge, but its eyes already had burst and shriveled inside their sockets. Lumbering around the living room, the vampire swung wildly. The hunter easily avoided each punch. With each swing, the vampire brushed up against a piece of furniture, catching it on fire. By the time the vampire’s charred corpse disintegrated into ash, half of the living room was in flames.

SOPHIA RACED UPSTAIRS two steps at a time, terrified at what she would find. She did not expect to see Dolly dragging the female vampire down the hall by its throat, slowly tearing its head off. The vampire flayed around on the floor and swatted at Dolly, but could not break free. Sophia ducked through the open door into Vanessa’s bedroom.

“Mommy!” Vanessa whipped off the covers and jumped out of bed.

Sophia ran to her daughter, scooping up the young girl in her arms and hugging her tight. “Are you okay?”

Vanessa nodded against her mother’s shoulder.

Sophia broke the hug. She placed her hands on Vanessa’s cheeks. “We have to get out of here.”

“What about Dolly?”

“She’s fine.” Sophia squeezed her daughter’s cheek. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go.” Sophia scooped up Vanessa and carried her toward the bedroom door. She paused in the hall to check on Dolly. The dog had dragged the vampire all the way to the master bedroom, still yanking and pulling on the creature’s neck. A trail of blood followed them down the hall. Then, with a growl and a violent snap of her jaws, Dolly ripped off the vampire’s head. Blood spurted from its severed neck, splattering Dolly and the rug. The vampire’s head crumbled, dust covering the dog’s face. Startled, Dolly whimpered and jumped back, twisting her head from side to side as she watched the rest of the vampire’s body disintegrate.

Sophia started down the stairs, stopping on the third step and turning toward Dolly. “Come on, girl.”

Dolly barked once at the pile of ash, and then raced off after Sophia.

Rodriguez met them half way down the stairs. “Where’s the other snuffy?”

“Dolly killed her.”

“Good.” He took Vanessa from his wife. “We have to get out of here.”

“The car keys are in my pocketbook on the hall table. I’ll get them. You get Vanessa outside.”

Rodriguez did not argue. By the time he made it back downstairs, the flames had spread from the living room and were lapping at the hall ceiling. Smoke had already begun to fill the first floor. Rodriguez pushed open the front door and headed for the sidewalk, with Dolly following close behind. Sophia joined them a few seconds later, using the automatic lock to open the Explorer as she came down the steps. Rodriguez passed Vanessa to his wife, and the two climbed into the back. Dolly joined Rodriguez up front.

As they pulled away from the townhouse, the first floor windows exploded out, followed by flames that crept up the front façade. Rodriguez paid no attention. He maneuvered through the neighborhood, cutting down by Georgetown University to avoid the hundreds of locals trying to flee the city, and used Reservoir Road to connect onto Canal Road. Once on the main street, traffic was heavy but moving.

Glancing in his rearview mirror, he saw Sophia cuddling Vanessa, the two sobbing in each other’s arms. He would have a lot of explaining to do, but first he needed to get his family to safety.

Beside him, Dolly whined. Rodriguez looked over at her and scratched behind her ear. “You did good back there, girl.”

Dolly sneezed, blowing a wad of vampire ash out of her nose. Despite everything, Rodriguez chuckled. He felt reasonably certain that they would be all right.

“FINISHED.”

JIM TURNED off the hand-held acetylene torch and placed it on the work bench, then took a step back to admire his work. Since the problem was how many of the three stakes Helms had brought back from Rumania were actually carved from the crucifixion cross, the easiest solution was to find a way to use all three at the same time. The mechanics of creating such a delivery system were simple.

He started with a metal sphere four inches in diameter on which to mount the stakes in a triangular configuration, with the base slightly concave so the tops of each stake would converge on one central point. The sphere had an inch-high rim running around its circumference on which would be mounted a metal plate with three holes designed to fit snugly around the base of the stakes and hold them in place. He had welded a metal rod four inches long to the underside of the sphere, and then welded the straight edge and left ring of a pair of brass knuckles to the rod and the underside of the sphere, respectively, providing a secure grip for whoever wielded the weapon. Once the stakes were mounted, Drake would be able to drive all three into Chiang Shih’s heart simultaneously. It would be the perfect weapon, assuming, of course, that at least one of the three stakes actually was carved from the crucifixion cross.

Beaming with pride, Jim looked over at Sarah. “What do you think?”

“It’s… different.”

“Okay, so it isn’t pretty. But it’ll get the job done.”

“Just like someone I know.” Sarah winked at Jim and flashed a coquettish smile.

Jim adopted an air of mock indignation. “I’ll have you know I have the body of a god.”

“Yeah,” teased Sarah. “Buddha.”

Jim tried to think of a witty comeback, but found himself at a loss for words. All he could respond with was, “Hey.”

Sarah jumped up on the edge of the work bench, pulled Jim close, and wrapped her legs around his waist. He slid his hands under her sweatshirt and drew her close. Leaning into Jim, she placed her lips against his ear and nibbled the lobe.

“Let me show you why Buddha is always smiling.”

Clamping her legs tight, Sarah pulled Jim into her. Their lips met. Jim clasped the bottom of Sarah’s sweatshirt and had just started slipping it off when the glass door in the lobby shattered. Seconds later, they heard the sound of feet rushing around downstairs. Jim felt certain the intruders were not Christmas carolers.

Before Jim and Sarah could react, four figures crashed through the skylight, showering the hunters and the work area in shattered glass. The figures dropped to the floor and slowly rose to their feet, glaring at the hunters with blood-red eyes. A moment later, they were joined by four more vampires from downstairs. The snuffies formed a line across Jim’s work area, cutting off the hunters from their weapons. Jim jumped onto his workbench and helped Sarah up. They stood on its surface, facing down the eight vampires.

The lead vampire, a teenage Asian boy wearing a YUCK FOO t-shirt, stepped forward. “We were hoping to find more of the hunters here, but you two will do.”

“Only eight of you?” asked Jim. He grabbed the hand-held acetylene torch and switched on the flame. “If that’s all you got, bring it on.”

The vampires looked at each other and laughed.

Sarah moved closer to Jim. “What the hell are you gonna do? Weld them together?”

Jim smiled. He raised the torch above his head, positioning the flame underneath the sprinkler. A second later, the fire alarm went off. Each of the ten sprinkler heads in the work area erupted, spewing out holy water from the container tank located in the basement, and dousing the vampires.

A chorus of ungodly wails filled the room as the holy water burned into the undead. They thrashed around, knocking over work benches and equipment as they frantically clawed at their faces to wipe away the searing liquid, but the streams of water were too great. One vampire bolted for the stairwell. The water soaked into its eyes, charring the pupils until they burst open, pouring yellow ooze down its face. Unable to see, it crashed into the wall and slid to the floor, clutching at its empty sockets. The others dropped to their knees, each in too much agony to fight.

Sarah jumped off the table and raced over to Jim’s office where she had left her kukri knives. Jim slid off to the floor, reached under the work bench, and removed a stake he had hidden underneath for just such an emergency. Once armed, the two hunters made quick work of the undead, dispatching the eight creatures in a matter of seconds. When the last vampire turned to dust, its head having been sliced off by Sarah, the two hunters looked around at their handiwork. Water still poured from the sprinklers, turning the piles of vampire ash into black mush.

Jim stepped over to Sarah and placed his hand on her shoulder. She spun around and raised the knife. On seeing it was Jim, she lowered the blade.

“Sorry.”

“No problem.” Jim slid the stake into his back pocket. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just a bit shaken.”

“Hard to tell by the way you took them down.”

“That was the adrenalin.” She looked over at Jim, uncertainty in her eyes. “Now what?”

“The SUV is still in the garage. Grab your gear and let’s get out of here. We’ll meet up with the others later.”

AN HOUR AFTER the violence erupted throughout the city, the story dominated the four local networks and had even made the cable channels. The NBC affiliate showed the by-now familiar images of the attack at National Cathedral and the carnage on Pennsylvania Avenue, interspersed with shots of the major routes out of the city. Canal Road and the George Washington Parkway were still open, although the flow of traffic increased steadily. Interstates 295 and 395 still moved, albeit slowly. Interstate 66, however, was a clusterfuck. A four-car fender bender on the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge crossing the Potomac closed all four lanes, stopping traffic until the back-up stretched as far as 17th Street.

Alison only half watched the news. She stood in front of the closet, rapidly getting dressed. Every few seconds she would pause to glance at the screen, horrified by the images being displayed. When she bent over to slip on her boots, the muscles in her lower back spasmed. Alison groaned.

Cushing looked away from the television. “You’re in no shape to leave the hospital.”

Alison pointed toward the screen. “You don’t expect me to just stay put with all that going on, do you?”

“Drake is not going to be happy if I let you leave here early.”

Drake? In all the confusion, she had not thought to call and check on him. After slipping on her last boot, she ran over to the portable nightstand by her hospital bed, yanked open the drawer, and rummaged around for her cell phone. When Alison found it, she switched it on and dialed Drake’s number. The phone rang once before an electronic voice announced that all circuits were busy and recommended that the caller try again later. Shit.

Alison slid the cell phone into her pants pocket. “So what do we do now?”

Cushing used the remote to lower the volume. “As much as you don’t want to hear this, going back into the city would be foolish.”

“What about Drake and the others?”

“You have no idea where any of them are. And even if you did, how would you get to them?”

As much as Alison hated to admit it, Cushing was right. It would be foolish to venture into Washington right now.

Cushing leaned forward in his chair. “Drake knows where you are and will come for you when he can. You’re better off waiting here where it’s safe.”

NO ONE PAID any attention when the doors to ICU swung open. Chiang Shih strolled through, followed closely by Rebecca. She paused at the first door on the ward, looking for Alison. When she did not find the huntress, she moved on to the next room.

One of the nurses noticed the unusual behavior. Jumping up from her desk behind the central station, she walked into the hall and stood in front of Chiang Shih, blocking her path.

“May I help you, ma’am?”

“I’m looking for Alison Monroe,” said Chiang Shih.

“What relation are you to the patient?”

“We’ve only met once before.” Chiang Shih tried to walk around her, but the nurse sidestepped and cut her off.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Only the relatives of patients are allowed in ICU. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Chiang Shih sighed. “I don’t have time for this shit.”

“Ma’am, do I have to call sec—”

The nurse never finished her sentence. Chiang Shih swiped at the woman’s neck, her talons creating four parallel slashes across her throat. For a second, she merely stood still. Then the slits on her neck opened, revealing deep gashes. Blood gushed from the wounds, instantly staining her uniform crimson. She tried to call for help, but only managed a strained gurgle. She collapsed, dead before she even hit the floor.

The other nurses at the station screamed, attracting the attention of everyone else in ICU. Rebecca morphed into a vampire and lunged at the closest nurse, ravaging her neck. Another nurse and a medical assistant tried to help. Chiang Shih rushed forward, swinging her left arm in an arc that sent her taloned fingers ripping through the nurse’s neck, decapitating her. Chiang Shih then grabbed the medical assistant, lifted him off the floor, and flung him fifteen feet into the nurses’ station. He hit the counter and slid off the other side, taking out two computer terminals in the process.

Panic gripped ICU. The hospital staffers abandoned their stations and ran for the exits. From inside the rooms, family members of patients stuck their heads out to see what caused the commotion. The ones closest to Chiang Shih paid for their curiosity with their lives. A few darted out and followed the rush to escape, leaving their loved ones to fend for themselves. The others ducked back into their rooms. Chiang Shih ignored them. As Rebecca fed off every human she could, Chiang Shih walked down the hall, checking each room for one particular patient.

THE FIRST SCREAM startled Alison, but at first she thought nothing of it, assuming it must have come from a family member who just lost a loved one. Then people began running past her room, first one or two, then increasing to a steady flow. Alison finished buttoning her blouse and tucked it into her jeans as Cushing rose from his chair and stepped over to the door. He peered out, looking down the hall in the direction of the commotion.

“What’s going on?” asked Alison.

Cushing rushed back into the room. Grabbing Alison by the arm, he ushered her toward the door. “We have to get out of here! Now!”

“What’s up?”

“It’s Chiang Shih.” Cushing stopped at the end of the bed, placing himself between the door and Alison.

Alison grabbed her leather coat and felt the pockets, hoping to find a stake. Unfortunately, she was unarmed. She looked around for another way to escape. Being a hospital room, there was only one way in or out, and that led to the Mistress. She considered throwing something through the window and trying to….

“It’s good to see you again, huntress.”

Alison spun around to see Chiang Shih blocking the door. The hunter backed up until she bumped into the window. She looked around for a weapon, but the closest thing she could find was the metal stand that the intravenous bottle hung on.

Chiang Shih stepped into the room and strode toward Alison. “You’re not that tough without your weapons and friends.”

Cushing placed himself between the two women. “Leave her alone.”

The laugh that came from Chiang Shih oozed with evil. “You’ve always been a disappointment, Father. I turned you because I thought it would be cute to make a man of God one of us, but I didn’t count on your faith being so strong. In hindsight, I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

Cushing morphed into a vampire and bared his fangs. “You’ll regret that you didn’t.”

“It’s a mistake I can rectify.”

Chiang Shih transformed, but not into the traditional vampire Alison was used to. Her skin became brownish-white and tightened around the bones, assuming the appearance of desiccated flesh. Hundreds of veins protruded from the skin, pulsing as blood coursed through them. She stretched out her arms and arched her shoulders up and back. As she did, her fingers extended two inches. The finger nails grew out and darkened until they became thin black talons nearly three inches long. A huge lump the width of her shoulder blades formed on the daywalker’s back, swelling until the skin stretched to the breaking point. With a sickening rip that almost made Alison wretch, the skin tore open, revealing a pair of bat-shaped wings that stretched for six feet. Tiny claws were on the mid-point of each wing, clasping at the air.

The face had the most hideous transformation. As Chiang Shih’s skin darkened and tightened around her skull, it revealed flaring nostrils and sunken eye sockets. The daywalker’s lips pulled back, replacing her mouth with a gaping maw. From blackened gums sprang uneven rows of fangs each an inch long, with two longer fangs in the center of her upper jaw. Her long black hair receded back into her head, leaving scraggily white tufts across her leathery skull. A pair of glowing red eyes stared down at Cushing, the pitch black irises boring into him.

Alison felt a stream of urine flow down her leg.

Cushing raked Chiang Shih’s chest with his talons, leaving four deep gashes in the leathery skin. No sooner had they opened when the regeneration began. In less than a second, the gashes closed themselves up and healed completely, as if she had never been attacked.

Chiang Shih plunged both hands into the base of Cushing’s neck just above his ribcage, digging her talons deep into his body. The wings wrapped behind him, each talon puncturing his back to hold him in place. Cushing flinched, but made no sound. Mustering all his strength, he uttered a single word.

“Run!”

Alison did not need to be told twice. She jumped on the bed, vaulted over the opposite side, and raced for the door. Pausing, she turned around as Chiang Shih grasped both sides of Cushing’s ribcage and pulled. The sound of tearing flesh and cracking bones filled the room, drowning out Cushing’s anguished scream. His ribcage fractured under the pressure. Cushing’s torso ripped apart, spilling his intestines and internal organs onto the hospital floor.

Alison bolted into the hall. Off to her right, Rebecca had pulled a doctor across the counter of the nurse’s station and was feeding off him. Turning in the other direction, Alison ran for the emergency exit, pushing past several patients limping toward safety. She knew they would be easy prey for the two vampires, but at that moment she did not care. Terror overrode her senses. Terror of facing that creature alone. Terror at the fate that awaited her if she tried.

An elderly man in a wheelchair struggled to get through the emergency exit. Alison looked over her shoulder in time to see Chiang Shih exit the hospital room, blood and gore dripping off her hands and wings. Alison pulled the wheelchair out of the doorway and shoved the old man aside, then dashed into the stairwell. She ran down two steps at a time, oblivious to the old man’s calls for help. At every landing she glanced up, praying she would not see Chiang Shih. Thankfully, nothing followed her.

Bursting outside, total chaos greeted her. Half a dozen accidents clogged the parking lot, the drivers yelling at each other to move. Most people left their vehicles behind and ran away in all directions. Alison headed for the largest group of people and waded into the panicked throng, hoping to lose herself among the mass.

When Alison could not run anymore, she cut up a side street and ducked into the backyard of a nearby home. She found a vantage point by a utility shed from which she could see if anything came down the street. Several minutes passed. A few refugees from the hospital rushed past, but no vampires. Once certain of not being followed, she made her way back to the street and continued running, turning left at the next cross street and losing herself in the neighborhood.

Only then did Alison cry. Tears of fear. And shame.

WASHINGTON HAD BEGUN its death throes as Drake raced back into the city. He had been at the Ballston Mall in northern Virginia when he had passed by a sports pub and saw the local reporting on what was being called a coordinated terrorist attack on Washington. Martial law had been declared and a curfew imposed and, according to the news, most of the streets leading out of the city were jammed with traffic. With luck, the police would be so occupied with the ensuing crisis that no one would pay any attention to a lone car trying to make its way into the city. But he would have to hurry.

As he crossed the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge, Drake saw the headlights from hundreds of cars stuck in traffic clogging all the roads merging onto the bridge, the backups stretching as far as he could see. Figuring Independence, Constitution, and Pennsylvania Avenues would be blocked, Drake took the E Street exit, drove past the Kennedy Center, and entered the city through side streets. Every few minutes, patrol cars and fire equipment flew past him, all units converging on the center of the city or deploying to National Cathedral. Thankfully, little other traffic clogged these streets, so it only took him ten minutes to reach his office.

The minute he parked in front of the townhouse, Drake knew something bad had gone down. The glass on the front door had been smashed in, and the skylights were broken. Drake stepped out of the Ram and unholstered his Glocks. Cautiously climbing the front steps, he paused by the shattered door and peered inside. Only the emergency lights were on. Nothing moved, and the only sound came from dripping water. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he entered the building.

The rug in Alison’s office squished under his feet. Looking up, he saw in the glare of the emergency lights that the sprinkler system had been activated, which had caused the flooding. Vampires must have broken in, and whoever was here at the time had triggered the holy water defenses. He checked out Alison’s office and his own, and finding nothing there made his way upstairs, carefully climbing each step so as not to alert anything still in the building.

Jim’s work area looked like a war zone. Ash and blood mixed with the puddles of water, creating a layer of reddish-grey mud that coated the floor. Half the work benches were overturned, including the heavy ammo filling machine. Given the level of carnage and the amount of ash on the floor, he reasoned at least half a dozen vampires must have attacked the place. Thankfully no human bodies littered the area, so hopefully whoever was here had lived to escape.

Drake was halfway down the stairs when an alarm startled him. He threw himself against the wall, one Glock pointing up toward the work area, the other pointing down into Alison’s office. The alarm sounded a second time. Drake realized it was only his cell phone. He placed one of the Glocks on the stairs and reached into his jacket pocket for the phone, flipping it open.

“Drake here.”

“Am I glad to hear your voice, Boss.” Jim sounded scared and flustered.

“Where are you?”

“Stuck in traffic near Key Bridge. This place is a fucking madhouse.”

“The news said attacks are occurring all over the city.”

“No shit.” Jim spoke louder to be heard over passing sirens. “Eight of them attacked Sarah and me at the office.”

“Are you both okay?”

“Not a scratch on us. But the office is a total write-off.”

“I know. I’m here now.”

“We grabbed everything that was salvageable, loaded up the SUV, and are trying to get out of the city to someplace safe.”

If there is any place that is safe, thought Drake. “Did you get the stakes from my office?”

“I didn’t have the combination to your safe.”

“No problem. I’ll get them and meet you guys at the Marriott on Route 66 in Arlington. We’ll set up base there and figure out what to do next. Call the others and let them know the plan.”

“Roger that. And be careful.” With that, the connection went dead.

Drake closed the phone, placed it back in his pocket, and picked up the Glock. Descending the stairs, he darted into his office, or what remained of it. The water damage in here was extensive. The chairs and sofa were waterlogged, while small pools of water formed on his desktop. Even the portrait of Max Schreck as Nosferatu had not escaped destruction, the sprinklers diluting the paint until the canvas looked more like a drop cloth. Crossing the room, Drake made for the wall safe, his feet slopping across the flooded rug. Five minutes later, he had retrieved the stakes, exited the building, and climbed back in the Ram.

Around him, the situation was degenerating rapidly. The acrid smell of burning buildings hung in the air. The number of sirens had multiplied to the point that their wail seemed almost continuous, and they seemed to come from every corner of the city. Only now the sirens competed with the blare of car horns and the occasional scream, a chorus of encroaching panic. Drake knew he had to get out of Washington soon before the city fell into complete disarray.

But he needed to make one final stop first.

The drive to his apartment building took longer than expected because of streets blocked by abandoned vehicles or accidents. Uncertainty and fear were feeding off each other, creating a dangerous situation. Within a few hours, Washington would be completely gridlocked and at the vampires’ mercy. Drake bounced the Ram onto the sidewalk to bypass yet another accident, mentally urging himself to hurry.

Once at his apartment building, Drake pulled into the secure underground garage, willing to trade off the added time for the security of knowing his vehicle would still be there when he needed it. The fact that only a few cars remained in the garage told him most of his neighbors had already bugged out. He took the elevator to the thirteenth floor, being sure to set the emergency stop before getting off, and ran down to his apartment. Less than a minute later, he stood in front of Van Helsing’s cage.

“I’m here, boy.”

Van Helsing stood on his hind legs to greet him.

“You know I wouldn’t forget you.” Drake reached under the table, pulled out the pet carrier, and opened the top. Reaching up, he opened the door to Van Helsing’s cage. “Come on, boy. We gotta get out of here bef—”

Van Helsing snarled and lunged out of the cage. Before Drake could react, Van Helsing landed on his chest and sunk his teeth into the hunter’s neck. Grabbing Van Helsing around his waist, Drake yanked the rabbit away and tossed him across the den, crying out as a small chunk of his neck was torn off. Van Helsing slid into the wall with a heavy thud. Spinning around to face Drake, the rabbit crouched and snarled again.

Only it was not Van Helsing, for the face that stared him down was vampiric. The lop ears stuck straight out from his head like horns. Leathery, furrowed skin replaced the soft fur along the bridge of his nose. And the eyes had turned deep, dark, and cold. The vampire crouched low on its front legs, bearing fangs that had replaced its buck teeth. Then, with a vicious growl, it launched itself off the floor at Drake.

Drake timed the attack, catching the vampire in mid-flight. Rather than push it away, he pulled it into him, clutching it tight against his chest with his right hand. The vampire went for Drake’s neck. Drake moved his left hand up under its chin just in time to prevent from being bitten again. Snarling and spitting, the vampire kept lunging at his neck. Drake wrapped his hand around the vampire’s head, held it tight, and twisted hard.

A quiet snap emanated from Van Helsing’s neck. To Drake, it sounded like the end of the world.

Van Helsing’s head fell to one side at an unnatural angle. The vampiric form morphed away, leaving the features Drake adored so much. The lop ears that he used to massage. The soft, pink nose that had gently nudged his own as a sign of affection. And the brown eyes that used to look at Drake with such affection. Now they were merely cold, dead orbs that had rolled up into Van Helsing’s head.

As Drake cradled the lifeless rabbit in his arms, his usual stoicism crumbled. The emptiness overwhelmed him, tearing away his emotions. His chest constricted until he felt as though it would collapse. Drake shouted, a howl that degenerated into anguished sobs. Tears streamed down his face. The hunter rocked Van Helsing back and forth, one hand gently caressing his lifeless side, futilely hoping for a purr of thanks. Drake stayed there for nearly twenty minutes, alternately kissing Van Helsing’s cold forehead or placing his cheek against the rabbit’s side, soaking the fur with his tears.

Then, as suddenly as the outburst began, it stopped. Not because Drake stopped grieving. The heartache would always be there. Now the sense of loss was replaced by anger. The vampires had taken away the one part of his life that meant the most to him, and in the process had decided to make this war personal. So be it. If they wanted to play that way, he would give them a vendetta the likes of which they had never seen.

Drake brought Van Helsing into the living room and sat in his easy chair by the window, cradling his beloved companion. He petted Van Helsing until the first rays of sunlight sliced into his apartment, his lust for revenge growing as cold as the body of his companion.

14

DRAKE STOOD IN one of the top floor rooms of the Marriott Hotel across the Potomac from Washington, watching the city’s death throes. The morning sun inched its way through the sky, its rays washing through the streets and driving the vampires to ground. As a lull from last night’s violence descended across the city, the full extent of the carnage began to be known. Smoke still billowed from around the Warner Theater where the initial attack had occurred, as well as from half a dozen other fires that had sprouted up around the city. Hundreds of abandoned vehicles clogged the on ramps leading onto the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, the result of last night’s accident that blocked one of the major escape routes out of Washington. On those roads visible from this vantage point, only a handful of cars could be seen racing out of town. By now everyone had either escaped or barricaded themselves inside the apparent safety of their homes and apartments. From this distance, Washington looked like a ghost town. Close enough, thought Drake. The city now belonged to the undead.

And he had to take it back.

Setting up headquarters at the Marriott had been easy since most of the guests had checked out once things went to shit in Washington. The only people foolish enough to hang around were a myriad of cable news correspondents who used the hotel as a platform to film the city from a safe distance and his own team. Or at least those who had made it here so far. Jim and Sarah had been waiting in the lobby when Drake arrived, and Rodriguez had joined them just over an hour ago after having driven his family to a friend’s house in Leesburg. That left only Alison and Cushing among the missing. And that worried Drake. Though he wouldn’t show it in front of the others, he had become increasingly nervous after the news reported the vampire assault on Arlington Hospital. Not hearing anything from either of them in the last twelve hours only increased the anxiety. He already had lost someone very close to him, and could not bear the thought of losing Alison as well.

But first things first. Once Drake assembled his team he would need to formulate a plan. Actually, he had the outline of one. Hunt down the daywalking bitch and send her back to hell. All that was missing were the details, such as how to find Chiang Shih, how to get to her through a city overrun with vampires, and how to get close enough to drive the three stakes into her heart. Other than that—

“Drake?”

The familiar voice caused him to spin around. Alison stood in the door way. Her clothes were wet and covered with mud, and her hair mussed. What he immediately noticed, however, was the vacant look in her eyes. She looked around the room, staring past him, almost as if she did not see him. The proverbial thousand-yard-stare of someone who had experienced horrors greater than the mind could bear. Christ, Alison looked like she had spent the night in hell.

Yet Drake had never been so happy to see her as he was at that moment.

Upon noticing her boss, a semblance of life returned to Alison’s face. She raced across the room and threw herself against Drake. Wrapping her arms around him, Alison held him tight and buried her head into his shoulder. He embraced her, drawing her close as if to protect her. Drake felt her tears on his shoulder.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Alison sobbed.

“What happened?”

“Chiang Shih attacked the hospital. She came after me, but Cushing saved me. She ripped him apart like he was a stuffed animal. It was horrible. I saw her in her vampire form.” Alison trembled and held him closer. “She’s more hideous than the other masters.”

Drake placed his hand behind Alison’s head and rocked her gently. “It’s okay.”

“No it’s not!” Alison pushed Drake away and turned her back to him. “When Chiang Shih turned into a vampire, I got scared and ran. I did nothing to help Cushing or anyone else.”

“There’s nothing you could have done to save him.”

“I didn’t even try.” Alison’s body shuddered as her tears began to flow heavier than before.

“You were smart not to.” Drake grew sullen. “I couldn’t stand to lose both of you in one night.”

Alison spun around to face Drake again. “Van Helsing?”

“One of them snuck into my apartment and turned him. I had to….” Drake swallowed hard, suppressing his own tears.

Alison hugged him again. “I’m so sorry.”

“So am I,” Drake sobbed. The two embraced for nearly a minute before Drake spoke first. “How did you know where we were?”

“I finally got through to Jim’s cell phone after trying for several hours. He told me you were here. I tried your cell phone but couldn’t get through.”

“That’s because I shut it off after I found Van Helsing. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.”

Alison broke the hug. Reaching up, she rubbed a tear from Drake’s face. “What’s the game plan from here?”

“I wish I knew. First we have to find out where Chiang Shih—”

A knock on the door caught the hunters’ attention. Standing in the open doorway stood a burly man, six-foot-two and just over two hundred pounds. He wore a dark suit, white shirt, and light blue tie with a radio microphone wrapped around his ear. The guy screamed feds. He moved into the room, pausing just over the threshold.

“Excuse me, sir. The front desk said I could find you here. Are you Drake Matthews?”

“I didn’t catch your name,” Drake said warily.

“That’s irrelevant, sir. I need you to come with me.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, sir. Someone downstairs would like to talk with you.”

Drake glanced at Alison and back to the fed. “Who?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. He did tell me to mention that you have a mutual friend. A Mr. Smith.”

Drake clasped Alison’s elbow and leaned close to whisper into her ear. “The rest of the team is in the adjacent room. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, gather them up and get out of here.”

Alison nodded.

Neither man spoke during the elevator ride to the main floor or as they crossed through the lobby. A midnight-black limousine with tinted windows and two American flags attached to each front fender was parked outside the entrance. Another muscular man in a dark suit stood by the rear door, scanning the area for threats. Upon seeing his partner approaching, he opened the rear door and ushered Drake inside. The hunter slid into the seat as the door closed behind him. He turned to the other side of the compartment. The man opposite him possessed an imposing physical presence even while seated. His azure-blue eyes fixed on the hunter.

Drake immediately recognized Attorney General of the United States Ashton.

“You’re my anonymous benefactor?”

Ashton offered his hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Same here.” Drake shook the offered hand. “So what do I owe this meeting to?”

“Expediency. Smith was butchered last night in his apartment by vampires.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man.” Drake allowed himself to feel a momentary pang of loss, but quickly suppressed it. “That makes two good men we lost last night.”

“Who else?”

“Cushing. Chiang Shih went after Alison at the hospital. Cushing allowed himself to be the bitch’s chew toy so Alison could escape.”

“What about the rest of your team?”

Drake pointed over his shoulder at the hotel. “Everyone else is here. Once we know where Chiang Shih is, we’re going after her. I’m hoping you can tell me where to look.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Ashton sighed. “All authority has broken down in Washington. Over half the District Police were killed responding to the vampire attack, and most of those who survived walked off their jobs, either out of fear or to get their families to safety. The President and his cabinet were moved to an undisclosed location late last night. That’s where I’m off to once I leave here.”

“What’s the good news?”

“That is the good news. One of my staff who’s with the President called me this morning via secure phone to warn me that the President has ordered this outbreak to be contained at all costs.”

“Outbreak?”

Ashton nodded. “The Joint Chiefs are convinced that this is some sort of biological attack. They’re sending in a few National Guard units to quell the rioting. If that fails, which it will, the President has authorized the Air Force to drop a series of thermobaric bombs around the city to kill the infected and cause minimal collateral damage to city structures.”

“Are they insane?”

“They’re scared that the outbreak will spread to the surrounding area.”

Drake could hardly believe what he was hearing. “There are thousands of people still in hiding in Washington. They’ll be killed along with the vampires.”

“Don’t you think I know that? The President is up for reelection next year and is covering his political backside. He’d rather been seen as taking an unpopular but decisive action rather than doing nothing and letting the infection spread.”

“You have to tell them the truth.”

“If I do that I’ll be fired on the spot.” Ashton held up his hand, cutting off Drake in mid-protest. “I don’t care about my career, but as long as I’m around I can at least buy you some time to kill Chiang Shih and save Washington. That is, if you still want to try.”

Drake was taken aback by the comment. “What do you mean, if I still want to try?”

“We both know that going after Chiang Shih is a suicide mission. There are five of you, and after last night’s attack there’ll be hundreds of vampires roaming Washington tonight. It’ll be a miracle if you succeed.”

“I thought you believed in miracles.”

“I do. But as a Christian and a student of the Bible I also know that sometimes evil wins out over good. No one will think ill of you if you decide not to go.”

Drake considered his chances. This was a suicide mission. Though Drake believed in God, he knew better than to rely on miracles. He also knew when he agreed to hunt vampires that he would probably wind up dead someday. It didn’t matter if he died at the hands of one vampire or one hundred. Besides, he had a score to settle.

“You’re wrong about that,” said Drake. “I’d think less of myself if I didn’t try to stop Chiang Shih.”

“You’re a good man.” Ashton smiled. “I’ll say a prayer for you. I wish I could do more.”

Drake opened the door and stepped out of the limousine. As he did, Ashton called after him, “May God go with you.”

Drake watched the limousine pull out of the parking lot and head west toward Interstate 66. He hoped Ashton was right about God being with him. He would need all the help he could get.

AS THE LINE of police vehicles maneuvered around the accident sites and discarded vehicles scattered along Pennsylvania Avenue, Preston stared out the window of the lead squad car at the carnage that littered the square in front of the Warner Theater. Throughout the night, local and cable news had broadcast live coverage of the vampire attack, yet none of those images prepared him for the reality he now faced. Even at a distance of a hundred yards, he could easily see the bodies strewn around the area. Policemen. Rescue workers. Civilians. He stopped counting at fifty because there were too many corpses. Pools of blood surrounded each victim. Where the dead were thickest, the pools converged into rivulets that flowed into the gutters and poured down sewer drains.

Preston glanced behind him. Two squad cars followed, with a riot control van bringing up the rear. Twelve cops were all he could muster to clean out the nest. Hell, they were practically all that remained of the District Police, the rest having either been killed in the line of duty or deserted their posts. Surprisingly, when Preston rounded up this team and informed them about what needed to be done, none of them questioned his assertion that they were dealing with vampires. He figured that by now they all had witnessed way too much to not believe, which suited him fine. If his men knew exactly what they were fighting, chances were they would not cut and run when they confronted the undead.

The driver of the lead car slowed as he entered the plaza in front of the Warner Theater. When the bodies became too many to avoid, he stopped and shifted into PARK. Preston climbed out of the passenger seat, making sure of his footing on the blood-covered pavement, and surveyed the area. He had witnessed many a crime scene, but nothing to this extent. Pennsylvania Avenue resembled a war zone. The media would have a field day when they saw this. So much the better. This would be Roach’s testament. Preston’s would be when he lead his team into the mall and exterminated that nest.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Preston turned. His driver, a young rookie whose name he had not even bothered to learn, stood by the fender, his mouth agape. Glancing around at the rest of his team, Preston noticed that most of them seemed just as shocked. He was in danger of losing them.

Simmons, the senior officer, disembarked from the van. He held a riot helmet in one hand and clasped an armored vest in the other. As he made his way along the line of cars, he called out, “Come on, ladies. You’ve all seen dead bodies before. Get ready to move out.”

“Where are we going?” asked a female cop.

“Inside the hotel mall,” answered Preston. “There’s a good chance that’s where the vampires are held up.”

“And when we find them?” asked the female cop.

“What the hell do you think?” answered Simmons. “We kill them. Everyone wears riot gear or a flak jacket. Use your guns only to stop an attack. Use the wooden stakes you were issued to kill them. Drive them through the bastards’ hearts.”

“What about them?” asked the rookie, pointing to the bodies littering Pennsylvania Avenue.

“They’re no threat, at least until the sun goes down,” said Preston. He looked at his watch. It read a few minutes before noon. They had a good five hours to clean out the mall and dispose of the bodies in the street before they came back as the undead.

THE HUNTERS WERE spread out in the first floor restaurant of the Marriott, each nursing along a mug of bitter coffee. Drake supplemented the caffeine with a brandy glass partially filled with Gentleman Jack whiskey, the only brand available in the hotel bar. None of the restaurant personnel, and only two-thirds of the hotel’s service staff, had shown up for work. Although the hotel had no food service available, the concierge had opened up the bar for those few patrons who still remained. Being this close to ground zero, most people needed a stiff drink.

Drake had spent twenty minutes going over the current situation with his team and updating them on what Ashton had told him. In essence, they were down their strongest member and could deploy with only those weapons that Jim and Sarah had saved from the office, which was nowhere near enough to eliminate the hundreds of vampires they faced. They needed to get into Washington, find Chiang Shih, and kill her before the Air Force burned out the city. He admitted this was tantamount to a suicide mission, and told the others that none of them were obligated to go. Under the circumstances, no one would think any less of them if they walked away now. After giving his spiel, Drake waited for their responses.

“I’m in,” said Alison without hesitation. “We started this together, and we’ll see it through to the end together.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m with you,” said Rodriguez.

Drake shook his head. “No. You’re going home. This is too dangerous, and I don’t want to be responsible for making your wife a widow.”

“You need me and you know it. Besides, if I don’t make a stand against these things now, Vanessa will have to do it when she’s an adult. I’m not going to let that happen.”

Drake nodded his approval then glanced at Sarah. She stared back, looking confused. “What? There’s no need to ask. We’re not sitting this one out.”

“Jim, are you in?”

Jim said nothing. He stared at the murky coffee in his mug, refusing to make eye contact. Drake knew why. Jim always complained after each hunt about how he kept pressing his luck, and how sooner or later it would run out. Later had finally arrived. As much as Drake wanted Jim by his side, he would never pressure him.

Sarah was not as accommodating. “You are joining us, aren’t you?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to.” Jim looked up from his coffee mug and met Drake’s gaze. “But Christ, man, I’m scared.”

“We’re all scared,” said Drake. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Sarah gently placed her hand on his wrist. “Don’t do this on my account. I’m going in whether you do or not.”

Jim sighed in resignation. “Count me in.”

“Count us in, too.”

The hunters turned to the restaurant entrance. Braddock stood in the greeter’s area, with the remaining members of his H.A.R.D team behind him.

“Are you serious?” asked Drake.

“Damn straight I am. We have a personal score to settle.” Braddock crossed over to the hunters. “But we have to do this right. If we go off half-cocked, those things’ll have us for a midnight snack. We need a well-thought-out strategy.”

“Do you have something in mind?”

Braddock moved up beside Drake. “How do you plan on getting back into Washington?”

“Our pick-up and SUV are parked out front.”

Braddock shook his head. “They’re useless. The vampires will rip them open like a bear on a can of salmon before you get the first mile.”

“Do you have a better plan?”

“I might.” An uncharacteristic smile pierced Braddock’s lips. He made his way for the exit, pausing just long enough to motion for the hunters to follow.

As the group stepped out into the parking lot, Jim uttered a single word that expressed all of their feelings. “Sweet.”

Rolling Thunder was parked directly across from the hotel.

Drake walked over to the armored vehicle and ran his hand along the metal surface. “I thought your gear was confiscated after your team was disbanded?”

“It was, but Preston gave us access to it, hoping we’d join up with him. I’d be damned if I was going to give her up to that opportunistic little prick. At least with you guys it’ll be put to good use.”

Alison stepped up beside Drake. “At least this will give us a fighting chance to get close to Chiang Shih.”

Braddock smiled again, more broadly this time. “Lady, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

The team leader moved to the rear of Rolling Thunder. He unlatched the twin armor doors, pulled them open, and stood aside so the hunters could look inside. Drake and the others gathered close, their eyes widening at the twin pieces of equipment stowed inside.

Alison whistled.

Sarah muttered “Oh my God” under her breath.

Drake merely stared for several seconds before saying, “Fucking awesome.”

“I thought you’d be impressed. So, do you think those will even the odds any?”

“Even the odds? They’ll give us a fighting chance.”

“So, is my team in?”

Drake offered his hand. “Damn straight.”

Braddock gave it a firm pump. “Thanks.”

“Do you have a plan?” asked Drake.

“Figuring out how to stop that crazed bitch is your department. You just tell us where to go, and we’ll get you there and kill off vampires while you do the dirty work.”

Drake patted Braddock on the shoulder. “Come on inside. I’ll buy your team a shitty cup of coffee while we plan this out.”

THE CONVOY OF one Humvee and three two-and-a-half-ton military transports carefully maneuvered its way down Wisconsin Avenue, avoiding abandoned cars and scattered debris. Their progress had been much slower than anticipated. Crossing Key Bridge from northern Virginia, the four vehicles had moved slowly through Georgetown until they reached the intersection of Wisconsin Avenue and M Street where an accident had gridlocked the intersection and the converging roads, forcing the drivers to ditch their vehicles. The congestion had forced the convoy to retrace its route until they found an empty side street, which allowed them to cut through the residential neighborhood before re-emerging back onto Wisconsin Avenue a mile down from the jam. Even then, the lead Humvee needed to push a Subaru Forester out of the way for them to get by.

In the Humvee’s front seat, Major Thomas Harrigan watched both sides of the street, cautious against a possible ambush. His unit had been mobilized six hours ago to enter Washington and calm the disorder around National Cathedral. Beyond that, his orders were vague because his commanding officer had minimal information to pass along. Despite the endless news coverage of the rioting, no one could offer any solid information as to who was causing the devastation. Theories ranged from skinheads to terrorists to rival gangs. A few witnesses described the attackers as vampires, though Harrigan ruled out that possibility. He wasn’t about to take seriously the rantings of panicked and shocked victims. Not that it mattered. Whoever the rioters were, his orders were to restore order by any means necessary. No one could withstand the massed firepower of a score of M-16s.

The Humvee’s driver, Corporal Sanchez, suddenly swerved the vehicle, bouncing up onto the sidewalk to avoid a collision between a Metro bus and a Land Rover that blocked both lanes of Wisconsin Avenue.

Harrigan grabbed the sides of his seat. “Jesus, corporal. Take it easy.”

“Sorry. Just trying to get around that wreck.”

“That’s fine. But I don’t want any casualties before we get there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harrigan looked out the Humvee’s window to check on his deuce-and-a-halves. The three vehicles were still behind him, although they barely fit between the storefronts and the trees out front. Once clear of that obstruction, the convoy continued unimpeded until it reached National Cathedral.

As the Humvee pulled off Wisconsin Avenue onto the cathedral’s grounds, Harrigan saw firsthand the horror of what had happened here last night. Several police cars and a television news van were on the lawn, streaks of blood smeared across some of the vehicles and the grass. It looked just like the footage from the attack that took place as the police prepared to enter the cathedral, only more disturbing to see it in person. Yet something seemed out of place.

“This isn’t right,” Harrigan mumbled.

“What, sir?” asked Sanchez.

“Something’s not right,” the major said, this time louder. “I just can’t figure out what.”

“It’s the bodies.”

“What bodies?”

“Exactly.” A nervous edge crept into the corporal’s voice. “What happened to the cops and reporters who were killed last night?”

The realization suddenly dawned on Harrigan. The only things on the lawn were the vehicles and equipment discarded when the police and correspondents were butchered. Not a single body could be seen. Someone had removed them. But why?

Harrigan tapped Sanchez on the shoulder and directed him to the stone walkway that extended in front of the cathedral. The driver maneuvered the Humvee across the lawn. Harrigan suddenly realized what had happened to the bodies. Several trails of blood led from around the squad cars, across the grass and walkway, and up the front steps, converging on the center set of ornate doors before disappearing inside. God only knew what the bastards were doing to the corpses. He would enjoy administering this round of payback.

“Stop here,” ordered Harrigan.

Sanchez obeyed. Harrigan stepped out and directed the deuce-and-a-halves to pull up behind the Humvee. Their drivers complied and shut down the engines. Harrigan walked back to the transports, placing them between him and the cathedral. The three squad leaders were already waiting for him by the rear fenders.

“Listen up,” began Harrigan. “I don’t know what to expect once we get inside, so don’t take any chances. Our orders are to stop these rioters with any means at our disposal, so if they resist shoot them. I’ll lead Reynolds’ squad through the front. Johnson, take your squad to the other side of the cathedral and enter through the north entrance. Richardson, circle around back and find a way in.” Harrigan glanced at his watch. “It’s a few minutes before noon. We’ll go in at 1205. Any questions.”

There were none.

“Okay, people. Move out.”

WALKER CLOSED THE cell phone and stepped out of the nave. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Rebecca.

“That was Akers. A column of military vehicles is heading down Wisconsin Avenue toward us.”

Treja frowned. “How far out are they?”

“They just passed the Russian Embassy, so they should be here in a few minutes.”

“Why doesn’t she read the incantation?” asked Rebecca.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe she can’t,” said Melinda. “Maybe all this talk about turning us into daywalkers has been a lie to keep us obedient.”

Walker spun around and stuck his face into Melinda’s, forcing her to back down. “Watch your tongue, little one,” he snarled. “One more word like that, and if the Mistress doesn’t rip it out I will.”

Walker’s anger was partially feigned. Though he would never publicly state it, he had been wondering himself whether Chiang Shih had been leading them on with promises of becoming daywalkers. Everything they had done the past month centered on finding the Vampyrnomicon and bringing about a vampire nation. That included last night’s attacks, which were supposed to create hundreds of new vampires to fill out their covens. Just before dawn, all the masters had gathered at National Cathedral for the ceremony that would make them immune to sunlight. But that was hours ago, and since then Chiang Shih had sat in the choir loft beneath the rose window and read through the book. Now the humans were closing in. Not that they posed any real threat, but it meant that the vampires were losing the initiative.

Walker left the nave, followed closely by the other masters. As they passed through the crossing, he looked up at the choir loft. Chiang Shih was still there, thumbing through the Vampyrnomicon. The dead from last night’s attack lay where they had fallen, while the cops remained piled in the foyer where they had been dragged from outside. The ten vampires who had assisted in last night’s slaughter cowered in one corner, careful to avoid the sun’s rays flowing through the stain glass windows.

Walker stopped halfway down the nave. “Mistress, Akers reports that a convoy of humans is heading this way. Perhaps now would be a good time to perform the ceremony.”

“Are you questioning my decisions?” Chiang Shih never looked up from the book.

“No, Mistress. But I would hate to lose the advantage we worked so hard to gain.”

“You’re right, my trusted friend. Now is the time.” Chiang Shih set the book down on an adjoining chair and stood. Placing her hands on the railing, she peered down at the masters. “For far too long we’ve hidden in the shadows of the night. That will soon change. You have all served me well, some of you for centuries. You deserve to be here at the creation.”

Walker straightened his back, filled with pride and anticipation. “We live to serve you, Mistress.”

“Soon the humans, those who we let live, will serve us.”

Chiang Shih turned to face the rose window. Picking up the Vampyrnomicon, she opened it and began to read.

“Fortunate are the evil in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Hell. Fortunate are those who hate, for they will be avenged. Fortunate are the strong, for they will dominate the earth. Fortunate are those who hunger and thirst for wickedness, for they will be satiated in their lust. Fortunate are the merciless, for they themselves have been shown no mercy. Fortunate are the dark of heart, for they will know Satan. Fortunate are the warmakers, for they will be called sons of Satan. Fortunate are those who persecute the righteous, for theirs is the kingdom of Hell. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in Hell.”

A rumbling emanated from outside, similar to thunder but deeper and prolonged.

“Praise Satan! Oh Dark Lord, you are very great; you are clothed with cruelty and ignominy. You wrap yourself in darkness as with a garment. You undermine the earth’s foundations; it can never be stable again.”

A small black cloud three feet in diameter formed out in front of and just above the cathedral.

“How many are your works, Oh Dark Lord! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures. We all look to you to give us our human food at the proper time. When you give them to us, we gather them up; when you open your hand, we are satisfied with evil things. When you send your Evil Spirit, we are created, and you renew the face of the earth in Hell’s image.”

The cloud expanded rapidly until it dominated the sky above the front lawn.

“May the infamy of the Dark Lord Satan endure forever; may the Dark Lord Satan rejoice in his works, he who looks at the earth and the earth trembles. May the righteous vanish from the earth and the humans be no more. Praise the Dark Lord Satan!”

The cloud began swirling, forming a vortex. The rumbling grew increasingly louder until the cathedral trembled from the noise.

“The Dark Lord Satan said, ‘I am the resurrection of death. He who obeys me will live as the undead. Whoever obeys me and lives as the undead shall never die.’

“Dark Lord Satan, make us immortal like you!”

A thunderous boom rocked the cathedral. The rose window shattered outward, covering the humans below with shards. Walker watched in fascination as the black cloud deepened in density and its swirling increased in speed. A brilliant beam of sunlight emanated from the vortex and shone through the frame, illuminating Chiang Shih. She stiffened. Her body glowed until she seemed almost as bright as the beam. When she turned to face her masters, her eyes burned bright yellow.

Without warning, sunlight flowed from her eyes and filled the interior of the cathedral, washing over the masters, the vampires huddled in the corner, and the corpses scattered around the nave. Walker closed his eyes and crouched, expecting death. Instead, he felt a sensation he had not experienced since his days as a human. Warmth.

Walker opened his eyes and stood. Sunlight bathed his body. Rather than peel off and crumble, however, his flesh tingled. He looked back down the nave toward the crossing, excited to see his shadow extending away from him. Raising his hand in front of his face, he noticed that his shadow did the same.

Chiang Shih had done it. She had made them all daywalkers.

Only then did Walker become aware of the rustling around him. The hundreds of corpses scattered around the cathedral were moving. As he watched, their human features dissolved, being replaced with the furrowed brows, pallid skin, and fangs and talons of the undead. One by one they rose to their feet, dazed by their new lives and their immunity to sunlight. The coven had several hundred new minions to wage war against mankind.

“She did it,” mumbled Melinda under her breath.

Treja raised his hands to his face and rubbed his cheeks, marveling at the new sensation. “I feel… feel….”

“Immortal?” asked Rebecca.

Treja shook his head. “Indestructible.”

From up in the choir loft, Chiang Shih called out to her new vampires. “My children, you have witnessed the dawning of a new age, an age that will be dominated by the undead. You will be the vanguard of an army that will give us dominion over the humans.”

“Your wish is our command,” answered a vampire wearing priest’s clothes.

“So be it.” Chiang Shih pointed to the front of the cathedral. “Feed off the humans who now threaten us.”

HARRIGAN’S MEN WERE crouched by the front steps, waiting for the other squads to move into position, when the rumbling began.

“That’s just great,” griped a private to his right. “Now it’s gonna fuckin’ rain.”

“How the hell is it supposed to rain?” answered someone else. “There ain’t a cloud in the sky.”

The private pointed up. “What do you call that?”

Harrigan looked up to see the small black cloud forming above their heads. As he watched, it grew larger and began to swirl, reminding him of a whirlpool. As the rumbling grew more intense, it sounded less and less like thunder. It reminded him of a tornado he once saw on the Discovery Channel.

A sergeant moved up behind Harrigan and spoke softly. “Sir, I suggest we fall back until we know what that thing is.”

“Good idea. Call the other sq—”

A tremendous boom rocked the area, shattering the rose window above them. Several guardsmen ran for the cover of the archway, Harrigan among them. Others stared up to see what caused the explosion and were sliced apart by falling glass. Harrigan felt his stomach churn. It was one thing for a soldier to lose his life in battle. But to be killed in a freak accident was horrible. Half his squad had been wiped out before they had even engaged the enemy, and the rest were dangerously exposed.

Then the calls of the wounded filtered up to him.

“Medic!”

“Help me!”

“Momma!”

Harrigan turned to Sanchez. “Grab the wounded and get them back to the trucks. Then get hold of the other squads and tell them to fall….”

Everyone’s attention was drawn to the central archway as the heavy ornate doors slowly opened inward. The remaining squad members raised their weapons against the possible threat. None of them were prepared for what greeted them.

Dozens of vampires swarmed out of the cathedral and down the front stairs. A few of the guardsmen had the wherewithal to fire on their attackers, although the fusillade of bullets did nothing more than punch holes in the wave of undead. The closest guardsmen were overrun in seconds, each being dragged to the ground and fed upon by as many as six vampires at once. More and more of the undead flowed out of the building, ignoring those humans who were already dead or dying and attacking the survivors.

Harrigan and Sanchez retreated, jogging back toward the Humvee. Both men shot at the rush of undead, but each round the major fired from his 9mm Glock lodged harmlessly into dead flesh. He had barely covered three yards before the vampires swarmed over him and pulled him to the ground. Not wanting to become one of these things, Harrigan raised his pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. Only then did he notice the slide in the locked back position, signifying he was out of ammunition. A vampire grabbed his arm, wrested the weapon from his hand, and bit his wrist. Before he could call for help, another dozen vampires gathered around him and plunged their fangs into any part of his body they could find, feeding off Harrigan like animals at a trough.

PRESTON HAD FINISHED adjusting the waist straps of his armored vest, making it fit snugly against his chest, when the rumbling explosion came out of the northwest. Everyone turned in that direction, expecting to see a fireball or mushroom cloud billowing over the building tops. When he saw nothing, Preston went back to adjusting his vest.

“What the fuck was that?” asked the rookie.

“Forget about it.” Preston removed his riot helmet from the hood of the squad car. “We have to clean out the mall and dispose of the bodies out here before they come back to life.”

“I think we’re too late.”

“What the hell are you…?” Preston stopped in mid-sentence when he saw what the rookie referred to. All around the square, the corpses were moving, shifting and stretching as if waking up from a deep sleep. One of them rose up and looked around, a confused expression on its face, its eyes glazed.

“Somebody call the paramedics,” yelled one of the cops. “They’re still alive.”

Simmons scoffed. “That can’t be. They’re dead.”

“Well they’re moving,” said the rookie. “If they’re not dead, what are they?”

The vampire turned toward Preston, who immediately recognized the deformed facial features he had seen so many times in the security camera footage.

“They’re the undead,” said Preston. “Let’s get out of here.”

Throughout the square, the corpses returned from the dead as vampires. At first their movements were slow and plodding, but once they smelled fresh blood they became more animated. As the police fell back to their vehicles, the vampires sprang off the ground and lunged. The closest cops did not stand a chance, being overpowered and knocked to the ground. Simmons drew his service revolver and fired off three rounds before seven vampires tackled him, three of them beginning to drink before they hit the pavement. The rest of the force broke and ran, most being cut down before they made it a dozen yards.

Preston and the rookie were almost to the squad car when the latter tripped and fell. He tried to get up, but could not move due to the armored vest.

“Sir, help me!”

Preston glanced over his shoulder but kept on running, abandoning the rookie to his fate. He ignored the kid’s screams as five vampires pounced on him, tearing at his flesh.

Reaching the squad car, Preston opened the driver’s door and tried to slip inside, but the bulk of the armored vest slowed him down. He banged into the door jamb and steering wheel. On his second attempt, he only succeeded in getting wedged halfway into the front seat. Thrashing around, he tried to get back out.

Several pairs of cold hands grabbed hold of him. Preston locked his hands on the steering wheel and hung on tight, crying for help that would never come. One of the vampires reached in and dug its talons into Preston’s wrist, cutting its way through muscle and bone. Preston released his grip. The vampires yanked him out of the squad car and into the street. He kicked and yelled, frantically fighting them off, but there were too many. One by one, they sunk their fangs into Preston, feeding off his blood.

THE HUNTERS AND the H.A.R.D. team members gathered around the card table Drake had set up in his suite and were planning out their strategy when the rumbling from National Cathedral echoed across the Potomac. Most of them assumed it was thunder. Sarah glanced out the window to see if it was raining and saw the dark cloud forming over the cathedral.

“What’s that?”

The others looked, each focusing on the growing vortex. They moved over to the window and watched as the cloud grew larger and darker. When the rose window shattered, by instinct most of the group flinched. Seconds later, sunlight flowed from the cloud and shone into the cathedral.

Braddock looked from one hunter to the other. “What the hell just happened?”

“I don’t know,” said Alison. “My guess is that Chiang Shih just read the incantation from the Vampyrnomicon.”

“Then every one of those things is now a daywalker?”

Alison nodded.

Braddock turned from the window and walked back to the table. “That’s just fucking great.”

“Look on the bright side,” said Drake.

Alison looked at him funny. “What bright side?”

“We now know where to find Chiang Shih.” Drake turned around to face the others. “Get ready. We move out in an hour.”

AS THE AFTERNOON sun began its slow descent on the western horizon, Drake and Braddock’s teams geared up. The hunters carried their usual compliment of stakes and their traditional weapons. Drake had his pair of Glocks with holy-water tipped hollow points. Jim and Rodriguez opted for shotguns loaded with crystallized holy water. Alison and Sarah decided to rely on their martial arts skills, although Sarah did bring along her kukri knives. The H.A.R.D. team members carried their standard weapons, including 9mm rounds supplemented by Jim with hollow points filled with holy-water. Drake also made certain that each H.A.R.D. member carried two stakes.

As they were finishing up, Jim placed a small cardboard box on the table and opened the top. “I made one for each of us.”

Drake reached in and pulled out a plastic hypodermic needle filled with 15ccs of a clear liquid. “What are these for?”

“I found the needles in the hotel office while I was looking for medical supplies. I filled them with the holy water we had left over after making the bullets.”

“And what are we supposed to do with these?” asked Braddock.

Jim shrugged. “I don’t know. If one of the snuffies pins you to the ground, shove the needle in it and press the plunger. It should cause enough pain for the snuffy to let you go.”

Braddock gave Jim a look that left little doubt as to what the verbal response would be.

“Give me a break, man,” Jim said defensively. “It’s the best I can do working out of a hotel room.”

Drake slipped one of the hypodermics into his leather jacket pocket and squeezed Jim’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. You did well. You’ve always done well by us.”

“Thanks, Boss.”

Rodriguez grabbed one of the needles and dropped it in his jacket pocket.

Drake picked up the final piece of equipment, the stakeholder Jim had crafted for him. The threes stakes provided by Helms were already secured onto the metal base. Drake looked at the weapon, and then to the others.

“Okay, gang. This is it. Everyone knows what they’re supposed to do?”

The entire team responded in the affirmative.

Drake held up the stakeholder. “Remember, what happens to us is not important. We have to drive these stakes into Chiang Shih’s heart at all costs, otherwise everything we’re about to do is an exercise in futility. If I go down, one of you has to take this and go after Chiang Shih. We can’t stop until either she’s dead or we all are. Understood?”

Another round of affirmative answers.

Drake nodded, and then attached the stakeholder to his utility belt. “Let’s rock.”

The hunters left the hotel room in silence and made their way by elevator down to the lobby. As they passed the reception desk, Drake heard two familiar voices call out his name. They stopped and looked into the waiting area. Roach approached, with Jessica running along behind.

“Shit,” muttered Braddock under his breath. “Here comes trouble.”

“And Roach is with her,” Alison added snidely.

Roach came up to Drake. “We need to talk.”

“I don’t have time for this shit right now. We know where Chiang Shih is and have to get her before she moves. Arrest me later if you want.”

Roach stepped back and held up his hands. “You got me wrong. I’m not here to arrest you. I want to go with you.”

“Are you serious?”

Roach nodded. “If I had listened to you months ago, we might have been able to stop this before it got out of control. Thanks to me, half my police force is dead and the city is under siege from vampires. It may be too little too late, but I want to help.”

“You realize this is a suicide mission?”

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t at least try. So, am I in?”

Drake offered his hand. “Glad to have you on board.”

“Thanks.” The two men shook hands. Roach stepped into the group.

Drake turned to Jessica, who stood sheepishly in front of him. “I suppose you want to go along, too?”

Jessica forced a smile. “And miss the story of the century? Are you nuts?”

“You can’t go.”

“Why?”

“Because this is not a news junket to a war zone. This is for real. We’re more than likely not coming back from this one. And I can’t waste my time babysitting you.”

Jessica reached out and took Drake’s hand. “Then give me a weapon.”

“No way.”

“Come on. After what I’ve been through due to the vampires, I can’t just sit this one out.”

Drake fixed his gaze on her, trying to read her motives. He finally said, “Jim, do we have an extra shotgun?”

“There’s one in Rolling Thunder.”

Drake removed his hand from Jessica’s. “Okay, you’re in. Don’t make me regret this.”

Before Jessica could respond, Drake walked away and headed for the armored car. The others followed. Jessica waited until the others had left before joining.

As Kim Chon-wee climbed into the front compartment of Rolling Thunder and started the engine, the others climbed in back and booted up the computer terminals. Drake and Braddock fitted up with the special weapons. Alison and Carissa said silent prayers.

Two minutes later, Rolling Thunder pulled out of the Marriott parking lot and started across Key Bridge into Georgetown.

15

ROLLING THUNDER ROARED off Key Bridge, turning right onto M Street. Kim maneuvered between the few discarded or wrecked vehicles that littered the road, treating the armored truck more like a race car than a 52,000-pound vehicle. With each turn Rolling Thunder swayed, sometimes precariously. Roach took up a position at the command computer terminal, monitoring their progress from a video camera mounted in the cab that pointed out through the windshield. Drake and Braddock stood behind Roach and watched over his shoulder, their hands clutched to the back of the chair for support. Each man wore a leather overcoat draped across his shoulders and covering the weapons mounted on their backs.

“Where did the kid learn to drive this thing?” asked Drake.

“He didn’t,” answered Braddock. “Renee or I usually do the driving. Kim’s gone through more cars than I have wives.”

Roach grimaced. “That’s a comforting thought.”

The camera showed the congestion at the intersection of M Street and Wisconsin Avenue.

Braddock frowned. “We’ll have to take one of the side streets and go around it.”

As he reached for the intercom button to warn Kim, Rolling Thunder shifted gears and increased speed. Even inside the rear compartment they all felt the rumble of the three hundred horsepower engine as it fired up. Braddock had just enough time to warn everybody to hang on before the armored truck plowed into the tangle of vehicles forming the accident. The concussion reverberated through the armored truck, almost knocking everyone off their feet. Through the video camera, Drake watched as the vehicles clogging the intersection either broke apart or were pushed aside as easily as shopping carts. Kim slowed Rolling Thunder as he spun around the corner onto Wisconsin Avenue, throwing everyone to the left. Another shifting of gears and the truck gained speed again, racing through Georgetown.

Braddock keyed the intercom to the front cab. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I wasn’t about to try and maneuver this thing through the back streets,” answered Kim. Then, more defensively, “What are you pissing about? I made it through, didn’t I?”

Braddock shook his head with grudging respect.

Drake looked at the skyline on the monitor. “The vortex is gone.”

“Is that bad?” asked Roach.

“I hope it doesn’t mean the vampires have moved on and we missed them.”

A few minutes later, Drake’s fears were put to rest as half a dozen snuffies raced toward them down Wisconsin Avenue from the direction of the cathedral.

Braddock keyed the microphone again. “Kim, up ahead of you.”

“I see them.” Rolling Thunder roared to life as it accelerated. Kim shouted to no one in particular, “Ramming speed!”

The first two snuffies literally disintegrated as the armored truck plowed into them, splattering the windshield in body parts and gore. A third vampire attempted to jump onto the engine compartment but misjudged. It slammed into the windshield, crushing its bones and rupturing its internal organs, before ricocheting off to one side. The other snuffies dove out of the way. Kim swerved to the left, clipping one with the fender. Drake felt the bump as the armored truck rolled over the body.

Roach switched the monitor to see the rear view camera. The remaining two snuffies fell in behind them and gave chase. As the hunters neared the cathedral, more vampires joined in until at least twenty snuffies followed them.

Drake smiled. “I think we know where the nest is.”

“Yeah,” responded Braddock. “And they’re sending a welcoming committee to greet us.”

“Then let’s give them an uncomfortable reception.” Reaching out to the control panel, Roach switched on the Active Denial System and aimed the rooftop antenna to the rear. Electromagnetic radiation at a frequency of ninety-five Gigahertz pounded against the snuffies, instantly heating their bodies to one hundred and thirty degrees Fahrenheit. Each of the vampires slowed, pained expressions on their faces. Several dropped to the ground and writhed around. Within seconds, the swarm had given up the chase.

“Fucking awesome,” Braddock muttered under his breath.

Kim’s voice came across the intercom. “We’re here. And we have company.”

Roach switched back to the forward camera. National Cathedral was a hundred feet ahead, with nearly twenty snuffies standing on the grass, waiting for the hunters. Roach swiveled the ADS array to the front and pummeled them with electromagnetic radiation, scattering the snuffies in all directions.

Kim swerved Rolling Thunder off Wisconsin Avenue and onto the lawn, weaving between the police cars scattered around the area. He bounced the vehicle onto the walkway, headed for the cathedral’s west façade, and came to a halt beside the abandoned deuce-and-a-halves.

“Let’s go!” yelled Drake.

Carissa opened the rear door and jumped out, sweeping the area with her TP9SF. The only snuffies nearby were the twenty that had ran away from the ADS rays, and were regrouping for an attack. The other hunters jumped out and raced for the cathedral. Drake and Braddock were the last to exit. Drake looked at Roach, who was still at the console.

“Come on.”

“You go,” ordered Roach. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can and buy you some time.”

Roach trained the antenna on the gathering snuffies, forcing them to drop to the ground in pain or run away.

Drake nodded and rushed off, leading the way across from Rolling Thunder to the cathedral, their boots crunching against the shards of the shattered rose window. The others coalesced around him and Braddock, protecting them from attack. As they climbed the stairs, Alison noticed that the massive bronze doors were closed. She rushed forward and pulled on the handle. Thankfully, it swung open. Drake and Braddock rushed inside, followed by the others. Alison pulled the bronze door shut behind her.

ONCE THE HUNTERS were inside, Roach maneuvered the antenna so it pounded the main portal with electromagnetic radiation. With luck, that would keep the snuffies from joining the fight inside. But by keeping the array on the front facade, he gave a reprieve to the swarm gathered out front. With nothing to stop them, they swarmed toward Rolling Thunder.

Roach saw the impending attack on the video monitor. Looking around for a weapon, he found a shotgun with holy water rounds and a burlap bag containing two bottles of Heaven’s Fire. Grabbing the shotgun, he pushed out of his seat and moved for the door, hoping to lock himself inside where he at least had a fighting chance. Roach reached for the handle when a vampire in a National Guard uniform jumped onto the bumper and centered itself in the doorway. Sweat dripped from its reddened skin, the result of being cooked in the electromagnetic radiation. It glared at him with blood-red eyes, the lust for revenge evident even in its undead features. Opening its mouth wide, the snuffy growled.

“Fuck you, too.” Roach raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The buckshot caught the vampire full in the face, hurling it off the rear of the armored truck and tearing its head off. It fell backwards onto the walkway, exploding into ash.

Roach reached for the door handle with his left hand and clasped it. A vampire in an altar boy’s outfit appeared from out of nowhere and sank its fangs into Roach’s wrist. Instinctively, he pulled back, ripping out a huge chunk of flesh. He blacked out for a moment. Trying to regain his composure, Roach raised the shotgun to fire, but the altar boy had followed him inside. It pushed aside the shotgun and pounced on Roach. The two tumbled over and slammed into the front wall of the compartment. As they slid to the ground, the altar boy latched its fangs into Roach’s neck. Roach tried to push it away with his good arm, but a second vampire grabbed it and began chewing on his wrist. Roach saw the compartment filling with the undead, each wanting their own pound of flesh from him.

Reaching out with his left hand, Roach felt around between the gathering hoard of vampires until his fingers brushed against the burlap bag. He tried to grab the material, but the loss of blood dulled his senses. His vision started to fade, and he felt his mind wandering into unconsciousness. Summoning what will power he had left, Roach clutched the bag and pulled it toward him close enough to push down on the detonator cap on one of the bottles of Heaven’s Fire.

A small explosion echoed through the compartment, accompanied by an expanding fireball of home-made napalm. The reinforced metal walls of the armored compartment channeled the fireball back in on itself, turning the interior into a charnel house. Roach and all fourteen vampires that had climbed into Rolling Thunder were incinerated instantly. A blast of flame shot out through the open door, roasting three more vampires who were climbing inside.

The explosion also fried the circuitry within the command consoles. The ADS went dead, leaving the main portal unprotected.

THE HUNTERS STOPPED as they entered the cathedral’s nave, for none of them were prepared for the sight that greeted them. The detritus from last night’s massacre still littered the floor. Dozens of corpses lay scattered across the tiled floor, the bodies of those killed in the bloodbath and ensuing panic that would not be turned, intermingled among the hundreds of overturned wooden chairs and blood-soaked hymnals. Personal items were everywhere. Purses, shoes, coats and hats, even a baby stroller. Congealed blood formed massive pools on the tiled floor and covered everything, offering a ghoulishly stark testimony to the carnage that had taken place here last night.

The hunters proceeded into the nave, carefully choosing their steps.

“Dear God,” gasped Carissa as she nearly stepped on the corpse of an infant.

“Keep it together, people,” ordered Braddock. “Focus on your mission.”

O’Donnell stepped around an overturned chair that covered the body of an elderly woman. “Where are the rest of the bodies?”

“They’re here,” said Drake, nodding his head toward the front of the cathedral. “They’re just not dead anymore.”

Nearly a hundred and fifty snuffies emerged from the shadows of the transepts and fanned out around the hunters. Thirty appeared on the second-floor passages above each bay, vaulting over the railings and dropping into the nave. To the rear, another dozen or more vampires emerged from the northwest and southwest cloisters, spreading apart so they blocked the way out. The undead converged until they surrounded the humans, forcing them into a small space in the center of the nave.

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

The familiar voice came from the front of the cathedral. The humans turned in that direction. Four shadows emerged from the high altar at the eastern end of the cathedral, passed through the choir section, and emerged onto the raised wooden platform that dominated the crossing. Drake recognized Chiang Shih and the two masters on either side of her—the Spanish master whose throat Alison had slit open at the Freer and the female master he had shot through the forehead, only now deformed to the point that she looked more monster than human. Rebecca stood off to the far right. At least now he knew how Chiang Shih had found out about the Vampyrnomicon. Drake looked forward to wiping that smug look off the bitch’s face.

The four masters stopped at the edge of the raised platform. Chiang Shih took an extra step forward and smiled. “I see you brought some new friends with you.”

Drake faced Chiang Shih, and Alison moved in behind him. “Trust me. None of us wanted to miss this.”

“More food for us.” This time the voice came from behind them, near the portals. Glancing over his shoulder, Drake saw Walker standing by the door they had just entered.

Braddock turned to face Walker, and Carissa stepped behind him.

“Enough talk,” said Chiang Shih. She snapped her fingers, and the circle of two hundred snuffies slowly closed in on the hunters. “It’s time to finish what we started at the Freer.”

“Sounds good to me.” Drake nodded.

As the others gathered between Drake and Braddock, Alison and Carissa removed the leather overcoats from their bosses’ shoulders. Each man carried an M2A1 flame thrower strapped to his back. Raising the igniter nozzles, the two men aimed at the closing circle of vampires and pressed the trigger.

Jets of flame erupted from the weapons, washing over the approaching vampires. Drake and Braddock swung the nozzles from right to left, between them covering the entire circle. The snuffies closest to the hunters ignited instantly, falling to the ground and dissolving into ash, and exposing those behind them to the fiery onslaught. Raising the nozzles arched the jets over the first rows of vampires, dousing the snuffies in back. The other hunters aimed their weapons into the throng, either firing randomly or gunning down any of the undead that tried to surge forward. Only a handful managed to break free from the inferno and retreat to the far corners of the cathedral, leaving the rest to burn. Anguished howls from scores of dying vampires filled the nave, blotting out the roar of the flames and the echo of gunfire. Only when the circle of vampires had completely crumbled into smoldering ash did Drake and Braddock release the triggers. An eerie silence momentarily fell across the cathedral, quickly replaced by the crackling of flammable objects scattered across the floor and the cloth hangings covering the bays, all of which had been ignited by the flames.

From the crossing, Chiang Shih bellowed a single word. “Nooooo!”

The hunters watched as Chiang Shih turned and raced through the choir section, heading for the high altar at the far end of the cathedral, with Rebecca close behind. Toni and Treja disappeared into the north and south transepts, respectively. Walker turned and ran for one of the stairwells leading upstairs.

A commotion at the rear of the cathedral caught the hunters’ attention. The vampires who had been chasing them down Wisconsin Avenue opened the bronze doors and rushed into the entryway.

Braddock called over to Drake. “Give your flamethrower to O’Donnell. We’ll hold off these bastards while you hunt down the masters.”

As Drake exchanged weapons with O’Donnell, the other hunters set off after the masters. Alison and Jessica headed for the north transept, Jim and Sarah for the south. Rodriguez set off after Walker, with Kim right behind him. After Drake helped O’Donnell sling the flamethrower over his shoulders, he set off after Chiang Shih.

The H.A.R.D. team members formed a line abreast in the nave, with Braddock in the center, Carissa to his left, and O’Donnell to his right.

“Hold the line,” ordered Braddock. “And remember, this one’s for Renee.”

DRAKE ENTERED THE choir section. Up ahead, Chiang Shih ran for the high alter. He went after her, reaching for the holder with the three crucifixion crosses.

A noise to his right caught his attention. He glanced over just as Rebecca popped up from behind one of the wooden seats and lunged. Catching Drake off guard, she slammed into him and knocked him across the choir section. He hit the small wooden wall that ran in front of seats and slid to the floor, momentarily dazed. Rebecca pounced on him. She shoved her left knee into his right arm so he could not go for a stake. Grabbing him by the hair, she yanked his head up and placed her face close to his.

“How’s your pet, hunter?”

Fury boiled inside Drake. “You’re the one who killed Van Helsing?”

Rebecca smiled and licked her lips. “I’ve never fed off an animal before. You know what? He tasted like chicken.”

“You cunt.”

Rebecca laughed and morphed into her vampiric form. “Now I get to turn the pathetic little creature’s human, too.”

“You broke my heart when you killed him, bitch. Let me return the favor.”

As Rebecca bent toward Drake’s neck, he pulled the hypodermic needle out of his pocket, flipped off the protective cover with his thumb, and rammed it up into her chest. The needle penetrated her heart. Rebecca gasped. Drake pressed down on the plunger, squirting thirty CCs of holy water into her heart. She started to convulse and released her grip on the hunter. Seeing his opportunity, Drake kicked her away and stood.

Rebecca writhed around on the floor, ripping through her blouse and tearing at her breast. The skin around her heart turned to ash and caved in as the holy water ate Rebecca from the inside out. She let out a final howl that died off as the disintegration consumed her, spreading outward from her chest, up her throat, and through the rest of her body. Drake stepped forward and stomped on Rebecca’s head. It exploded into a cloud of ash.

He turned and continued after Chiang Shih.

WALKER REACHED THE second landing, pushed open the door, and raced out into the corridor. He mentally pictured his location inside the cathedral and how to get back to the eastern end of the nave. If he continued straight, eventually he should come across another staircase that should bring him back down on the opposite side of the flamethrowers.

A commotion behind Walker caused him to turn around. The sound of hunters racing after him echoed from the stairwell. For a moment, he thought about going back and ambushing them, but had no way of knowing how many there were or what weapons they carried. He despised running from humans, but in this instance it was necessary. He could not afford to be taken down now.

Walker needed to join Chiang Shih and fight the humans by her side.

JIM AND SARAH moved along the southern bays of the nave and crossed into the southern transept. The baptistery and south portal were off to their right, and the wooden screens separating the transept from the chapels stood across from them. Streams of sunlight filtered in through the rose window, illuminating a circle on the floor. A week ago it would have given them some protection from the undead, but didn’t do them any good now.

Sarah moved close to Jim so she could whisper and pointed to the doors leading outside. “Do you think he left?”

“Doubtful. He’d never abandon Chiang Shih.” Jim motioned to the chapels on the opposite side of the screen. “My guess is he’s hiding in there waiting to ambush us.”

“And of course we’re going to just storm right in there and oblige him.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“No,” she said, and then grinned. “You first.”

Jim raised the shotgun into firing position and moved toward the doorway in the screens, carefully watching the other side for any movement. Sarah covered him, holding her kukri knives down by her side in preparation for an attack.

Neither of them noticed Treja, who emerged from the shadows of the baptistery behind them. The master slid up behind Sarah and wrapped his arms tightly around the huntress, pinning her arms against her sides. He plunged his fangs into Sarah’s neck and began feeding. Sarah yelped, as much from fear as pain.

Jim spun around and aimed the shotgun, but could not risk getting off a shot without killing Sarah. He moved closer to help his lover, but Treja backed away, dragging Sarah along with him.

Treja stopped. Keeping his cheeks nestled against Sarah, he glared at Jim. “You can’t save her, hunter. She’s about to die. I’ll let you decide whether it’s at your hand or mine.”

“You bastard.” Jim quickly sidestepped around Treja, but the vampire moved just as fast, keeping Sarah between himself and Jim. As he did, her weight shifted. Taking advantage of the opportunity, she repositioned the knife in her left hand so the blade pointed to the rear, plunged it into Treja’s leg, and twisted. Treja still held Sarah tight in his arms, but his grip loosened just enough for her to move. She slammed her left elbow repeatedly into the master. On the fourth blow he released his grip. She jumped free and spun around, swinging the right kukri knife in a wide arc. It sliced through Treja just below the ribcage. Sarah stepped back a few feet to prepare for his next attack.

A foot-long slit formed along Treja’s abdomen, slowly opening to reveal his internal organs. As Treja watched in shock, his insides pushed through the opening and fell to the floor with a sickening plop. He dropped to his knees, still not believing what had happened. Sarah stepped forward and held her arms crossed in front of her chest, the blades forming a pair of scissors. Treja looked at her and nodded, admitting defeat. He closed his eyes and extended his neck.

With a quick sweep of her arms, Sarah sliced the two blades through Treja’s neck. His head lopped off his body and rolled onto the floor. The decapitated corpse started to disintegrate, spreading out along the shoulders and chest until it eventually consumed his entire body.

Sarah did not wait around to watch the final death throes. She walked past Jim and headed for the chapels.

“Come on,” she said as she passed. “We still have work to do.”

ALISON AND JESSICA entered the north transept and paused, looking around for vampires. None were visible, but there were plenty of places one could hide.

Alison moved closer to Jessica, who held her shotgun at the ready. She noticed the reporter’s hands shaking. “Follow me and keep your eyes open. And for God’s sake, don’t shoot me with that thing.”

“No promises.”

The two women made their way toward the front of the cathedral. Alison kept her eyes focused straight ahead. Jessica nervously looked around the transept.

Jessica noticed movement out of the corner of her eye and swung to her left. The horribly disfigured female master emerged from the confessionals and rushed toward her. Jessica pointed the shotgun and felt around for the trigger, but Toni moved too quickly. She punched Jessica in the face, shattering her nose and fracturing her jaw. The force of the blow propelled Jessica backwards. She landed on her back six feet away and slid across the floor until she plowed into one the cement support columns.

Alison swung around to face Toni, but the master was too close. Toni swung her left hand, smashing it across Alison’s cheek. The huntress flew to the side, doing a cartwheel before landing with a hard thud on the tiled floor, the wind knocked out of her. Toni walked over and stood above Alison. When she spoke, her voice sounded guttural and inhuman.

“We meet again, huntress. Only this time there’s no one around to save you.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Jessica jumped onto Toni’s back and wrapped her right arm around the master’s throat, closing her elbow on the creature’s windpipe. Toni thrashed around, but could not shake Jessica loose. Balling her right hand into a fist, she punched backwards over her shoulder, catching Jessica on her broken nose. The pain that shot through the reporter caused her to loosen her grip. Toni reached behind her, grabbed Jessica by the waist, and flung her across the transept. The reporter crashed through the wooden walls of the confessional, landing in an unconscious heap among the broken wood.

Alison used the respite to get to her feet and remove a stake from inside her jacket. She lunged just as Toni spun around. Toni clasped her right hand around Alison’s, stopping the attack, and slammed her left hand into the huntress’ elbow. The shattering of bone echoed through the transept. Alison cried out as her arm fell limp beside her.

Toni knocked Alison to the floor and mounted her chest, her knees pinning the huntress’ arms to the floor. She clutched Alison’s throat with her left hand, digging in her talons just enough to hold the huntress in place. With her right hand, she slashed Alison’s cheek, ripping out three chunks of skin. Alison yelped. Toni laughed, and then lowered her face close to Alison’s.

“You’ve made me hideous, bitch. But it’s nothing compared to what I’m going to do to you.”

BRADDOCK AND O’DONNELL released two more streams of flame at the vampires approaching from the rear of the cathedral. The liquid fire washed over the first tier of vampires, incinerating them instantly. However, those to the rear had anticipated the attack and stayed back, being spared the onslaught. They hovered around the doors, waiting for an opportunity to attack.

It came soon enough.

None of the humans noticed the vampire in the business suit that had made its way along the walkway above the northern bays. Once it maneuvered behind the humans, it leaped off the walkway and landed on O’Donnell. O’Donnell stumbled backwards, the two colliding with one of the cement support columns in the center of the nave. The vampire clawed at the tanks on O’Donnell’s back, puncturing the fuel canister. A jet of fuel shot from the ruptured tank.

Hearing O’Donnell’s struggle, Braddock and Carissa turned their attention to what was happening. Seeing their opportunity, the other vampires charged at the humans. Carissa saw them first. Raising her TP9SF, she fired on the advancing vampires as she fell back toward the front of the cathedral. Braddock turned to see the vampires only a few feet away and raised the nozzle.

He never got a chance to fire.

Still stumbling around with the vampire on his back, O’Donnell fell into one of the Christmas cloth hangings set on fire by the earlier attack, igniting the stream of leaking fuel. The stream burned along its entire length, generating a jet of flame that entered the fuel canister. The flamethrower exploded, instantly incinerating O’Donnell and the vampire. Standing in the line of fire, Braddock’s own tanks were punctured by flaming chunks of metal, igniting his weapon just as the other vampires threw themselves at him. Braddock never knew what happened. The twin fireballs spread throughout the nave, engulfing the remaining vampires.

Carissa jumped behind one of the cement support columns when she saw O’Donnell’s flamethrower rupture. The fireball washed around the column and dissipated harmlessly against the stone wall. The sleeves of her uniform were singed and she suffered second degree burns on the top of her hands, but she was alive.

For now.

Carissa broke into a run and headed along the southern bays for the front of the cathedral.

FROM HIS PERCH in the choir loft in front of the shattered rose window, Akers watched with growing horror the destruction of the coven. None of them had counted on the hunters being so resourceful, and that mistake had cost them dearly. In less than five minutes, the two flamethrowers had taken out almost the entire coven until only the masters and a few vampires remained. The explosion of the flamethrowers had killed off the most of the H.A.R.D. team, but the hunters were still alive, which did not bode well.

Even worse, the nave had been turned into an inferno. Almost everything flammable down below was on fire, and burning embers were falling on the chairs and boxes lined up in the walkways on the second level, many of which were smoldering. Black smoke collected around the ceiling and filled the nave, making it impossible to see the front. In ten minutes, nothing inside would have a chance of surviving, both the living and the undead.

Akers contemplated getting out while he still could. He could disappear into the streets and be long gone before anyone realized he had left. Even if any of the masters survived, they would think he had died along with the others, and would not bother looking for him.

Akers quickly pushed that thought from his mind. One way or the other, Chiang Shih would make it through this disaster. She always did. She would need to replenish her masters and start over, and he would be in a perfect position to be one of her right-hand men. Chiang Shih would make him immortal. She would make him important, someone to be feared. He could not pass up that opportunity.

He needed to find Chiang Shih and help her defeat the humans.

Racing out of the choir loft, Akers made his way along the northern passageway toward the front of the cathedral.

WALKER WOUND HIS way through the maze of corridors, trying to stay ahead of the hunters, until he emerged into a large brick-walled room that looked more like a basement. A thick cement pedestal dominated the center of the floor. Each of the other three walls contained a door. Walker headed for the one on the left, reasoning that it would lead to a corridor that cut across the cathedral, but found it bolted from the other side. He tried the next door, which opened onto the void between the interior top of the nave and the roof. There was no way out from this area, and he did not feel like being trapped.

As Walker stepped back into the brick-walled room, two hunters ran into the area from the door opposite him. Walker paused, expecting to be roasted in a burst of fire, but these hunters carried only a shotgun and an assault rifle. He recognized the Hispanic hunter from the Freer. The Asian in the paramilitary uniform he had never seen before. Not that it mattered. They would both be dead in a few seconds.

Morphing into his vampiric form, Walker snarled and ran toward the two men. The Asian raised his assault rifle and fired ten rounds. Walker anticipated the pain as the bullets pounded into his chest, but not the burning. Fuck, the hunters must have armed him with holy water rounds. His fears were confirmed when the searing sensation spread across his muscles and flowed through his veins. Being roasted alive by the flamethrowers could not have been much worse than this.

Walker broke to his left and bolted for the open door that led to the cathedral’s outer wall. The Asian fired another burst of gunfire but, because Walker was moving away from him, each round missed. As Walker raced by a maintenance worker’s cart that was by the open door, he reached out with his right hand and flipped it at the humans, delaying them for a few seconds.

The agony in his chest increased as the burning seeped into his lungs. There was no way he could take on two trained hunters in his condition. He needed time to regenerate. Or he needed to even the odds.

Walker heard the hunters running after him, followed by the report of a shotgun being fired. Buckshot slapped at his back, but at this distance it barely broke the skin.

At the end of the room, Walker turned left. Ahead of him were a narrow winding stairway leading down and a door just off the landing that read ROOF. He had an idea on how to even the odds. Leaning to his left, Walker rammed the door with his shoulders, propelling it open, and ran outside.

A walkway barely a yard wide stretched before him, running along the edge of the transept’s roof for several yards before turning right and continuing along the cathedral’s southern exterior. Walker immediately realized he stood in the cathedral’s gutter system. To his left, the roof sloped up to a pinnacle. To his right, a crenellated wall ran along the exterior of the building from which drain pipes disguised as gargoyles would disgorge rain water to the ground two hundred feet below.

Walker jumped onto the sloped roof and circled around until he stood on the archway above the door. He crouched, waiting for the hunters.

HIS HEART POUNDED so hard Rodriguez thought it would rupture. He tried to take a deep breath, but could barely draw in enough air to keep running. He and Kim had been chasing the master for nearly two minutes and were falling farther behind. If they lost sight of it, God knows where it would wind up. Rodriguez could not allow it to double back on Drake and the others.

“You gonna make it?” asked Kim. The bastard barely broke a sweat.

Rodriguez nodded, unable to catch enough of a breath to verbally respond.

The two men turned left down a small corridor that almost immediately doglegged right, entering a large brick-walled room. The master stood at the door opposite them, looking around as if it did not know where to go. When it saw them, it morphed into a vampire and attacked.

Before Rodriguez could bring his shotgun into firing position, Kim raised his TP9SF and fired off ten rounds. Each bullet ripped into the master’s chest, tearing out chunks of flesh. As the hollow points collapsed and released their content of holy water, smoke began wafting from the master’s chest. Kim fired off another burst, but the master had changed direction to the left and ran through an open door. The bullets slammed harmlessly into the wall behind it. As the master raced into the adjoining room, it struck out at a maintenance worker’s cart standing by the door, sending it flying toward the humans. Both men jumped aside, and the cart crashed into the wall behind them.

“You all right?” asked Rodriguez.

Kim nodded. “I’m cool.”

“Good. Follow me.”

Rodriguez headed for the door the master had disappeared through. Kim followed close behind, changing out the empty magazine on his TP9SF.

As they entered the room, Rodriguez saw Walker at the far end. He raised the shotgun and fired, but at this distance the buckshot barely reached it. The master veered left, out of their line of sight. A moment later, they heard a loud metal bang. When the two men turned the corner, the door to the roof lay partially open, swinging on its hinges.

Kim pointed. “He must have gone out there.”

Rodriguez ran out first, aiming the shotgun in front of him. Kim followed, panning his TP9SF up along the roof. The master jumped off its perch on the archway above the door and knocked him over. Rodriguez started to swing around, but the master body checked him in the back, sprawling the hunter into the gutter.

Kim scrambled to his feet and tried to raise the TP9SF, but Walker was too quick. He grabbed Kim by the throat, raised him to his feet, and hurled him through one of the openings in the crenellated wall. Kim frantically grabbed at the wall to no avail. He plummeted to the ground nearly two hundred feet below, screaming all the way down.

Rodriguez did not have time to mourn. He felt around for his shotgun until his fingers touched the metal. Grasping it, Rodriguez jumped to his feet and brought the weapon to bear on the master, but Walker already had closed the distance. He grabbed the barrel of the shotgun with his left hand, yanked it away from Rodriguez, and tossed it over the side. With his right hand, he clutched Rodriguez by the front of his shirt and drew him close.

“It’s time to finish what we started at the Freer.”

DRAKE LEFT REBECCA to disintegrate and continued walking through the choir section, his gaze fixed on Chiang Shih. She waited for him in the center of the high altar. As he approached, she greeted him with a sardonic smile.

“I must hand it to you, hunter. This is the second time you fought my masters to a draw.”

“It ain’t over yet.” Drake reached under his leather jacket and withdrew a stake from inside his jacket.

“A stake? That won’t hurt me.”

“It will if it’s carved from the crucifixion cross.” As Drake closed the distance, Chiang Shih jumped back and glared at him.

Drake smiled. “So, the legends are true. You can be destroyed.”

Chiang Shih morphed into her vampiric form. Her skin grew brownish-white and tightened around the bones, assuming the appearance of desiccated flesh. Her fingers extended two inches. The nails grew out and darkened until they became thin black talons nearly three inches long. A huge lump formed on her back, rupturing through the skin to reveal a pair of bat-shaped wings that spanned six feet. Tiny claws were on the mid-point of each wing and clasped at the air. Chiang Shih’s lips pulled back and fangs an inch long sprouted from the blackened gums, with two longer fangs centered in her upper jaw. Her long black hair receded back into her head, leaving scraggily white tufts across her leathery skull. Dark red eyes focused on the hunter.

Chiang Shih spoke in a guttural tone devoid of all humanity. “I’ve killed hundreds of hunters over the millennium. You’ll be no different.”

With his left hand, Drake grabbed the floor-mounted steel candelabra and wrapped his arm around the center shaft. “Bring it on, bitch.”

Chiang Shih and Drake charged at each other.

FROM HER HIDING place inside the Child’s Chapel, Melinda watched the two young hunters dispose of Treja. It served him right, she thought. His arrogance made him underestimate these humans. To defeat them, you needed to play on their weaknesses.

She waited until the two hunters had passed through the wooden screens into the War Memorial Chapel. As they drew near, she called out in a pathetic voice.

“Please help me.”

Jim and Sarah stopped and looked around. Melinda waved to get their attention. “I’m in here.”

Jim spotted her and ran into the chapel. Sarah stopped at the chapel entrance, looking around for any sudden attacks.

Tears poured down Melinda’s face. “Will you help me? Pleeeease?”

Jim knelt in front of her, looking at her neck. “Are you all right?”

“Those monsters killed my mommy.” She sniffed and held out her arms. “Will you help me?”

Jim wrapped his left arm around her and hugged her. “It’ll be over soon.”

She placed her head on his shoulder. “I’m scared.”

“You’ll be fine now.”

“Promise?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cross your heart?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And hope to die?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good.”

Melinda morphed into a vampire and bore her fangs above Jim’s neck. A sudden, stabbing pain wracked her chest. Pushing away from Jim, she looked down. The hunter had plunged the tip of a stake into her chest. As she watched, he drove it in further, puncturing her heart. She fell back onto the floor and scampered against the far wall. Never in her hundreds of years as a master had she experienced such agony. She tore at the stake, trying to dislodge it, but only hastened her own demise. Her heart and lungs collapsed first, then the intense burning spread through her chest. Looking up at the hunter, she let out a final hiss that became a silent exhalation of ash as the disintegration proceeded up her throat. Melinda glared at Jim with lifeless eyes, the last image she ever saw being of the hunter brushing off the palms of his hands before her body crumbled into a pile of ash.

Jim stood up and turned away. Sarah stared at him awestruck.

“H-how did you know?”

“There was no way anyone survived this massacre, least of all a little girl.”

Jim noticed that the flames had inched their way across the nave and ignited the wooden enclosure surrounding the choir section, inching their way toward the high altar.

“Come on,” Jim ordered. “We don’t have much time.”

CARISSA RAN THROUGH the cathedral, careful to avoid vampires or flaming debris. Embers already had blown toward the front of the cathedral, setting the choir section on fire. As she passed through the crossing, she held her breath so as not to choke on the thick black smoke filling the nave. Entering the northern transept where the flames and smoke had not yet reached, Carissa shook her head to throw off the embers and coughed out the smoke that gathered in her throat.

The sounds of a scuffle and the shattering of wood attracted her attention. Raising her TP9SF into firing position, she stepped forward to check it out. The deformed master had thrown Jessica into the confessional, where she lay unconscious, and now had Alison pinned to the floor. As Carissa watched, the vampire swiped at Alison’s face, ripping three gouges into her cheek.

Carissa dropped to her right knee, raised the TP9SF into firing position, and used her thumb to switch the automatic to single shot mode. She peered along the barrel, centering the sight on the master’s back where its heart was located. Her finger wrapped around the trigger and pulled until she felt the mechanism tense. Taking a deep breath and holding it, Carissa gently squeezed off a single round.

The holy-water-tipped round shot across the transept just as the master shifted her position to ravage Alison, slamming into the master’s back between the shoulder blades just below the base of the neck. The master wailed and rolled off of Alison, clutching at its back. Carissa rushed forward, setting up her next shot. Upon seeing her approaching, the master scrambled to its feet and raced for the front of the cathedral, her howls still echoing off the interior walls. Alison stumbled to her feet and followed.

Carissa ran over to the confessional, afraid of what she would find. She felt relief when she saw Jessica stir among the debris. Carissa climbed over the broken wood and knelt beside Jessica, placing her TP9SF beside the reporter. She gently slapped Jessica’s cheek several times. The reporter came to with a start and backed herself into the wall. When she saw Carissa, though, the look of terror left her face.

“Are you all right?” asked Carissa.

“Every muscle in my body hurts like hell.”

“Is anything broken?”

Jessica shifted her weight around. “No.”

“Good. Let me help you up.”

Before Carissa could do anything, she heard the familiar sound of metal sliding against metal. Slowly turning her head, she saw Akers standing five feet behind her, Jessica’s shotgun in his hands and pointed directly at her.

“Don’t try anything foolish and you both might live through this.”

WALKER SLAMMED RODRIGUEZ onto the sloped roof, driving the air out of his lungs. More from instinct than anything else, Rodriguez kicked out with his foot. He caught the master’s chin, knocking its jaw lose and forcing it back against the crenellated wall. Rodriguez rolled to the side and landed in the gutter. He got to his feet and put a few yards between him and the master before spinning around. As he watched, Walker positioned his jaw back in its normal position and held it in place. The bone reattached itself to the skull with a sickening crunch. Walker adjusted his lower jaw, and then glared at Rodriguez.

“You’ll pay for that, human. I’m going to tear you apart piece by piece.”

Walker attacked.

Rodriguez pulled the hypodermic from his pocket and squirted the contents into Walker’s face. The holy water caught him across the eyes. The master bellowed and clutched his face. Removing one of his stakes, Rodriguez ran over and pushed Walker against the wall, ready to plunge the stake into its heart. Even though blinded by the holy water, Walker lashed out with his right hand, punching Rodriguez in the side of the head. For a moment, everything went black. Rodriguez dropped the stake and staggered against the wall, stunned.

He felt Walker’s hand clutch him by the throat and pull him up. Rodriguez pounded on the master’s forearm, trying to break the hold, but his grip was too tight. Walker shoved him through the open space between the crenellated wall. Rodriguez grabbed the sides, holding himself in place.

“Your will to live is strong,” said Walker. “But I’m stronger.”

Walker groped along the wall until he found the hunter’s left hand and smashed it with his fist. Rodriguez nearly passed out as the bones in his hand shattered. He released his grip. Only his right hand prevented him from being tossed over. Walker switched hands around Rodriguez’ throat and felt around for Rodriguez’ good hand.

Rodriguez looked down, hoping to find something to break his fall. He saw a drop of two hundred feet and Kim’s crushed body on the grass, surrounded by a pool of blood.

DRAKE LASHED OUT at Chiang Shih with the candelabra, catching her across the face. As she reeled from the blow, he drove the stake toward her heart. Chiang Shih jumped back, putting several feet between her and the hunter. Drake regained his balance and moved closer, keeping the candelabra between them.

“So much for being immortal,” taunted Drake. “You’re no better than your snuffies.”

Chiang Shih snarled and surged forward. When Drake swung the candelabra, she grabbed it and yanked, ripping the weapon out of his hand with such force that he toppled over to the side. Chiang Shih snapped the steel candelabra in half as if it was a twig and dropped the two pieces on the ground.

“Now you’re mine.”

“Not so fast, bitch.”

Chiang Shih looked to her left. Jim stood in the southern door to the high altar, his shotgun trained on her. Sarah stood beside him, holding the kukri knives by her side. Jim fired, pulled back on the pump, and fired again. Round after round ripped into Chiang Shih, sending buckshot and crystallized holy water tearing into her chest. As quickly as each shot tore into her, the regeneration process closed the wounds. Chiang Shih waited until Jim ran out of ammunition, and then charged the young hunters.

Sarah jumped in front of Jim, raising the knives and crossing her arms, ready to slice at the Mistress. Chiang Shih surged forward suddenly, closing the distance between them before Sarah could react. She grabbed the blades and yanked them out of Sarah’s hands. The metal sliced open Chiang Shih’s palms, but as she threw the knives aside her hands healed instantly. The Mistress struck out with her fists, punching Sarah in her chest, throwing her backwards and knocking Jim over in the process. She hit the wall and slid down the stone, collapsing onto the floor in a motionless heap.

Chiang Shih turned to deal with Drake. While she had been battling Jim and Sarah, Drake had picked up one end of the broken candelabra and came at the Mistress from behind. Just as she turned, Drake drove the jagged end of the broken shaft into her face, puncturing an eye. He drove the shaft through her head and out the back of her skull.

Chiang Shih staggered. For a second, Drake thought he might have actually inflicted a fatal wound. Then the Mistress straightened up and laughed. Grabbing the shaft in her right hand, she slowly pulled it out of her socket. As the jagged end popped free, the ruptured eye and fractured skull instantly healed.

Drake stood a step back. “Oh, fuck.”

Chiang Shih followed him. Grabbing the hunter’s shirt with her left hand, she lifted him onto his toes and held up the blood-stained candelabra in front of his face. The guttural voice mocked him.

“That’s the difference between you and me, human. I’m immortal. You’re not.”

Chiang Shih plunged the jagged end of the shaft into Drake’s chest. The metal struck one of his ribs with such force that the bone fractured, then continued through his left lung and out his back. Every nerve in his body throbbed. Drake struggled to remain conscious. He gasped, trying to draw air into his lungs, but only succeeded in coughing up blood. Using the candelabra to support his weight, Chiang Shih walked him backwards toward the altar and drove the shaft into it, pushing the metal into the wood until the stand slammed into Drake’s chest. He hacked once before slumping forward onto the shaft, pinned against the altar.

WITH HER ARMS pinned to the floor by Toni, Alison had no way of defending herself. The bitch already had ripped open Alison’s left cheek. She felt the tattered flesh hanging against her face and the blood running down her neck. Alison closed her eyes, hoping the end would be quick.

A single gunshot rang out. Toni rolled off Alison, her knee banging against the hunter’s broken arm. Alison’s vision momentarily blacked out from the pain. Toni scrambled to her feet and ran for the front of the cathedral. Bracing herself, Alison rolled over and stood up, wincing with every movement of her body. Once back on her feet, she went after the female master, her right arm dangling obscenely by her side. She saw Toni disappear through the doorway leading to the high altar and followed.

Alison’s heart sank at the sight that greeted her. She watched helplessly as Chiang Shih drove the shaft of a broken candelabra through Drake’s chest and impaled him on the altar. Crying out, Alison rushed over to help Drake.

She failed to notice Toni sneak up behind her. The female master punched Alison in her broken arm. Blacking out, Alison dropped to her knees. Toni picked up one of Sarah’s kukri knives, yanked Alison’s head back by the hair, and placed the blade against her throat.

JIM WAS SCRAMBLING back to his feet when he heard Alison shout. Looking up, he watched as Alison rushed toward Drake, only to be attacked from behind by the female master. He hated leaving Sarah alone, but there was nothing he could do for her at the moment. Picking up Sarah’s other kukri knife, he ran into the high altar.

Toni pushed her blade against Alison’s throat. “Drop the knife, child, or I’ll slice open the bitch’s neck like the pig that she is.”

Jim hesitated, looking between Alison and Drake, who was impaled on the altar. Only when Toni jerked the blade, making a small incision in Alison’s throat, did he comply. Crouching down, he placed his knife on the floor, stood up, and took three steps back.

Chiang Shih nodded her approval and turned to Drake.

“The game is over, hunter, and you’ve lost.”

“Can I gut her now?” rasped Toni.

“Not yet. Let her watch her lover die first. Then you can have your revenge.”

Toni wedged the kukri knife underneath Alison’s chin, raising her head and forcing her to watch.

Chiang Shih clasped Drake by his hair and yanked his head to one side, exposing his neck. His breathing was shallow, but his eyes still glowed with recognition of his coming fate. She licked her fangs as she lowered her head toward him.

“We’ll meet again, hunter. In Hell.”

“Don’t wait for me,” he croaked.

Summoning his last ounce of strength, Drake removed the stake holder from his belt, clutched the handle, and drove the three crucifixion stakes up into Chiang Shih’s chest, piercing her heart. The Mistress gasped. The smug look melted from her face, replaced by a mixture of emotions she had never experienced before. Pain. Confusion. Terror.

The realization of her own mortality.

Drake twisted the stakeholder. All three stakes rotated at once, shredding Chiang Shih’s heart.

The Mistress shrieked, a ferocious sound so loud it shattered the remaining stained glass windows.

Toni dropped the knife and collapsed. Alison rolled clear and watched her death throes. The master thrashed around, violently kicking out her legs and clutching her chest. The body decayed within seconds. Flesh and tissue rotted and dropped off in clumps, the chunks melting as they hit the floor. Underneath, her skeleton darkened and grew brittle. The jaws opened in a silent howl. Suddenly, the bones exploded, sending a cloud of ash splaying through the altar.

WALKER GROPED AROUND until he felt Rodriguez’ hand. He made a fist and prepared to smash it, then suddenly stopped. Walker’s body convulsed, slightly at first, but rapidly became more violent. The mouth opened and twisted, emitting a sound halfway between a snarl and a gurgle. Rodriguez brought up his right arm and placed the elbow on the master’s neck, getting ready to push it away.

A low rumble shook the cathedral, accompanied by a series of crashes as each of the remaining stained glass windows exploded out onto the ground below. Rodriguez instinctively closed his eyes and cringed, not knowing what to expect. Before the sound of tinkling glass subsided, Rodriguez heard the sound of wind being sucked into the cathedral.

Walker bellowed and threw himself back against the roof, ripping open his shirt as he thrashed around against the metal. Still blind, he threw his arms across his face and turned away from the sun. His body literally started to fall apart. The flesh rotted away or seared off in the sunlight. Chunks of decayed skin and tissue broke off his body and fell into the gutter. The burning embers that flaked off were drawn by the winds into the cathedral. Walker’s body stiffened. He let out a primal scream as his remains burst into flame, disintegrating in seconds. The charred bones collapsed into the gutter where they exploded into a cloud of dust.

Using his good hand to pull himself back into the gutter, Rodriguez stared at the ashen remains, surprised as much by the master’s demise as his own survival. Hot damn, he thought. Drake must have succeeded.

Rodriguez did not have much time to think about what happened. Thick, black smoke poured out of every window in the cathedral. He did not even want to think about what type of hell raged inside, but he had to. Rodriguez still needed to get downstairs.

INSIDE THE HIGH altar, wind poured through the shattered windows of the cathedral, whipping the fires into a conflagration. Flames danced on the breeze, creating an aerial firestorm that converged on Chiang Shih and engulfed the Mistress, flowing around her like a whirlpool. Wisps of white smoke rose from her wings, which ignited and burned off. Fire seared the leathery flesh. Her skin sloughed off, revealing red-hot embers that were her muscles and internal organs. Chiang Shih bellowed a final scream that choked out when her body erupted into a fireball. It burned so brightly the hunters averted their gaze. Finally, with a tremendous roar, the fireball crashed to the floor and dissipated into the earth.

The only sound that remained was the overpowering crackle of the cathedral as it burned.

Jim raced forward and helped Alison to her feet. The flames were raging out of control, raising the temperature so high he could barely breathe. Alison tried to steady herself, her strength almost completely drained by the pain and the heat. “You go help Sarah. I’ll get Drake.”

“You can’t make it on your own.”

“I’ll be fine.” Alison hugged Jim close. “Take care of yourself.”

Jim went to get Sarah, knowing deep in his heart he would never see Alison again.

AKERS POINTED THE barrel of his shotgun toward Carissa. “You, in the uniform. Hands behind your head and stand up slowly.”

Carissa obliged. As she did, she motioned with her eyes toward the TP9SF by Jessica’s left hand. Jessica looked at the weapon, back to Carissa, and nodded slightly. Carissa straightened her legs and stood, and slowly turned to face Akers.

“Good girl,” he said condescendingly. “You keep doing what I tell you, I might let you become the main bitch in my coven.”

“I’d rather you kill me now.”

He shrugged. “Have it your way.”

As Akers aimed the shotgun, Carissa dove to one side. Akers tried to track her. Jessica took advantage of the opportunity. Grabbing the TP9SF in her left hand, she raised it and squeezed the trigger. Her aim was poor, and rather than hit him in the chest, she sent a stream of bullets across his knees. Akers yelled out as he crumbled to the floor, holding his knees and rocking back and forth.

As Carissa ran back to Jessica, an explosion rocked the cathedral, throwing her to the floor. Shattered glass rained down as she held her arms over her head. Wind began whipping past her, slowly at first, but quickly gaining speed until it rushed toward the front of the cathedral. Rolling over to look around, Carissa suddenly realized how precarious their situation had become.

The rushing wind fanned the flames into an inferno. The nave and second level burned furiously, and the heat around them was so intense that the tiled floors began to buckle and melt. Even more threatening, the wind blew the flames so that they leapt over the crossing and engulfed the wooden walls of the choir section. Flames surrounded the northern transept. Burning embers threatened to ignite the confessional.

Scrambling to her feet, Carissa raced over to Jessica and knelt beside her.

“What just happened?” asked Jessica.

“Damned if I know.” Carissa slung the TP9SF over her shoulder and wrapped her right arm around the reporter’s back, lifting her to her feet. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Because it’s time to haul ass.”

The two women pushed their way through the debris of the confessional and headed for the northern doors. Carissa pushed against them, but they would not budge. Shit, the vampires must have locked them. Unslinging her TP9SF, she aimed at the lock at the bottom of the left door and fired. Chunks of wood splayed off the door, forcing her to shut her eyes. She continued firing until she emptied the magazine, and then kicked the door. It swung open.

From behind them, the women heard a voice call out. “Don’t leave me.”

Carissa turned to see Akers crawling across the floor, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

“Fuck him,” said Jessica and headed outside.

But Carissa could not leave a human to die that way. She went to go after Akers, but made it only a few feet. The intensity of the fire had melted the mortar holding the cathedral’s stones together. A rumble filled the building as a large section of roof gave way, sending tons of stone collapsing into the nave and transept. Several fell around Akers, crushing his legs and trapping him. He cried out, his screams dying out as the fire burned him alive.

Spinning around, Carissa ran outside and joined Jessica on the lawn. The two stood silently, thankful to be alive. And wondering if anyone else survived.

JIM SCOOPED UP Sarah in his arms and made his way back toward the southern transept. The added weight and the intensity of the heat sapped his strength. By now, most of the chairs in the War Memorial Chapel had ignited, turning his escape route into a sea of fire. Squinting against the flames and smoke, he made his way through the chapel, praying he would make it to the other side. Flames licked at his pants, catching his right leg on fire. Despite the pain, he pushed ahead, knowing that to stop now would mean their deaths.

Exiting the chapel into the transept, Jim stumbled. Sarah fell to the ground with a thud and moaned. Jim tried to get back to his feet, but no longer had the strength. Overcome by the heat and the smoke, he slowly slipped into unconsciousness, hoping the end would be quick.

Jim was vaguely aware of someone patting down his leg, extinguishing the flames. A hand grabbed him by the collar and started dragging him across the floor toward the southern doors of the transept. Forcing his eyes open, he saw Sarah dangling over someone’s shoulder. Then he passed out.

Jim came to when he felt his body banging down the cement stairs. Fresh air flowed into his lungs. He hacked once, which set off a spasm of coughing. He felt as if he would spit out his lungs, but it didn’t matter. He was alive.

When Jim finally caught his breath, he rolled onto his side. Rodriguez knelt a few feet away, gently slapping Sarah on the cheeks. She did not move. Jim feared the worst and tried to stand, but the pain that shot up his leg forced him to fall back to the ground. Rolling onto his stomach, he crawled over to her.

“Be careful,” warned Rodriguez. “You have a bad burn on your leg.”

Jim ignored him, his concentration completely focused on Sarah. “Is she…?”

Sarah moaned and pushed away Rodriguez’ hand. Her eyes opened. She looked first at Rodriguez and then at Jim. A weak smile formed on her lips.

“We’re alive?” she croaked.

Jim wrapped his arms around Sarah and hugged her close. Tears streamed down his face.

ALISON STUMBLED OVER to Drake and gently placed her left hand on his cheek, stroking it tenderly. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

“It’s no… use. You can’t… save me.”

“I know.”

Drake coughed. Blood spurted from his mouth and dribbled down his chin. “Get out… of here… while you can.”

“No.” Still cradling his cheek, Alison ran her thumb across Drake’s lips, wiping away the bloody spittle. “I’m staying right here.”

“Why?”

“No one should die alone.”

Alison leaned forward and placed her lips against Drake’s, giving him the kiss she so desperately had wanted to for all these months. Drake lifted an arm and placed it around Alison’s waist, using his last ounce of strength to hold her close.

“I love you,” Drake whispered in her ear.

Alison smiled and hugged him tight. “Now’s a hell of a time to tell me,”

The two hunters embraced, sharing a precious final moment as the flames washed over the high altar.

Epilogue

25 DECEMBER. ANDREW Chapel Cemetery behind Saint Athanasius Church, Leesburg Pike, Vienna, Virginia.

A solemn quiet descended over the cemetery. Usually the noise of traffic traveling Leesburg Pike drifted over the grounds. However, today being Christmas morning, few cars were on the road. The only sound came from parishioners holding a morning service in the nearby white wooden church. The chorus of How Great Thou Art came from inside, an apropos memorial.

At the far end of the cemetery, where the access road made a long U by a copse of trees before turning back toward Leesburg Pike, seven freshly-dug graves stood in a row. Marble gravestones bore the names of the deceased, their dates of birth, and the dates of their death. Renee Sommers. Robert O’Donnell. Kim Chong-wee. Jack Braddock. David Barrowman. Alison Monroe. Drake Matthews. Each grave bore the same inscription: They gave their lives in the service of God saving their fellow man mankind from Evil.

Six figures gathered silently in front of the graves, paying their last respects. Carissa wore a dark grey pants suit, her hands folded in front of her, her head bowed in prayer. Jessica stood to her left, her winter coat buttoned up against the cold. Rodriguez wore jeans and a white shirt, his right hand in a plaster cast and his arm resting in a sling, with a leather greatcoat draped over his shoulders. Jim and Sarah huddled to his right. Jim’s right leg was bandaged from his ankle to above his knee, forcing him to support his weight on a crutch. Sarah stood beside him, her right arms around his waist, her head resting on his shoulder. Ashton was at the end, dressed in an expensive suit and dark grey wool coat.

Jessica broke the silence first. “It doesn’t seem right burying them like this out in the middle of nowhere.”

“It’s the way they would have wanted it,” said Carissa.

“No one will bother them here,” added Ashton. “I know the priest who runs this church. He promised that their graves will be well looked after.”

“It doesn’t seem right,” Jessica protested.

“If we buried them in Washington, their graves would become tourist attractions. Here they’ll get the peace they deserve.”

Jessica said nothing for several seconds. “At least Drake and Alison are finally together. That’s what they wanted.”

Jessica stepped away from the group and headed back to her rental car. As she passed Ashton, the attorney general asked, “What will you do now?”

“I’m leaving for Afghanistan tomorrow morning. Hopefully I can put this all behind me.”

“Do you plan on writing about what happened?”

Jessica chuckled derisively. “Who’d believe it?”

“Who cares if they do? It’d be a fitting tribute to them.”

“Maybe someday.” Jessica shrugged. “It’ll be cheaper than therapy.”

Jessica walked to her car, climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and drove away.

The single bark of a dog caught the group’s attention. They all turned to the Explorer parked along the road. Dolly’s head hung out the rear window, her eyes fixed on her master. Vanessa was in the seat beside Dolly. Sophia was behind the steering wheel, looking impatient.

“I better get going,” said Rodriguez. “Sophia wants to get away from here as soon as possible.”

“Where are you off to?” asked Jim.

“Salt Lake City. My brother-in-law is chief of police there. He offered me a job once my hand is healed.”

“It sounds nice and tame,” said Jim.

“God, I hope so.” Rodriguez hugged Jim and Sarah, a lingering embrace that spoke more about their shared experiences than any words could justify. He then stepped over to Ashton and offered his left hand.

The attorney general shook it. “If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”

“No offense, sir, but I hope we never have a reason to talk again.”

Rodriguez departed and climbed into the Explorer. Sophia drove off. As the SUV pulled away, Rodriguez looked out the window and waved farewell.

“I should be going, too.” Carissa walked over to Jim and Sarah and gave each a friendly hug.

“What will you do now?” asked Sarah.

“I don’t know. I’m going back to Nashville to spend some time with my folks and sort things out.”

“Good luck,” said Jim.

“Thanks.” Carissa nodded to Ashton and left for her Sonata.

Jim and Sarah turned back to the gravestones for Drake and Alison. Ashton gave them a few minutes before approaching.

“What about you two?”

“First thing is get far away from here,” said Sarah.

“There are too many memories, both good and bad.” Jim took a final look at the graves. Sarah hugged him close to her.

“Where will you go?” asked Ashton.

Sarah shrugged. “We’ll know when we get there. Once we do, we plan on getting married and starting a family.”

Jim smiled. “It’ll be nice to bring life into this world for a change.”

Ashton removed an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Jim. “Here’s ten thousand to help you out. My phone number is inside. Call me if you need anything.”

Sarah took the envelope and hugged Ashton. “This means so much to us.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

Jim shook Ashton’s hand, and then the two hunters left, never once looking back.

Ashton waited until their Dodge RAM had pulled away before stepping over to the graves. He said a prayer over each one, lingering a bit longer over Barrowman’s to say goodbye to his trusted aide.

Moving over to Drake and Alison’s graves, he knelt before them and placed a hand on each tombstone. Tears welled up in his eyes. What eulogy do you give to someone who selflessly sacrificed their lives so the world come be rid of the vampire threat for eternity? Everything he thought of seemed contrite. After a few moments, the words finally came to him. The only words that seemed fitting, and really the only thing Drake and Alison would want to hear.

“Thank you.”

Ashton stood and walked back to his limousine, leaving the hunters to lie together in their final resting place.

Acknowledgements

As with all my novels, many people graciously gave their time in helping me with the researching and writing of this book. I want to make sure they are recognized for their efforts. However, any errors or flaws in these pages are mine.

This is the third time that Dominion has gone to print. The first two times were with Shadowfire Press in 2009 and Pill Hill Press in 2010. Over the years, a lot of people have worked on this novel; sadly, I can’t thank all of them here. However, for this edition I do want to express my deepest gratitude to Judy Knuth who proof read the final draft and helped me perfect this version of the book.

As a cross over from the second novel, let me start by saying thank you to Michele Quander-Collins, director of Public Affairs, and Hiram Tanner, both of the D.C. Water and Sewer Authority, for arranging a tour of the sewers underneath Washington D.C.; Steven Medley, foreman of the stream cleaning team, for granting permission to accompany one of his crews; and Dave Young, Kevin Tucker, Tyrone Johnson, and Mark Coghill for taking me into the sewers on one of their inspections. The tour was originally intended to provide background for several of the scenes in the second book, but I wound up with so much material I just had to include more sewer scenes in this book.

I want to express my gratitude to Mioara Merie for providing the Rumanian text in Chapter Eight, and for the museum staff at the National Cathedral for their excellent behind-the-scenes tour of the cathedral’s structure.

A special shout out goes to Eric and Renee Buhr for inviting me on their road trip from Normandy to the Ardennes in 2004. One night we stayed at the Hotel de la Mere Poulard on Mont St. Michel, and from that night came the first chapter of this novel.

About the Author

Scott M. Baker was born and raised in Everett, Massachusetts and spent twenty-three years in northern Virginia working for the Central Intelligence Agency. Scott is now retired and lives in Gainesville, Florida as a full-time writer along with his wife and fellow author Alison Beightol and his stepdaughter. He has written Rotter World, Rotter Nation, and Rotter Apocalypse, his zombie trilogy that details the struggle between humans and vampires during a zombie apocalypse; Yeitso, his homage to the giant monster movies of the 1950s that he loved watching as a kid; The Vampire Hunters trilogy, about humans fighting the undead in Washington D.C.; and the novellas Dead Water and Nazi Ghouls From Space. Hell Gate, the first book in his young adult post-apocalyptic series, is scheduled for release in the fall of 2016. He is currently working on a series of young adult post-apocalyptic novels, a horror techno-thriller, and a second series about Allied intelligence officers fighting Nazi occultism in World War II.

When not writing, Scott can usually be found doting on the two boxers and two cats that kindly allow him to live with them.

Please visit the author on his blog Scott M. Baker (author) or on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, or Pinterest.

Praise for Other Books by Scott M. Baker

Rotter World

Eight months have passed since vampires released the Revenant Virus on mankind, nearly wiping out both species. For Mike Robson, the situation could be far worse. He has joined up with a small band of humans and the last coven of vampires who are riding out the zombie apocalypse in an old fort along the coast of southern Maine. The uneasy alliance between humans and vampires is strained with the arrival of the creator of the Revenant Virus. Compton claims to have a vaccine that will make them immune from the virus and allow mankind to take civilization back from the living dead. However, the vaccine is located in a secure underground facility five hundred miles away. To retrieve it, Robson leads a raiding party of humans and vampires down the East Coast, which has been devastated by the outbreak and overrun by zombies and rape gangs. Yet none of the horrors he deals with on the road can prepare him for what he will find in Pennsylvania. Once inside the underground facility, the Robson encounters the greatest threat his group has faced to date, not only from zombies but from betrayal within their own ranks.

“With Rotter World, Scott M. Baker pulls out all the stops in a zombie thriller that is brutal, violent and terrifying. Definitely not for the faint-hearted.”

—New York Times bestseller Jonathan Maberry, author of Patient Zero

“Think there are no new or original zombie authors? Think again. Scott M. Baker provides an exciting voice and fresh outlook on the undead. Fun, compulsive reading.”

—Brian Keene, author of The Rising and City of the Dead

“Scott M. Baker writes in the tradition of J.L. Bourne and Joe McKinney. Fans of thriller writers like Brad Thor will also find powerful, welcome similarities in Rotter World.”

—Scott Kenemore, author of Zen of Zombie

“Scott M. Baker has managed to bring together the best of what I love about end of the world, vampire and zombie tales in one glorious story. If you think zombie and vampire stories are overdone and there is not anything new you can do with them, Rotter World proves that theory wrong.”

—Peter Schwotzer of Famous Monsters of Filmland

Yeitso

Veteran detective Russell Andrews has seen the dangers of big-city life: rape, murder, gangs. It’s not a place he wants to raise a teenage daughter on his own. After his divorce, he moves with her to serve as the sheriff of a sleepy New Mexican town. But the desert has dangers of its own—deadly secrets that eat men alive. Secrets growing in power. Andrews comes face-to-face with a thing out of myth, a force without a name in the modern world. The Navajo, though, call it Yeitso.

“Scott M. Baker builds tension and explores characters like a seasoned pro, all before offering them up as dinner for some of the creepiest crawlies you’ll experience on this page. Yeitso is the perfect blend of small town quirk and pulpy monster madness that will leave you cringing and wanting more!”

—Ryan C. Thomas, author of Hissers and Salticidae

“Yeitso brought me back to those glorious Saturday afternoons of my youth watching Creature Double Feature.”

—Peter Schwotzer, Literary Mayhem

“It’s giant killer beetles! How can you not love it?”

—Jeff Strand, author of Mandibles

The Vampire Hunters

As former Boston cops, Drake Matthews and Alison Monroe thought they had experienced it all… until they found themselves tracking down a serial killer who turned out to be one of the undead. Stopping him cost them their careers and almost their lives. Thanks to an influential and anonymous benefactor, Drake and Alison find a new job ridding the streets of Washington D.C. of the vampiric threat terrorizing the nation’s capital. Only this time, Drake and Alison are not facing a single vampire but an entire nest led by Ion Zielenska, one of history’s most evil and twisted masters. As the vampires indiscriminately prey on humans, seeing them as nothing more than food to satiate their hunger, they create a wave of violence that threatens to engulf the city. Orchestrating the carnage is Antoinette Varela, the mistress of the nest, who realizes that for the nest to survive the hunters must be eliminated. However, when her vendetta turns personal, the hunters find themselves in struggle they are not prepared for.

“Those that know me and follow my on-line work know that I am a vampire fanatic. By that I mean real vampires, the undead creatures that prey on humans for survival, not the glorified sissy boy vampires that keep getting shoved down our throats. If you’ve read Justin’s Cronin’s The Passage and Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan’s The Strain, you will absolutely love The Vampire Hunters.”

—Peter Schwotzer of Famous Monster of Filmland

“Scott M. Baker’s The Vampire Hunters is a gut-wrenching, fast-paced horror thriller that takes you from the back streets of Washington to the rat infested sewer systems below. You cheer for both the hunter and the hunted as the author rains battle scenes with stomach turning death and destruction around every corner.”

—Fangoria