CITY OF THE DAMNED

by Stephen Knight

Copyright © 2011 by Stephen Knight

PART ONE:

SEPULCHRE

[Prehistoric man] knew that life was uncertain and sometimes short, that death was inevitable and sometimes abrupt. Every time he set out for the hunt he was aware that some day...the end would come with a slash and an outpouring of blood. It is not difficult to understand why...he should have come to the conclusion not merely that blood was essential to life, but that it was the essence of life itself.

—ANTHROPOLOGIST REAY TANNAHILL

CHAPTER 1

"Ellenshaw says he's coming with us."

Mark Acheson looked up from the map he had spread across the Humvee's hood. Four rocks pinned it to the sheet metal, preventing the dry breeze from carrying it away. Julia McGuiness's eyes were unreadable behind her dark sunglasses.

"Really." Acheson wiped a hand across his forehead. It was damp with sweat, which wasn't surprising, given that they were in the middle of Bumfuck, Arizona. "Did he say why he wants to violate the rules of engagement?"

"He just asked me to let you know he's coming along," Julia said.

Cecil Hayes grunted and shuffled his feet. Rivulets of sweat ran down his bald head, making his black skin glisten in the hot Arizona sunlight. "Man should be in the TOC, havin' himself a stay-cation."

Acheson pushed his sunglasses up on his thin nose, and glanced back at the big GMC RV that served as the team's tactical operations center. The windows were tinted, so he couldn't see anyone inside.

"I'll talk with him," he told Julia. "Sharon, you continue with the brief."

Sharon Thompson nodded. "Roger that."

Acheson walked away from the Containment Team and headed for the RV. His boots kicked up dry dust that was snatched away by a breeze so arid it could have come from a hair dryer. A large German shepherd trotted across the desert, and it bounded toward Acheson when he separated from the group. His tongue lolled from one side of his mouth as he pranced about Acheson, sniffing and huffing. Acheson patted the dog's head.

"Keep cool, Zeke," he said.

Zeke huffed again, then bounded over to a nearby Saguaro cactus and baptized it with a stream of urine. As Acheson stepped into the RV's shadow, the door opened.

"Hello, Mark." Robert Ellenshaw stepped out of the RV. He wore the same dun-colored Army battle dress utilities as Acheson. He closed the door behind him and looked out across the desert, squinting against the harsh light. He slipped on his sunglasses.

"Did Julia give you my message?"

Acheson nodded. "Yeah. You're not coming with us, Robert. It's against the ROE."

Ellenshaw smiled tightly and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "I authored the rules of engagement, Mark. You don't need to remind me of them."

"Apparently I do. I lead the containment team in the field, while you stay behind and monitor things from the tactical operations center." Acheson slapped the side of the RV with one hand. "Right here. You don't go any further."

"Things are different this time out."

Acheson gritted his teeth and turned away. He watched Zeke prance around the desert before Nacho Delgado, his trainer, called to him. The German shepherd ran toward Nacho, bounding about like a huge puppy without a care in the world.

Acheson watched Ellenshaw from the corner of his eye. The older man looked out across the desert. Beneath the placid expression on his face, Acheson detected a core of tension.

"Helena can feel him, even with the sun high in the sky. Can you imagine just how powerful he must be, Mark? Even the strength of daylight doesn't seem to weaken him any longer."

"You're not field personnel, Robert."

"I've gone through all the weapons and tactics training."

"That was years ago. I'm not going to risk a breakdown in unit cohesion. You're staying here."

Ellenshaw smiled grimly. "Osric is the big game here, Mark. He's eluded us—me—for years now, taking a human here, a human there, growing his clan. We don't know how many vampires Osric has spawned, but he's had the time to organize a small army. It's imperative that we bag him."

Acheson snorted. "So at the end of the day, it's all about you? Osric's shown you up, so you want revenge?"

"I just want to ensure the job is done right."

"And we can't manage without you? Horseshit. If the tables were turned, would you let me go on the hump with you?"

"That's enough!" Ellenshaw snapped. "I have my reasons. All I ask is that you respect them."

"Don't make me laugh!" Acheson fought to get his temper under control. He shot a glance at the rest of the team, still clustered around one of the Humvees. They all looked back at him, and Acheson knew they'd heard the harsh rebuke in Ellenshaw's voice.

Ellenshaw faced Acheson directly, not intimidated by his greater height or his acrimonious demeanor. When he spoke, his voice was clear and crisp, as if he were lecturing a classroom.

"I'm the head of this division, Mark. In conjunction with Washington, I make the rules." He smiled tightly. "You'll have full tactical control, as always."

Acheson turned away from Ellenshaw and punched the TRANSMIT button on the radio transceiver at his shoulder. "Team, this is Two-Six. Fall back to the TOC for turnout." As the team members radioed their acknowledgments, Acheson put his hands on his hips and gazed out across the desert.

Zeke sidled up to his side. Acheson reached down and scratched him between the ears. The dog stood still as a statue and stared at the horizon.

###

Acheson checked every team member's weapon to ensure they were locked and loaded. Once satisfied all was in order, he turned to a hard-shell backpack. He opened it carefully and inspected the tapered cylinder within. It was just shy of three feet long and made of a durable gray metal. Two handgrips were bolted to either side, and at the wider end was a single pin. Attached to the pin was a red streamer printed with the innocuous legend, REMOVE TO ARM.

Acheson patted the cylinder almost lovingly. Nothing like a little fuel-air explosive to brighten up your day.

Once he sealed the FAE in its case, Acheson turned to Helena Rubenstein. Her pale blue eyes met his. Whenever he looked at her, Acheson got the impression she was a child trapped in a woman's body. The fact she hailed from the cold metropolitan canyons of New York City was a source of amazement. With her strawberry-blonde hair and unblemished, tanned skin, she looked more like a waif from the San Fernando Valley. Acheson smiled at her and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He knew she feared him on some basic level; her ability to see the true nature of a man revealed something to her that frightened her almost as much as those he hunted. More than once he had asked why that was, but she could not explain it. That he was used to dispensing violence as casually as she might order an alfalfa and vinaigrette salad was the closest analogy she had been able to draw.

"What are you feeling, Helena?" he asked. He removed his sunglasses so she could see his eyes, so that she could see he was as human as she was, despite his skills.

"Death is near," she said. Acheson understood her to mean him, and he let go of her shoulder. Helena suddenly took his hand in hers. Her abruptness startled him; Acheson had never seen her move with such instinctive speed. She smiled at him.

"I wasn't talking about you," she explained. "I know you would never hurt me." She looked away as her smile faded. "I can feel him, Mark. I can't feel any others, because his signature is so strong—it's drowning them out, like white noise. All I get is... static."

"How close is he, Helena?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

Acheson patted her hand. "Nothing to be sorry about. What you do isn't exactly a precise science—"

"Take care of Robert. I'm pregnant," Helena blurted.

Acheson blinked, totally caught off guard. "Uh—what...?"

"I said I'm pregnant. You've got to take care of Robert."

Acheson was shocked. The thought of Helena having sex was something foreign, almost dirty, like sudden pedophilic urges. "Ellenshaw's the father?"

She nodded, looking away.

"Well, ah... does he know?"

Helena shook her head. "Don't tell him," she said. "That's for me to do. Okay?"

"I understand," Acheson said woodenly. "I'll make sure he stays here—"

"No. This is his calling. This is why I haven't told him. He needs to sanction Osric. To see it done. To take part in it." Helena looked at him. "Don't interfere with this, Mark. This is Robert's... destiny."

Acheson sighed. He rubbed his eyes and slipped on his sunglasses. His head started to pound. "Okay, listen, Helena. You get in the TOC and button it up tight. George and Phil will take care of you. I've given them orders to vamoose at the first sign of trouble. You're not to interfere with them if they try to leave the area, understand? If the TOC comes under attack, they're to get the hell out of here—"

"I know, Mark. I won't interfere." She held his gaze for a long moment, her eyes unblinking in the harsh sunlight. "You'll look after Robert?"

Acheson nodded. "Yes."

She smiled, child-like and trusting. "Then I know he'll be safe. And once Osric's been sanctioned, Humanity will be safe."

"At least from Osric," Acheson muttered, turning away.

CHAPTER 2

It began with the stories of El Cucuy, the Mexican equivalent of the Boogeyman.

When the usual stream of illegal immigrants dried to a mere trickle in the Arizona frontier and the legends of El Cucuy were whispered more and more frequently—by illegals detained by the Border Patrol, even by the coyotes who smuggled them in—it served as a vector for the Group's intelligence analysts. The poor wretches who were captured by the BP told grave stories of how El Cucuy set upon them, decimating them, littering the landscape with their corpses. No bodies were recovered, but the Border Patrol was quick to rationalize the rumored violence as cartel-related, though sometimes American groups such as the Minutemen were fingered as potential culprits. It was those veiled accusations which elevated the story into a newsworthy item, as Minuteman spokespersons vehemently denied involvement in the murder of illegals.

But it was the rumor of El Cucuy which sealed the deal.

If ever there was such a thing as the boogeyman, Osric was it. And so Containment Team 6 deployed to the deserts of southern Arizona, where the inhospitable landscape might possibly serve as a hiding place for one of Mankind's greatest enemies.

The road leading to the Santa Clarita copper mine had fallen victim to the elements decades ago after being abandoned in the 1920s. The annual monsoons had swept the remainder of the road away, leaving only jagged ruts and gullies behind. These were so extreme the team was forced to abandon the Humvees two miles from the mining area. They had no choice but to continue on foot, in the oppressive heat, carrying their gear on their backs.

Even foot travel was difficult. Zeke ranged ahead with Nacho, scouting out the territory. Cecil was next up, cradling the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon across his barrel chest. Acheson trailed him, his AA-12 held at port arms, the FAE secure in the hard pack on his back. Chiho Hara, Julia McGuiness, and Robert Ellenshaw walked twenty meters behind him. Sharon Thompson played rear guard, holding her MP-5 with both hands. They marched across the hot Arizona landscape, counting on Zeke to provide the necessary cues; the dog relied on senses beyond olfactory, something primal, an instinctive guidance system that nature had purged from man but left in some of the so-called lower life forms. Not for the first time, Acheson marveled at the irony of it. Most animals had some natural self-defense mechanism that clued them to a predator's presence. Against the threat posed by Osric and his kind, mankind was as helpless as a babe.

With the exception of Robert Ellenshaw and the group he had formed, that is.

Nacho held up his right fist as he grabbed Zeke's harness with his left hand. The dog's demeanor changed, and he pulled against Nacho, straining to move forward.

"Got a shake," Nacho said over the radio.

Acheson and Cecil hurried forward. Acheson tightened his grip on his AA-12; behind him, Velcro parted with stitching rips as the rest of the team drew their weapons.

Ahead, three mangy dogs stood in a semi-circle before an open mineshaft, their ribs as prominent as stripes. They bared their teeth in a growling, mindless rage. Zeke snarled a reply, straining against Nacho's grasp. Nacho spoke to him in soothing tones, but couldn't put the dog at ease.

The pack advanced, snarling. Acheson nodded to Sharon, and she raised her MP-5 to her shoulder. She took aim and fired three rounds in quick succession, the retorts choked into bare pops by the weapon's long suppressor. Before the brass cartridges had even stopped tinkling on the rock, the three dogs were dead, each with a single shot to the right eye. Flies alighted on the corpses, drawn by the smell of fresh blood.

Zeke continued to growl, his dark gaze rooted on the mine's entrance. And with good reason, Acheson saw; several pairs of human footprints led in and out of the shaft.

Not that they were left by humans.

He pressed the Push-To-Talk button on his transceiver. "Three-One, Two-Six, over." Ellenshaw approached him, staring into the mine's dark maw while pulling a hand-held GPS receiver from a holster on his belt.

"Two-Six, Three-One. Go ahead," said George Sanders, who sat in air-conditioned comfort back at the TOC.

"Three-One, we've made initial contact. GPS coordinates are..." Ellenshaw held the GPS unit toward him, and Acheson read the position off its small liquid-crystal display. Sanders repeated the information back to him.

"Roger, Three-One, that's a good copy. Stand by. Two-Six out." Acheson motioned toward the shaft. Sharon and Julia advanced, one on each side of the opening, MP-5s at the ready. Acheson took Ellenshaw by the arm and pulled him back a few meters; the older man kept his eyes glued to the mineshaft, but didn't resist him.

"They're in there," he muttered.

"Zeke agrees with you," Acheson said. "Chiho, get Zeke ready. Cecil, you've got security. Nacho, stand ready with a flash-bang."

Ellenshaw remained entranced by the mineshaft's opening. Acheson let go of him as Cecil stalked past, the barrel of his SAW pointed into the darkness. Nacho held onto Zeke until Chiho arrived and took over, keeping one hand on the dog's harness. Nacho moved to the left and pulled a tube-shaped concussion grenade from his belt. Acheson shrugged out of the heavy pack and set it on the ground beside him.

Chiho worked quickly, her nimble fingers attaching a small video camera to Zeke's harness. A fiber optic cable connected the camera to a hand-held video display unit clipped to Chiho's belt. At her signal, Acheson led the team toward the shaft. At its boundary, where darkness and light mingled to create twilight, he paused and slipped on a pair of PVS-7B night vision goggles. The NVGs would augment the available light a thousandfold, allowing him to see in total pitch conditions. Grasping the shotgun's pistol grip in his right hand, Acheson crossed over into darkness.

The shaft was rocky and narrow. Old rails ran along the floor, twisted and rusting from the occasional floods that marked the Arizona monsoon season. Flies buzzed. The NVGs became increasingly efficient the deeper he progressed, revealing rock and rotting wooden beams that supported the overhead. Torpid scorpions meandered sluggishly along the ground. Through the NVGs, everything was rendered a ghostly green-white. A dry breeze sidled past him, more inferred than felt.

Riding the breeze was the fetid stench of death.

The soles of his boots scraped against rock and twisted, pitted iron. With every step the shaft grew ever smaller. Not far ahead, Acheson could make out a jagged tumble of boulders—a cave-in. The gaps between the rocks had filled with sand and silt. At the base of the cave-in, another maw yawned, this one a yard in diameter. The smell of rot was strongest here. Keeping his weapon pointed at the aperture, Acheson knelt. He had never grown used to the stench, the fetid spoor of decay that surrounded his quarry like a cloak. For the longest time, it had made him vomit uncontrollably. Years of work in the field had hardened him to it, but his stomach still roiled. There were some things a human being was never meant to adapt to, and the smell of death was one of them.

Acheson sidled away from the small grotto, never removing his eyes or his weapon from it. "Approach is clear," he whispered into his headset. "Send in Zeke."

"Roger," Sharon replied, her voice a distant whisper over the radio. A moment later, Zeke padded up behind Acheson, snuffling. Acheson marveled at how easily the dog seemed to withstand the olfactory assault. If the smell was enough to make him feel ill, then it should have been overpowering for the German Shepherd. Acheson reached over and checked the camera on Zeke's harness. It was secure, and the fiber's SC connector was snug.

"Chiho, how's the transmit quality?"

"Very good, Mark."

Zeke stopped at the edge of the hole and peered into it. After a brief hesitation, he hunkered down and slinked in, trailing the fiber optic cable behind him.

"Zeke's on his way. Two-Six is outbound."

Acheson backed away from the hole, his jangled nerves sending phantom alerts to his brain. His dread did not diminish even when harsh sunlight from the Arizona sky overloaded his NVGs, blanking out the displays with white snow. He switched them off and pulled them from his face, allowing the goggle assembly to dangle from his neck by its elastic straps.

Outside, he stood next to Chiho as she watched the feed from Zeke's camera. Ellenshaw joined them while the others maintained their positions, covering the shaft entrance.

"Did you see anything?" Ellenshaw asked. It was a virgin question that reinforced Acheson's opinion the older man should have stayed back in the operations center.

"No, but I smelled them." Acheson turned his attention to Chiho's flat screen monitor.

The tunnel Zeke crawled down was a meter wide. The camera attached to the dog's harness was not only optimized for low-light operation, but it carried audio as well; the small speaker on Chiho's display unit relayed Zeke's panting in all its tongue-lolling glory. So far, all there was to see was rock and sand.

"How's my boy doin'?" Nacho asked. He couldn't see the monitor from where he stood, flash-bang and MP-5 at the ready.

"Great, Nacho. You did a real good job with him," Acheson said. Delgado had trained the team's K-9 detachment, and they all knew Zeke was something special. It was a sad fact that the K-9s were usually the first ones to go when a containment operation went bad. Acheson hoped that Zeke would be around for years because he was the best scout they'd had.

"He's in the den," Ellenshaw whispered.

It was then they spotted them, lying supine in the dank darkness several meters beneath their feet. Acheson gritted his teeth when Zeke approached the first one—a small form, rendered in gray and white. A child. Dark hair. Eyes closed. Mouth open. Fangs visible.

"How deep's this cavern?" Acheson asked.

"Approximately five meters below the mineshaft," Chiho said.

Acheson nodded.

The display revealed more forms, lying motionless in the dark confines of the cavern. Twenty, perhaps thirty of them. Maybe a dozen women, several men, and a handful of children. The confines were so close that Zeke must have been walking on their cold bodies. Deep in the sleep of the dead, they did not stir.

In the middle of the menagerie lay their target. A huge casket, so dark that even the camera's light-intensification electronics couldn't read its detail. A growl came over the speaker, and the camera came to rest. Zeke reached his limit. He would get no closer to the casket.

"Bingo," Acheson said.

"Strange..." Ellenshaw sounded troubled. "How did they get the casket in there? There must be another opening."

"If there's another exit, it must be camouflaged." Acheson pointed at the sun. "But even Osric can't travel while it's light out. If there's an escape route, he'll never be able to use it."

"We have to make sure."

Acheson smiled grimly. "We'll make damn sure, Robert." He stalked back toward the mine's opening. "Let's get it on, folks! Nacho, call Zeke out of there. Sharon, Jules, get the FAE ready." He pressed the PTT button on his transceiver. "TOC, this is Two-Six."

"Two-Six, TOC, go." Static.

"We've verified the infestation is at these coordinates. We'll be smoking the hole in two minutes. Stand by."

Sanders's voice was all business. "Roger, Two-Six."

Nacho whistled into the shaft twice. "Is he coming out?" he asked Chiho. "Can he hear me?"

She nodded, still staring at her display. "Yes, he's—ah!"

Inside the mineshaft, Zeke snarled and howled. His snarls trailed off into a series of yelps. Everyone froze.

"Gud damn it!" Cecil muttered, his first such exclamation in at least an hour.

"Is he all right?" Nacho shouted.

"One of them was awake," Ellenshaw said, staring at the display. "It was waiting for him. A woman. On the cavern ceiling—"

"Impossible!" Acheson said. "They're dead when it's daylight!"

"Evidently, Osric is more powerful than we thought."

"You mean they took out my dog?" Nacho said. "Motherfuckers!"

Cecil looked back at Ellenshaw. "Holy shit Doc, are you sayin' they can come outta there?"

"They won't get the chance," Acheson snapped. "Nacho! Throw that flash-bang!"

"Motherfuckers," Nacho muttered as he pulled the pin and hurled the grenade into the mine. A second later, the gut of the mine was briefly illuminated by a bright flare. A single, thunderous report echoed throughout the shaft.

Acheson advanced toward the mineshaft opening, his gait unwavering. "Cecil, you're with me. Sharon, you and Julia get the weapon ready. Cecil and I will secure the hole. Nacho, give them cover as they bring in the FAE." He glanced at his shotgun's firing configuration, then looked over his shoulder at Chiho. She stood next to Ellenshaw, and Acheson pointed at him.

"Chiho, keep him out of the way." He waved the others toward the shaft. "Let's move it, people!"

Acheson stopped at the mineshaft's threshold and slipped on his PVS-7 night vision goggles. Cecil did the same, trailing his boss by a few yards and off to one side.

"It's gonna be tight in there, man," Cecil said. "You keep well to the left, okay?"

"Roger that," Acheson acknowledged. "Fight's on!"

Acheson charged into the opening, slowing just long enough for Cecil and Nacho to catch up. He hugged the left wall of the shaft, while Nacho stayed to the right. Cecil's bulk filled the center. He coughed from the dust the flash-bang had kicked up.

A chill descend upon him despite the Arizona heat that penetrated even through the dusty rock. The black scorpions were no longer torpid, and they flitted about beneath his feet. He crouched as he walked, reducing his silhouette; scorpions crunched beneath his boots. Cecil was a few steps behind him.

Ahead, the hole in the floor of the cave grew larger through the NVGs. Despite the sophisticated gallium-arsenide arrays that augmented the light and allowed for visibility in the near-darkness, it remained black and enigmatic.

Chiho's voice whispered over Acheson's headset: "Two-Five and Two-Seven entering the shaft. FAE armed and ready."

"Rog—"

A shape burst out of the hole with such speed that Acheson's fire went astray. The flurry of silver-jacketed anti-personnel shot missed entirely, burying into the rock right above the hole. Jolted, Acheson took a step back.

The vampire clung to the wall like an ungodly insect. As Ellenshaw had reported, it was female—a Latina teenager. Its long, raven-black hair was dusted with rock sediment, and its clothes were spattered with fresh blood. It watched the three men draw near with dead eyes. Silver irises stood out in sharp relief against black scleras, and wide slitted pupils lent a feline look to them. As he drew near, it opened its mouth and hissed, revealing two pair of fangs. Traces of Zeke's blood still lingered on its serpentine tongue. Acheson brought the shotgun up. The vampire stared at it and grinned wildly.

"Guns can't kill us, little man," it said, its voice low and murky as air pushed through dead vocal chords. Acheson grimaced. Apparently this one had been a vampire for quite some time. Only the older ones could speak. The newly Undead were barely more than animals, ghouls the master vamps controlled and trained until they eventually returned to sentience. The vampire facing him could have been a dozen years old. She turned her pale face toward Acheson, and her eyes glinted in the dark like a cat's. Even through the NVGs, Acheson could sense their power. A small voice wormed about in his mind...

Give up. Do not resist. Come to me.

Acheson returned the smile and pulled the trigger. The AA-12 bucked in his hands as the shot exploded from the muzzle with a brilliant flash. The three-inch magnum shell ejected automatically. Most of the vampire's head disappeared in an eruption of ropey black ichor. The body fell to the ground and thrashed about madly.

Acheson fired three more rounds into the creature. One blast decimated one of its taloned hands. The other two penetrated the creature's thorax, bursting it like a balloon. More foul-smelling ichor boiled forth, thick as hot tar. The thing continued to thrash about, but with waning vitality. Already it was shutting down, entering its recuperative cycle, where over the course of time it would heal itself completely. If the job was left undone, the creature would stalk again.

"Cover the hole!" Acheson shouted to Cecil. His ears were ringing from the gunfire in the confined area, and he could barely hear his own voice. He stepped forward and slammed one of his boots against what remained of the vampire's throat as he reached into his knapsack with his right hand. His fingertips brushed against the smooth wooden surface of a stake carved from ash. He plucked it from the knapsack and, gripping it tightly, knelt over the vampire and slammed the stake through its ribcage with all his might. The resistance offered by undead skin and bone was minimal, and the stake passed through without any trouble. The vampire went into a death knell, its legs and remaining arm slashing through the air with enough force to break Acheson's legs had he not already scuttled out of range. A gurgling rasp came from its ravaged throat before the vampire fell silent.

Through the hole in the mineshaft floor came a chorus of snarls and howls, accompanied by the slithering sounds of vampires hauling themselves out of the cavern below.

"Clear!" Acheson reported as he crawled over the corpse, not wasting a second. Ahead, another ghastly figure emerged from the hole like a trapdoor spider. Acheson saw, to his horror, that it was the first child Zeke had crawled over. Her whey-colored hair was limp and dank, framing a face that was gaunt and angular. Death had made her no more beautiful than Acheson reasoned she'd been in life. Fangs glistened as she hissed through a wide-open mouth, tongue flailing.

Acheson raised his shotgun...

... and the vampire leapt toward him like an arrow launched from a bow. He pulled the trigger prematurely. The blast succeeded in disintegrating her left foot, an injury that didn't slow her in the least. The vampire batted the weapon out of his hands with a lightning-fast move and descended upon him like a locomotive, driving him into the ground. It hissed and spat and slashed at his ballistic armor, its talons shredding the tough fabric that covered the Kevlar beneath. Acheson went for his MP-5, but it was trapped beneath him. He grabbed the creature by the throat and rolled over onto his back while struggling to keep its fangs away from his neck and face.

"Shoot it, Cecil, shoot it!" he shouted. Despite his frantic attempts to maintain a distance, the vampire grabbed hold of his armor and pulled itself toward his neck. Undead physiology overwhelmed living almost immediately. The vampire's jaws parted wide, dislocating like a snake's...

Crack! The vampire's head snapped back as a nine-millimeter round from Nacho's MP-5 drove a furrow through its skull before exploding out the back. The ghoul hissed and reared back, just in time to receive the full brunt of Cecil's drawn stake. The vampire released a keening wail as Cecil gored it before collapsing backward like a sack of potatoes. It thrashed once, then stiffened.

"You all right, man?" Cecil yelled, advancing toward the hole. He didn't wait for an answer and instead began firing bursts down the dark maw. Every fourth round was a tracer, and they flashed through the mine like lightning.

"FAE, now!" Acheson cried into his headset, rolling to his feet. He straightened his NVGs, then swept up his fallen shotgun and fired two rounds into the hole with one hand. He'd regret it later. The shotgun's kick would leave an ache in his wrist that would last for days. With his left hand, he pulled a white phosphorous grenade from his belt. He dropped the shotgun and ripped the pin free with his right hand while clamping down on the can-shaped explosive's safety spoon with his left. As Cecil pumped grazing fire into the hole, Acheson hurled the grenade. It went off with a muted thump that reverberated throughout the mineshaft. Acrid smoke boiled upward from the darkness, and carried on it were the howls of demons.

"FAE coming in!" Sharon's voice was calm and crisp over their headsets above the gunfire as Cecil continued pouring rounds into the hole. Another vampire emerged, its skin and clothes and hair smoldering from the grenade blast. Cecil consolidated his fire on it for a moment, driving it back into the darkness. The 7.62 millimeter rounds blasted its left arm and shoulder into shreds.

Acheson took up his shotgun again and shouldered Cecil aside as the abomination thrashed its way back to the surface, howling and spitting. He fired burst after burst into it, the AA-12 jerking in his hands, driving it back down into the hole. It howled with every shot, losing ground to the force of the shotgun's onslaught, until finally it fell backwards into the roiling smoke.

The AA-12's trigger locked—it was empty. Acheson dropped it again and tore his MP-5 from its carry rig. Cecil resumed firing into the darkness, the reports of his SAW echoing throughout the shaft.

"FAE comin through!" Nacho yelled from behind them. "Acheson, toss a grenade, man!"

Acheson pulled another grenade from his belt, armed it, and tossed it into the hole. It would hold them at bay long enough for the team to make its escape... or so he hoped.

"Fire in the hole!"

THOOMP! The mineshaft shuddered again, and more foul-smelling smoke roiled out of the hole. Cecil continued firing, his lips moving soundlessly, the sweat trickling from his bald head, rolling down his cheeks and onto the casing of his NVGs. The tracers disappeared into the smoke like comets into a black hole.

Acheson felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Sharon, who along with Julia carried the fifty-pound fuel air explosive that would put the vampires below to sleep for eternity.

Acheson emptied his MP-5 into the hole before he stepped aside. Sharon and Julia dumped the FAE into the pit. It was already armed, its timer winding down from 20 seconds.

"Fall back!" Acheson shouted.

The team retreated from the mineshaft, with Cecil as rear guard, firing at yet another demonic abomination as it scrabbled out of the hole. It scurried after them, mindless of the bullets that tore at it, blasting away fragments of its anatomy. Cecil's M249 ran empty, and the big man had no choice but to run as fast as he could. Pausing to rearm would bring certain death.

"Hey, a little help here!" he shouted when he felt the vampire's claws rake his back.

Acheson dropped back, drawing his last firearm, a SigArms P220. He emptied the entire magazine of .45 caliber rounds into the creature, catching it with a neat grouping that would have made even the most seasoned Delta Force trooper proud. The assault merely slowed down the vampire, but gave Cecil time to bolt past Acheson with his spent M249 SAW hanging from his shoulder by its patrol strap.

"Thanks," the big black man gasped while running like hell. Acheson was right behind him. The mouth of the mineshaft loomed closer, and as the two men bore down on it, a figure stepped into the gloom. It was Ellenshaw.

"Ellenshaw, get the fuck out of here!" Acheson yelled. He could hear the vampire snarling, only milliseconds behind him. No time to reload, no time to fight, but plenty of time for Acheson to die thirty feet from the safety of bright sunlight.

Ellenshaw raised his weapon, an M4 carbine equipped with an M203 grenade launcher mounted beneath the barrel. Ellenshaw squared himself and firmed his grip on the M203's trigger.

"Mark, move to your right!" he shouted as Cecil passed him.

Acheson did as he was told, his right shoulder contacting one of the wooden supports that held up the mine's ceiling. At the same time, a dull thump reached his ears as the M203 spat out its 40-millimeter round in an explosion of sparks. The projectile zoomed past Acheson like a freight train hurtling along at 250 feet per second. There was a startled choke behind Acheson as the round impacted its target, followed by frantic screaming as light flared. Ellenshaw had hit the vampire with a phosphorous round.

Acheson grabbed Ellenshaw's shoulder, dragging the older man with him as he ran into the brassy, late-afternoon sunlight. From the mineshaft, the burning vampire shrieked like a banshee. Acheson yanked his NVGs off his face.

"Gud damn it!" Cecil howled, tearing the ammo box off the SAW. His NVGs were pushed up on his head. "I almost crapped my pants!" he said as Acheson dragged Ellenshaw away from the mineshaft.

"Did you drop the FAE?" Ellenshaw asked, stumbling along.

"Damn right," Acheson panted. "Cover, everyone!" He pushed the older man to the ground behind a cluster of rocks, then landed on top of him. Acheson clasped his hands behind his head and hunkered down, making himself as small as possible. Beside him, Sharon did the same.

God smote the earth with a hammer.

The ground undulated beneath them as the FAE exploded, sending seismic energy radiating through the desert with the force of a tsunami, dislodging rock and dust. The entire hillside surrounding the mineshaft rose up a few feet, then slammed downwards like an abandoned building during a demolition, spewing dust and rock amidst a sound like a thunderclap. Fissures opened in the earth around the mine, including one good-sized sink hole that had lain dormant for ages. Acheson squirmed as pebbles and rocks and even a few small boulders rained down around them.

Eventually the thunder died away, leaving in its wake a dissipating cloud of filth and the sounds of settling earth.

Acheson coughed and pushed himself off of Ellenshaw. His NVGs were destroyed, the tubes smashed. He tossed them aside and shook Ellenshaw's shoulder.

"Robert? You okay?"

Ellenshaw groaned and turned over. Blood welled from a cut in the center of his forehead. Acheson helped him into a sitting position with one hand, the other going for the first aid kit in his knapsack. At the same time, he looked for the rest of his team.

"Everyone all right? Sound off!"

Through the settling dust came coughing replies. "A fuckin boulder landed on my weapon," Cecil reported. "Barrel's twisted like a pretzel!"

"Too bad it wasn't your head," Nacho said, clambering to his feet. He inspected his MP-5 for damage.

Acheson pulled a bandage from his medical kit and pressed it against Ellenshaw's forehead.

"Hold that here," he said. "You're bleeding." With that, he pushed to his feet and trotted back toward the mine.

The hillside was a sunken, misshapen mass riddled with fissures. A fuel air explosive was the most powerful non-nuclear weapon made, ideal for blasting a landing strip in a dense jungle or collapsing an underground bunker. They were dangerous weapons to employ, but the nature of the team's work sometimes left them with few options. Anything in the blast would be instantly immolated. Which was exactly the point.

Still... Doubt was something Acheson had learned to live with, but the nagging worry in the back of his mind was strong enough to give birth to a new breed of caution.

"Let's take a look around and make sure we're good to go," he said.

"I agree," Ellenshaw added. "This is too important to just walk away from with nothing to show for it but high hopes."

Acheson sighed, irritated by Ellenshaw's presence even more now that the action was over.

They spent the next thirty minutes poking around the area, looking for hidden entrances, exits, or hide sites. The lack of a search dog made it more difficult—Acheson felt another twinge of regret at the loss of Zeke—but the humans were no less apt at ferreting out the telltale clues using methods other than scent. Communication with the TOC was fruitless, and Helena offered nothing substantive. Acheson regarded the collapsed mineshaft, mindful of the fading daylight. He felt worry squirming about in his gut, but there was nothing to validate it.

"It's never easy, is it?"

Acheson turned around. A few feet behind him stood Ellenshaw, his hands on his hips, the bloodied bandage crumpled in one fist. He also surveyed the flattened hillock before them, his expression a rueful one.

"I used to do this, before you came on board. Not as artfully, and never with such great skill, but I've sent a few of these... things... back to Hell on occasion. And I always had a hard time believing a mission was truly complete."

"You ever blow one?"

Ellenshaw studied him for a moment. "A containment operation? No... never, thank God. Though there were times when I was certain I had."

Acheson motioned toward what remained of the mine. "I halfway want to dig everything up and make sure."

Ellenshaw nodded slowly. "I understand the feeling."

Sharon approached. She held her MP-5 in both hands, a combat stance that communicated to Acheson her uneasiness as clearly as a flashing neon sign advertised the location of a roadside diner.

"Area is secure," she reported. "No fortified exits or hide sites, no evidence of foot or vehicular traffic that didn't originate with us."

Acheson checked his watch. "Okay... let's boogie. Follow-on attack is scheduled to commence in a little over an hour. We need to be way clear before then." The follow-on attack would be conducted by U.S. Air Force F-15E Strike Eagle fighter-bombers carrying Longrod Penetrators, a munition that had been introduced during the 1991 Gulf War. An effective weapon, it had decimated scores of deeply buried Iraqi bunkers. On paper, their combat effectiveness stood at nearly 100%.

"Let's saddle up, people!" Sharon said over the radio net. "We're done here!"

The team retreated to the Humvees.

CHAPTER 3

The sun touched the peaks of the mountains to the west, bathing them in a halo of fiery orange. While Cecil drove, Acheson regarded the mountaintops from behind his sunglasses as the Humvee bounced across the desert, retracing its path to the TOC. No one spoke; there was nothing to be said. The job was done until they heard otherwise. The only thing left now was for them to get comfortable with it and perhaps celebrate the fact they had survived it. Acheson rubbed his face with one hand. Gritty sand clung to it. He had tried to scrub it off, but with no success.

"Fast movers on the left," Cecil noted.

Acheson leaned forward and looked through the windshield, catching a glimpse of the two F-15E Strike Eagles as they slid past at 15,000 feet, their tapered noses pointed in the direction from which the two Humvees had come. Acheson had no idea what arrangements the group had made with the Air Force. More than likely, the Air Force was given a cover story, just like everyone else. Maybe they'd been told Al Qaeda had an underground hideout in the Arizona desert. Whatever worked. Acheson leaned back in his seat.

His radio headset crackled to life.

"Six, this is TOC. Steel on target," George Sanders said over the radio. "Strike flight reports steel on target."

"TOC, this is Six. Roger that. It's a wrap. Start packing up. We'll be onsite in ten minutes, over."

"Roger that, Six. TOC, out."

Acheson closed his eyes for a moment as the vehicle continued to hurtle across the desert at a good forty-five miles an hour. He felt the tension slowly draining out of him, leaving in its wake a jittery kind of exhaustion. He yearned to be back in Los Angeles, and the feeling made him smile. One of the most violent cities in the world, and Acheson felt safe there.

"Hey, Nacho." Acheson looked over his shoulder. Nacho Delgado sat in the left rear bucket seat. "Zeke was tops, man. You did a fantastic job with that dog, and he went out doing exactly what you taught him. I've got to thank you for that. Without your dogs, some of us might be tits-up back there."

"Thanks, man."

"But one thing—stop getting attached to them." Acheson nudged his sunglasses up on his nose. "Easy say, hard do, but that's what's got to happen. You started freaking back there, and I don't want to see that again. Dogs I'm willing to part with. People I'm not. You reading me on this, Nacho?"

"I hear you, man," Nacho responded softly.

Acheson pulled his SigArms P220 from its holster. He made sure there was a round in the pipe and that the hammer had been decocked. Just busywork. Something to keep his mind off the forlornness in Nacho Delgado's voice.

###

Ten minutes later, the Winnebago RV came into view. It lay in deep shadow, as the sun was only a fiery afterglow on the horizon.

"TOC, this is Six. Crank it up and turn around, we're getting out of Dodge. Over." There was no response, and the RV did not move as instructed. Acheson frowned. What the hell, were the radios fritzed now?

"TOC, this is Six. You copy my last? Over."

Cecil slowed the Humvee. "What the fuck?"

Acheson leaned forward. The door to the RV stood wide open, sagging on its torn hinges.

"Guns, guns, guns!" Acheson said over the radio. "Shake at the TOC!"

Cecil accelerated again and cranked the Humvee's steering wheel hard to the left, sending up a cloud of dust as he veered away from the RV.

"Muthafuck!" he snarled. "We was almost gone!"

"Go around back," Acheson told him. Over the radio: "Five, this is Six. You guys take the front, we're coming in from the rear, over."

Sharon's reply was terse. "Roger that."

From the back seat came the sounds of metal-on-metal as safeties were clicked off and weapons were cycled. Nacho and Julia were ready. Acheson pulled his MP-5 from its tactical carry harness and charged it up. Cecil flipped on the Humvee's lights as he charged past the RV and fishtailed to a halt thirty feet behind it. Acheson, Julia, and Nacho bailed out immediately.

"Cecil, stay with the vehicle!" Acheson ordered the instant his boots hit the ground. "Keep an eye out!"

"Damn straight," Cecil shot back. He already had his two-tone Colt 10mm in his right hand.

"Five, dismount and take up overwatch positions while we go in. Leave Ellenshaw in the Humvee, over."

The second Humvee slid to a halt, kicking up another cloud of dust. Its doors flew open, and before Sharon Thomas could respond, Robert Ellenshaw flung himself out of the vehicle and ran toward the RV as fast as he could. Behind him, Chiho Hara struggled to chase him down. Acheson swore to himself as he ran.

He got to the RV first and flattened against the side of the vehicle next to the door. Ellenshaw pounded up and did the same, his jaw set, breathing hard and fast. The two men regarded each other for a moment before Acheson held up a hand and signaled that he would go in first. Ellenshaw nodded and shouldered his M4.

Acheson sprung into the doorway, his MP-5 at the ready. The disemboweled remains of George Sanders lay draped across the threshold, his eyes wide and staring and full of dust. His neck had been torn open, the hallmark of feeding ghouls. Acheson stepped on the body—there was no other way—and hurled himself into the RV. Two other bodies in similar condition lay inside. Their blood was splattered across the expensive radio consoles and the rubber-matted floor. Heather Jensen and Philip Mack had been happy people in life. They had departed it anything but.

Acheson checked the small bathroom and found it empty. The sleeping area was also vacant, the twin-sized bed unrumpled. No one had been attacked back here. Everything had gone down out in the RV's salon.

"Where is she?"

Ellenshaw stood in the salon near the radios, and Acheson could tell his panic was cresting. Julia crept in behind him, all business. She looked over George's body first, then at Heather and Philip. She pulled the Beretta 92F pistol from Philip's right hand and sniffed it, then toed a single cartridge with her right foot.

"One round from Phil," she said. "George and Heather's weapons are still holstered."

"Where is she?" Ellenshaw asked again, louder this time. "Where's Helena?"

"She might've escaped," Julia said. "She might be hiding nearby—"

Ellenshaw pushed past her, almost knocking Julia on her ass as he bolted out the door. "Helena! Helena!"

Julia straightened her gear and looked at Acheson, her lips compressed into a tight line. Acheson nodded. If the TOC team had gotten off only one round, then the chances Helena Rubenstein had somehow escaped the carnage and made it to safety were on the high side of astronomical.

"Five, this is Six."

"Go ahead, Six."

"TOC team is dead, Rubenstein is missing. Your team's with Ellenshaw, but don't go too far. Over."

A pause. "Roger that, Six. Breaking station, over."

"Roger. Six out."

Julia watched Acheson as he headed for the door. "What's the plan?"

"We stick to procedure. We clean up and get out of here."

"We're just going to..." Julia shrugged her shoulders after a moment, and Acheson reached out and touched her arm.

"The ROE's clear on this, Jules. Help me with Sanders."

The two of them lugged the corpse into the RV. When they were finished, Acheson stepped outside and hurried to Cecil's Humvee. Ellenshaw, Sharon, and Chiho were a hundred yards away. The older man was still calling out for Helena.

"What's the deal?" Cecil asked when Acheson walked up. "Rubenstein's gone?"

Acheson opened the right rear door and pulled out a box from beneath the seat. It held six body bags. He opened it and counted out three, then closed the box and put it back.

"Stay sharp. We'll be leaving in about ten minutes." Acheson scooped up the body bags and slammed the door shut.

"What about Rubenstein?" Cecil called after him.

Acheson didn't answer. He loped back to the RV, body bags under one arm, MP-5 in his free hand.

Ellenshaw continued calling out for Helena Rubenstein.

PART TWO:

THE RIGHTEOUS

The strength of the vampire is that people will not believe in him.

—GARRETT FORT

CHAPTER 1

TWO YEARS LATER

Life ain't bad, Mark Acheson mused as his black Tahoe LTZ inched down the congested Hollywood Freeway. On a bright May morning like this one, not even the traffic bothered him. Perhaps he had, after all these years, become just another middle-aged man whose life missions were behind him.

Though the Group had been idle as of late, it always cast its watchful eye about, sifting through massive amounts of intelligence amassed on a daily basis. At some point, Acheson and his team would be called to action. He never knew exactly where or when, but it would happen. It always did.

The U.S. Bank Tower dominated the Los Angeles skyline, a 73-story upthrust of concrete and glass that dwarfed the other buildings. In a more vertical setting, such as New York City, it would have been just another also-ran, but in the City of Angels, it reigned supreme at 633 Fifth Street. Many locals found the building unattractive and uninspiring, but Acheson loved it. A series of overlapping spiral cubes, the result was a construct that was both square and circular, topped by a bright crown that shined even through the smoggiest of nights. A frustrated photographer, Acheson had taken several nighttime pictures of it from the observation deck at the Griffith Observatory. No matter how diligently he worked at it, his compositions, while technically good, seemed soulless and bleak. It galled him that Sharon, who had just started taking pictures herself some months ago, had a better photographic instinct and quick eye. Whereas Acheson had struggled for years to find his strength, Sharon had outdistanced him in a matter of months.

He pulled into his assigned parking space and took the elevator to the lobby. As was his habit, he ducked in the Starbucks next door for a coffee, then returned to the Tower.

The Group had the entire 68th floor, a tremendous 23,000 square feet. The doors leading to the main suite were made to look of rare West Indian mahogany, but were in fact much more expensive, blast-proofed fire doors. Likewise, all of the interior walls had been upgraded, packed with carbon fiber supports and Kevlar padding. It was perhaps the most ballistically tolerant area in all of Los Angeles, designed to withstand shaped charges... or the onslaught of something even more nefarious.

The bronze nameplate on the door read ADVANCED MEDICAL CONCEPTS GROUP LLC. As far as the landlords, the Chamber of Commerce, and the IRS went, AMC Group was a biomedical organization with corporate headquarters in Los Angeles. In reality, it was a front organization overseen by the government.

The office suite was tasteful—beige walls, intriguing if understated artwork, even a trendy bronze statue or two. Quality padded carpet ran underfoot, and the lighting was designed to mimic natural illumination. A comfortable place to work, even if work was sometimes 24 hours a day.

"Morning, Theresa," Acheson said to the hefty Hispanic woman manning the front desk. She wore a loud flowery dress with padded shoulders that made her look like a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers. On her big wraparound desk, several flat-screen monitors provided her with live video feeds from the floor's security cameras.

"Good morning, Mark. Traffic's light today?"

"I almost hit twenty miles an hour."

Theresa pushed her thick, brown-rimmed glasses up on her pug nose with one hand. "Then I guess Mr. Hayes must be pulling my leg. He's running late. Traffic, he said."

Acheson sipped his coffee. "Really. Where is he?"

Theresa tapped some keys on her keyboard. All Group vehicles were equipped with GPS, and it was easy to get Cecil's exact location.

"Hollywood Boulevard, sixty-nine hundred block. He's scheduled to be in at nine." As the office whip, Theresa was ruthless in her mission to keep the 68th floor operational. And Cecil was her favorite target.

"I'll give him a jingle and see what's up," Acheson said."And Rick is wailing with his guitar," Theresa said. Rick Wallace was one of the newer field operatives, also pulling the nine to five as he was technically still in training. He spent his spare time pounding away on a 1978 white-on-red custom Telecaster.

Acheson grunted and walked to the rear of the suite, nodding to the support personnel in cubicles and in the offices along the way. All were government employees who possessed SECRET clearance. As he approached his own office, he heard the strains of guitar music coming from behind a mercifully closed door.

Acheson had the largest office. The desk and matching credenza were of cherry wood, the chairs and long couch finished with leather. Complete with en suite bathroom, it was Extremely High-End Corporate, and with his Brooks Brothers suit, Acheson looked every bit the corporate chieftain. In actuality, he was more like a captain in the Army, only with five times the pay. He hung his jacket in the closet, switched on his workstation, and gazed out the large windows behind his desk. From the 68th floor, he could see everything from the Los Angeles Public Library directly below to Santa Monica. On clear days, he could even see a hint of the Pacific Ocean. Farther south, airliners landed and took off from LAX. It was a hell of a view in the daytime; at night, it was even better.

The guitar music swelled, rising to a fevered pace. It wasn't very good, an imprecise rendition of The Scorpions' "Break Out." Acheson walked down the hall and pounded on Rick's office door. The music suddenly stopped. The door opened, and Rick Wallace looked out. He was a tall, lean man, well over six feet in height and with long copper hair that draped past his shoulders in a frizzy ponytail. His left eye was brown, his right eye hazel.

"Too loud?" he asked.

"At least you weren't singing this time," Acheson said. "Look, the soundproofing's good, but not that good."

"Sorry, sorry," Rick said. "Guess I got carried away."

"Just make it to the cone of silence at ten-thirty," Acheson said. "You're with Nacho this afternoon, right?"

"Roger," Rick responded. He was 39 and had been an Army Ranger NCO for twenty years. The only thing about him that had changed since leaving the Army was his haircut and dress. While he looked like a bona fide fuck-off, Rick Wallace could soldier with the best of them, and would make an excellent point man when he got a few more miles on him.

"Good. Keep your ears open during the meeting."

"You got it."

Acheson returned to his office. He picked up the desk phone and dialed Cecil's cell.

"Where are you, big boy?" Acheson asked when Cecil answered. "You told Theresa you were caught in traffic, but the Hollywood Freeway's a racetrack right now."

"Yeah, it was my cover story," Cecil said. "I'm outside the Chinese theater and damn, Beyonce is here! She's getting outta her limo right now!"

"You're... you're stalking Beyonce?"

"Hold on..." In the background, horns blared as Cecil suddenly shouted, "Beyonce! Beyonce baby, I love you, girl! You da bomb, sweetheart, the total bomb!"

Acheson cracked up. Cecil was almost fifty years old, but he still held up traffic on Hollywood Boulevard to shout sweet nothings at the apple of his eye, who likely ignored his starstruck efforts.

"She looked at me!" Cecil shouted into the phone. "Damn, Beyonce looked at me and smiled!"

"Outstanding. You're due in for the ten-thirty."

"On it, Boss," Cecil said. "Hittin' the one-oh-one now. Damn—Beyonce! I tell you, Mark, she's soooo smokin' hot—!"

"Drive, Cecil." With that, Acheson disconnected, still smiling.

At 10:30, he left his office and strolled to the conference room. The staff was already assembled, sans Cecil and Sharon, who was due to pick up her sister, brother-in-law, and baby niece at LAX in an hour. It would be the first time they had entertained company. Acheson wasn't sure it was a good idea, but he had no family to speak of, and Sharon did. He couldn't get in the way of that.

The conference room was a windowless rectangle, mostly gray in color due to the anechoic tiling on the walls that absorbed all but the loudest sounds. Similar tiles lined the roof, and white noise generators buzzed sedately in the overhead, a precaution against active monitoring. The entire room was nicknamed The Cone of Silence after the Plexiglas device in the 1960s spy sitcom Get Smart.

"Hey folks, how is everyone this morning?"

Nacho leaned back in his leather chair and put his feet on the conference room table. "Heard something really scary today on the radio, man."

Acheson raised an eyebrow as he pulled out a chair next to Andrew Kerr, the Group's R&D director. "Do tell. A new infestation?"

"Worse," Nacho said. "I heard the Alfie look is coming back, man. You and me have to start wearin' skinny little suits with skinny little ties and ride tiny little motor scooters to work."

"Don't do that to me," Acheson said. "And get your feet off the table."

Nacho barked a laugh and ran a hand through his black hair as he dropped his feet to the floor and sat up straight in his chair.

The door opened, and Cecil Hayes added his body to the mass of humanity inside The Cone of Silence.

"Wassup people," he said. As usual, he wore all black, and his tight designer T-shirt showed off his muscular arms, each of which was nearly as big as one of Acheson's thighs. "Sorry I'm late, traffic and all."

"You big gorilla, there ain't no traffic today," Nacho said.

Cecil pulled out a chair and sat next to Julia. "Yeah, well, that's cuz I don't come outta West Covina. I like upscale, beano."

"How was Beyonce?" Acheson asked. "Get her number? Beat down her security guards?"

Cecil smiled sheepishly. "Shee-it."

"Let's get the show on the road," Acheson said with a smile. "Julia? Intel update?"

"All's quiet so far. No signs of any infestations across the country. There are the usual missing person reports that we're following, but nothing unusual." Julia McGuiness was the Group's intel expert and primary operational liaison with the Group's overseers in Washington, DC. Her shoulder-length brown hair was sun-bleached from spending her off days on the Santa Monica beaches where she lived.

Acheson grunted. "So no ghouls or goblins to worry about. I love news like that." Ghouls were newly-risen vampires. Mostly mindless, they lived only to feed, and usually killed their prey by tearing out their throats. Turnings—the process where a vampire spawned another by biting the victim—were a primary indicator of a higher-order vamp, or goblin, at work. As a whole, vampires did not turn many humans; they merely fed on them and then killed them. Large numbers of ghouls were difficult to control, and a high- or mid-order vamp was bound by their culture to rule any clan they might establish. And the problem with a large number of vampires was that they either left a lot of dead people—an infestation, in Group parlance—or attracted the attention of the Group, which usually led to a lot of eradicated bloodsuckers.

But a goblin working alone could be difficult to identify. Despite all its resources, the Group could not track a single vamp making its way through the country, taking a person here, a person there. They didn't need to feed more than once a month if they were disciplined. That was why missing person reports were reviewed on a daily basis. Yet many police departments didn't computerize those records, so there were times when critical early indicators were overlooked.

"Nothing right now," Julia agreed.

"Awesome. Dr. Kerr?"

At six foot three and approaching 280 pounds, Andrew Kerr was a moose of a man. Bald, with a full but neat beard, he always wore a suit and tie. Though not a "people person", he was a quick thinker and an expert biochemist. Kerr's sheer size was imposing enough; when one factored in his intellect, he was a force to be reckoned with.

Kerr rose and briefed the assemblage on a promising new drug therapy, a regimen he hoped would serve to block the pathogens that "turned" a bitten human into a ghoul. The research had been ongoing for several years, but previous tests had been total failures. The subjects had turned within three days.

Kerr brought everyone up to speed with the Cliff's Notes version of his latest discoveries. He and his team mapped over 90% of the pathogenic process, and had come up with a routine that might prevent the spread of the pathogen if administered within twelve hours after infection. Of course, the problem was to find a victim and start the regimen within twelve hours of being fanged.

Cecil and Nacho capped off the meeting with recruiting and training progress. Of the "new meat," only Rick Wallace had been assessed into the containment team itself. The others were assigned to the TOC team. The Group had a training classroom on the 68th floor, where recruits were instructed on how to identify and hunt vamps. Almost all were ex-military or former federal security personnel, and hands-on training with firearms was also a priority.

All in all, everything was secure. The threat situation was low, which left everyone happy and content.

For now.

###

She was as perfect as they came—dusky skin, long hair the color of pitch, and almond-shaped eyes so dark they almost matched her mane of midnight. Her breasts were on the small side, Tremaine observed, but that would certainly change. No one lasted in Los Angeles without undergoing some change... most certainly not so exquisite a creature as this.

Tremaine's hands swept across her smooth shoulders and down her chest, where he tweaked her nipples playfully before kneading her breasts more purposefully. The girl squirmed on the table before him, murmuring something in her native Vietnamese. Tremaine moved on after a time, his hands following the contour of her flat stomach before accelerating down the sweep of her hips. Yes, perfect...

The crowning attribute that utterly endeared him to her was the five-inch penis between her spread legs, counterbalanced by a pair of small testicles, the scrotum shaved bare. The girl's voyage into transsexuality was proceeding apace. Though she had been born an effeminate male, she still retained the most potent symbol of male virility, something that thrilled Tremaine to no end. There were times when Tremaine would take her out in public, to The Ivy, the Brown Derby, Miyagi's... all these places she passed perfectly, with her accented—yet eminently feminine—voice and perfect poise. Her face betrayed no telltale signs of her birth sex that he could discern, and any that might be detected by a biological female were masked by the deft application of makeup. Tremaine knew she shared his pleasure at the joke they occasionally played on the residents of Los Angeles. Nothing made Hoa—Holly, to English-speakers—feel more desirable and complete than to have the common John Q. Public lust after her. And many did.

Tremaine prayed the Master would induct her into his Family, so that she could walk the landscapes of eternity frozen in this beautiful transgendered condition. He stroked her fully erect penis, as hard as his own despite the hormone regimen she was on. He could feel it flick upward against his fingers with every pulse. Hoa hated her manhood and wanted it reconfigured into a vagina so she could complete her journey. Tremaine allowed himself a rueful smile.

If I have my way, darling, it will stay with you forever.

They made love in a variety of positions, starting on the room service table on which she lay. Her rectum was tight and hot, gripping his well-lubricated penis like a satin glove as he slowly impelled himself into her. They started out slow and gentle, as always. By the time they made it to the bed, she had already erupted. Droplets of liquid ivory glittered like jewels in her crisp, black pubic hair. Tremaine pinned her to the bed and thrust into her with more purpose, his tongue against hers as she moaned and shuddered beneath him. At long last, his own orgasm was upon him. He withdrew from her and pushed himself to his knees. Hoa was quick to respond. She grabbed his thick phallus and stroked it powerfully. Tremaine screamed as he ejaculated all over her face and tongue.

Later, after showering, he drove Hoa back to her home in Torrance, one of the many shoreline towns that composed the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area. At 21, she was still a student, and had final exams to prepare for.

Once she was safely inside her small condominium, Tremaine spun his red Jaguar around and returned to the Hilton Checkers hotel. Relaxing in his well-appointed suite, he ordered a pot of coffee from room service and relieved himself in the marble-floored bathroom. As he washed his hands, he glanced at his reflection in the broad mirror spanning the wall over the white marble countertop. His dark hair was frosted with gray highlights, fissures lined his forehead, and his blue eyes were flanked by deepening crow's feet. Tremaine frowned. No matter how often he exercised, how much sleep he got, how well he ate, age advanced on him like an inexorable tide. There was no denying it. At forty-nine, Reginald Tremaine, formerly of Gloucester, UK, was growing old.

The thought fanned the bright ember of panic that burned deep inside him. He had to discharge his duties faithfully. Otherwise, he would have no shot at joining the Master's Family. No chance at immortality.

Tremaine returned to the room and swept open the drapes, allowing the bright sunlight to spill into the room. He gazed upon Grand Street below as he switched on his laptop. It was truly a remarkable day, and he wondered if he would miss days like this.

He logged onto his laptop, then into his secure e-mail. While his verbal skills were excellent, Tremaine was not a natural writer. It would take hours to draft his report, proofread it, spell-check it, and send it off. The Master was an exacting sort.

He was briefly interrupted by the room service attendant, who presented him with a sterling silver pot of gourmet espresso. Tremaine thanked the boy and sent him on his way with a five-dollar tip. It took almost an hour to generate the first draft, which included the mark's name, residential and business addresses, employment confirmation, and a list of known associates. For this, Tremaine had found it necessary to enlist the paid services of a third party—a bail bondsman he had met in Winnetka who moonlighted as an unlicensed private detective. The man had provided some good information, as well as decent digital pictures of the mark, his wife, and his housing staff. Tremaine had learned the mark was mildly disenfranchised with his marriage, even though the couple had spent the last 30 years together. They had two children, one in Europe, the other in northern California. And the mark was a Jew, a God damned kike. Like many in the world, Tremaine had a loathing for Jewry, especially wealthy kikes. All of this, along with the digital photos, would hopefully serve to further the Master's—and Tremaine's—eventual goals.

Finally, Tremaine was satisfied his work would pass muster. He sent the encrypted e-mail on its way. Job completed, coffee consumed, Tremaine changed into his swimming trunks and made his way to the rooftop pool area. After applying sunblock, he stretched out in the warm sunshine on a lounge chair. Towering over him a block away was the ridiculous construction known as the U.S. Bank Tower, one of those glass monstrosities Americans could do so well or, in this case, so poorly. Tremaine was perhaps the only man for miles around—perhaps the only one in the entire city!—who knew that another family worked in that huge phallic upthrust. A family his Master wanted eradicated.

Tremaine smiled. Whatever his Master wanted.

###

The Bentley Brooklands was a wonderful car, by any standard an exquisite balance of luxury and automotive engineering, and Noam Schwimmer found it a joy to drive. At 73, he still enjoyed as heads turned to watch the two-door behemoth glide past. There was nothing better than being noticed in Los Angeles. Well, perhaps having money. Nothing beat that.

Money... Schwimmer still had faith in money. No matter how much the world changed, only several million pieces of green-and-white paper separated him from the ranks of bums who slept on the oceanfront greens in Santa Monica and Hermosa Beach. Schwimmer had inherited his father's coffin-making business. His father and uncle were the ones who had done all the hard work, building up a small yet vital industry into a revenue-generating enterprise that turned a tidy profit to the tune of one million dollars per year. But when Schwimmer had taken over the business, the fortunes multiplied tenfold. His father's greatest weakness was his inability to take in the Big Picture. The Big Picture had nothing to do with making coffins so that Mary Ellen Peabody's dearly departed mother could rest in peace in Calvary Cemetery or Hillside Memorial (if Mary Ellen Peabody came from money—after all, not everyone could enjoy the Eternal Sleep next to Jack Benny). No, the Big Picture had to do with making sure as many people as possible chose a Schwimmer as the dearly departed's final vessel.

That had only come about in the 1960s, when Schwimmer began buying mortuaries across Los Angeles, Orange, and Ventura counties. Not only did the mortuaries generate income on their own—everyone from Irish-Americans to Chinese immigrants needed a place for services—they were also a wonderful focal point to push the elaborate Schwimmer line of caskets. By the 1970s, Schwimmer had taken his father's modest business and turned it into a regional empire.

Schwimmer was guaranteed to never be one of the little people. It just couldn't happen, not to a man who owned several homes across the nation and abroad, his own Gulfstream G550 business jet, and last but not least, the Brooklands. And to ensure his prominence, Schwimmer worked every day. He rose at six-thirty, breakfasted, then journeyed twenty-six miles to the south, where the warehouse and manufacturing complex lay in El Segundo, a small city just south of Los Angeles International Airport.

Los Feliz was an exclusive region of the Los Angeles metro area because it catered to celebrities and old money. Schwimmer's neighbors were cut from a different cloth than those from Santa Monica, retired movie stars, musicians, even one or two people like himself, captains of industry who had retired to a more tranquil life in their golden years. The Schwimmer residence was befitting a man of his stature, a large, sprawling Georgian-style mansion with windows that overlooked the curves of the hills above and the bright sweep of the city below. The black iron gates at the base of the steep driveway parted for him when he pressed the remote in the Brookland's console. They closed behind him, separating him from the rest of the world.

Schwimmer parked the Brookland next to Miriam's silver Mercedes and checked his watch. 8:49pm. Rosario, the Schwimmers' live-in chef and housekeeper, would have one of her tasty dishes ready and waiting for him. He looked forward to that.

He stepped into the house and closed the door behind him. The entryway was dark, and his hard-soled shoes clicked as he walked across the vast entry hall's polished marble floor.

"Miriam! Rosario, I'm home!"

He headed for the double staircase that led to the second level and shrugged off his navy blue blazer. He would change out of his suit and into something more casual before having dinner, then retreat to the den for a cigar and a snifter of cognac.

"Miriam! I'm home!" The double doors leading to the master suite were closed, which was unusual. Schwimmer slung his jacket over his shoulder and depressed the satin chrome door handle. The wide doors swung open. He stopped in the threshold.

Miriam and Rosario lay on the bed as if asleep. One of Miriam's flat-soled shoes was missing, her freshly pedicured foot plainly visible through the sheer material of the ankle-high nylons she so loved. The lavender comforter covering the king-size bed was speckled with droplets of red. Schwimmer took a step toward them. He let his jacket fall to the floor.

Blood, he thought absently.

"Good evening, Noam."

In the sitting area to Schwimmer's left, several people were clustered—two women and three men. Occupying the couch and lounge chairs, they were dressed in a fashion he was generally unfamiliar with, not those tawdry rags one might see on MTV—or Sunset Boulevard—but something more sublime, almost gothic, all blacks and indigos. They radiated a peculiar presence that made him feel almost ill, as if something dank and fetid had been shoved into his mouth.

Schwimmer spun and raced toward the panic switch next to the bed.

He had barely taken two steps when one of the women seated on the couch streaked past him in a dizzying blur. She snapped back into focus only a few feet before him and placed delicate hands the color of ivory on his shoulders. Though her hands were cold, he sensed they were strong enough to rend steel.

Her eyes were silver-in-black, eerily seductive, eternally calming, entirely alien. Her gaze entranced him immediately, and his hammering heart began to slow. The woman's fine, porcelain features barely creased as she smiled. Her soft grin revealed four fangs.

Schwimmer was unbothered by this, so captivated was he by the silver-in-black gaze that held him in its sway.

The woman faded away like an apparition in a dream. Schwimmer dared to do nothing else but stare at the empty space where her face—and those eyes!—had been just an instant before. His eyes adjusted their depth of field, and he found himself focused on the still form of his wife, Miriam. Her blue-gray hair was in perfect order, her expensive lavender pantsuit pristine. It only vaguely registered on his consciousness that a great gaping hole had been torn in her neck, from which blood and a curious clear fluid slowly seeped. That his wife of some 30-odd years lay on their bed in such a ghastly state of disrepair was only a distant thought.

"Noam." The voice was a pleasant baritone, lightly accented, seemingly only an inch from his left ear. "Noam... do I have your attention?"

"Yes," Schwimmer stated, his eyes still locked on the horrible wound in his wife's neck. He glanced over at Rosario. She had a similar injury, and another on the inside of one of her fleshy thighs.

A hand alighted on his face, cupping his jaw. Schwimmer did not resist as his head was gently turned toward the owner of the voice. Schwimmer could feel power in that hand. A power greater than anything Noam Schwimmer had ever before encountered.

The man was tall, at least six foot four. His face was finely constructed, with high cheekbones and a strong nose. A European face, Schwimmer thought idly. And dwelling deep in the man's head, below a mane of dark hair punctuated by a shock of white at the widow's peak, was a pair of silver-in-black eyes. The man smiled, revealing fangs.

"We have things to discuss, Noam."

Schwimmer nodded. Again, completely arrested by the dual-tone gaze, this time forever... and he knew it.

###

Acheson logged off his workstation at 10:00pm. He called Sharon an hour ago telling her he was on his way; it appeared he'd lied. Well. He'd make his amends. Tomorrow.

The 68th floor was mostly vacant, save for the small group of intelligence analysts who worked the graveyard shift. They were Julia's spooks, the ones who kept an eye on the late-night happenings, monitoring police bands, media outlets, anything that might provide an early indication that an infestation had taken root. It was thankless work, but they had all they needed piping through their keyboards and headsets.

Acheson left the office.

In the hallway outside, Claudia Nero stood facing the elevator doors. She was the Group empath, a tall, curvaceous woman with dark hair and lovely olive-colored skin that reminded Acheson of days spent on a Mediterranean beach. She wore shades of black and gray as always, from her light long coat to the shoes on her feet. Like all the empaths Acheson had met, she was at times remote, as if she preferred her own private world to the world without.

And, like most empaths, she was afraid of him. Like Helena Rubenstein had been.

Acheson cleared his throat as he approached her from behind. Claudia gave no indication she was aware of his presence, which in and of itself wasn't odd. That she was standing in front of the elevator when the DOWN button hadn't been pressed was. Acheson reached around her and tapped the button.

"Claud," he said by way of greeting. When she still didn't respond, Acheson stepped closer. Yes, she and most other empaths were frightened of those field team members who actually went out and killed, but they were rarely so poorly socialized as to be outright rude.

"Claudia?"

Acheson looked at her profile. Her dark eyes were open, pupils dilated. Her full, sensuous lips slowly moved, as if she were having a silent conversation with herself. She was Seeing. When Claudia Nero was assigned to the Group as Helena's replacement two years ago, Acheson had been told that her talent was "wild", to a large degree uncontrollable. There would be times when the Seeing would overwhelm her, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours. Sometimes, she could not recall what she had seen or felt, whereas at others, she could recollect everything with amazing clarity.

Ding. The elevator arrived. Claudia swooned slightly, squeezing her eyes shut. Acheson reached out a hand and steadied her; she recoiled.

"Claudia, it's me," Acheson said.

"Mark," she said after a brief pause.

"You all right?" The elevator doors closed after a few moments.

Claudia stepped away from him and rubbed her eyes. "How long was I gone?"

"I think you left the office almost half an hour ago."

Claudia stamped her feet a few times, still rubbing her eyes. "This not blinking stuff is murder on my contacts."

"I'll bet. You okay?"

She nodded and stopped rubbing her eyes. She ran both hands through her dark brown hair. Acheson knew that for her one of the side effects of Seeing was an itchy scalp. It was an odd reaction, he thought.

"See anything?"

Claudia crossed her arms beneath her breasts and stared at the carpeted floor. "I don't know," she replied after a few seconds. She looked up at him, her face composed, regarding him frankly. "I'll have to go under with Julia tomorrow. Do you have the time?"

Acheson pulled back his jacket sleeve and checked his watch. "Ten fifteen," he said. Yikes!

Claudia smiled thinly. "She won't be mad."

"Sorry?"

"Sharon. She'll understand."

"You saw that, did you?"

Claudia smiled wanly. "Woman's intuition."

"We'll have Julia regress you to 9:45." One of the ways to get Claudia to report was through hypnosis. It wasn't always effective, but the only other solution was drug therapy, and Claudia's handlers in Washington had ruled that out long before she had been attached to the Group. Drug therapy, while useful on certain subjects, made Claudia Nero clinically depressed. Her ability to See when depressed disappeared entirely.

"So you don't remember anything?" Acheson pressed the down button again. Ding. The elevator doors slid open.

"Sorry," Claudia said as she stepped into the elevator. Acheson sighed and followed her. They rode down in silence. Moments later they were in the first level of the parking garage. Acheson headed for his Tahoe, Claudia for her silver Audi TT. He stopped by the Tahoe's rear bumper and turned back to her.

"Was it Osric?"

Claudia looked at him over her shoulder, surprised. "I've never felt Osric before. I really don't know."

With that, she climbed into the Audi and drove away.

CHAPTER 2

Claudia had been right. Sharon wasn't totally pissed with Acheson, but she wasn't happy with his tardiness. Her sister, brother-in-law, and baby niece were fast asleep by the time he arrived home at ten minutes of eleven. All were worn out from their trip from Detroit. Sharon accepted Acheson's murmured apologies, and didn't fight over things that could not be changed.

They made love in the quiet house on the hilltop overlooking the sparkling lights of Los Angeles. They were in many ways a perfect complement for each other; natural competitors, their sex life was a fast and furious one, fueled by living on the fine line between life and death. That he was white and she was black added fuel to the fire; both remained intrigued and attracted by their racial differences.

The alarm went off at 6:45AM, and Acheson had no qualms about slapping the snooze bar a few times. After the second time, Sharon practically shoved him out of the bed.

"You hit the snooze one more time I'm gonna shoot you," she said.

Acheson tossed aside the covers and rolled out of bed. Despite his time in the Army, he was not really a morning person. He half-walked, half-staggered to the bathroom and took a shower. When he stepped back into the master suite, Sharon was sitting up in bed, waiting for him.

"Anything new on the job?" she asked.

Acheson told her of Claudia's episode in the elevator bay. Sharon considered it for a few moments as she leaned back against the padded king-size headrest. She didn't bother to pull the sheet up to cover her breasts. Acheson smiled. He never got tired of seeing her naked, and he jumped back into bed and kissed her cheek again. Sharon looked past him at the clock on the nightstand.

"Don't get all excited, big boy. It's getting late, and I'd better get some breakfast going for our guests." She looked him in the eye. "What are the chances of you making it home at a decent hour tonight?"

"Uh... good?"

Sharon cocked one perfect brow. We will see, came the unspoken response.

Acheson dressed as Sharon rose and brushed her teeth. He pulled on a crisp white shirt and a charcoal-colored double-breasted suit, offset by a red tie. He secured his SigArms P220 in its kidney holster and had slipped on his shoes when Sharon rejoined him. She pulled on a pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeve Henley top, and swept open the drapes.

"Babe, does this pistol make me look fat?"

Sharon smiled distantly as she walked to the dresser and brushed her long, curly hair. She had enough of a mixed heritage to endow her with cocoa-colored skin but hair that was naturally curly when it grew past her shoulders. She looked great, he thought, watching her in the orange-tinted sunlight filtering through the windows. But something was bugging her.

"You look stressed." Acheson walked up behind her and put his arms around her waist. "What's up?"

She fiddled with her hair for a moment longer, then leaned back into him. "My sister wants to know why I'm with a white man."

"Is that a big deal?" he asked.

"In some black families, it's a major deal."

"You never mentioned this before."

She turned in his arms and looked up at him. "That's because I didn't think we'd last." She paused. "Are we going to last, Mark?"

Acheson frowned. "Uh, where is this coming from?"

She hugged him and kissed his neck. "I really dig being with you, Mark. I really do. And I was wondering... if you might consider making it a permanent arrangement?"

"How permanent, exactly?"

"I'm not the kind of woman to go for a Hollywood marriage. You're no Kurt Russell, and I'm no Goldie Hawn, that's for damn sure."

Acheson pulled away a bit and raised her face toward his so he could look into her dark eyes.

"So we're talking marriage here?" he asked, a little shocked.

"Doesn't sound good to you," she said flatly. He felt her stiffen a little in his arms.

"Not what I meant. It's just that..."

When he didn't continue, she asked, "Just what?"

"What we do for a living isn't exactly conducive to raising a family."

"And who says we're going to be in this line of work forever?"

"Sharon... the life we lead doesn't leave us a lot of time to think about anything other than what happens between dusk and dawn."

"So I should take that as a no, then?"

"You should take it as a 'we'll discuss this later.'"

Sharon smiled. "Feeling trapped?"

"Not one bit," he said, hiding the lie behind his smile and hating himself for it. "I want to hear what you have to say, but..." He stretched out his arm and checked his watch. "Duty calls."

Sharon cocked her head to one side, listening. "No problem... because I think our guests are up."

She pulled away from him. Acheson rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. How to handle this?

"I really do want to talk about this, babe. But just a word of warning... I doubt Washington would go for it. A husband-and-wife duo leading a team of vampire killers? Not exactly within the official guidelines."

Sharon glanced over her shoulder as she walked toward the bedroom door. "You're the top dog. Check it out."

"I will."

"Good. Now let's get you introduced." She opened the door and stepped out into the carpeted hallway. Acheson followed.

Sharon was right. Her family was up and had already gathered in the kitchen. Acheson met Sharon's sister, Rose, her husband, Derek, and their baby daughter, a beautiful child named Keisha. Derek was a tall man with broad shoulders and an expressive face dominated by a pair of glasses that he compulsively nudged back into place on his broad nose. He was an executive with one of the Big Three in Detroit, and Acheson was surprised to find that he had worked at one time for GM on the Tahoe design team. Acheson, a proud truck owner, thanked him for a job well done.

Rose was another story, as Sharon had indicated. Outwardly she was polite and gregarious, but Acheson felt it was something of an act. She was a few years older than Sharon, still plump from delivering her eight-month-old. Acheson didn't hold anything against her. After all, Sharon was her sister, and one way or another he would have to win Rose over.

He spent fifteen minutes chatting with them while Sharon brewed some coffee and Rose fed Keisha from a bottle. Acheson glanced at his watch. It was time he left.

"Well, I hate to seem rude, but I've got to hit the road with about 50,000 of my closest friends," he said. "And this time, I'll be home by eight-thirty, at the latest," he added, for Sharon's benefit.

"Work really has you going, huh?" Derek said.

"Absolutely. All number-crunching right now, because the quarterly reports are coming due. A lot of financial crap that I don't like but have to steer around anyway."

Derek smiled and shook his head. "You don't look the accountant type," he said.

Acheson laughed. "Believe me, I'm not. I just have to look at everything and make sure it at least looks correct."

"The best part is he can't even do simple division in his head," Sharon commented dryly.

"Thanks for that, I appreciate it." Acheson rolled his eyes.

Sharon smiled back at him thinly. "Coffee for the road?"

"No, thanks. The last thing I need is to be caught between exits with a full bladder." Acheson picked up his briefcase and shook Derek's hand, and nodded to Rose. "Hope you folks enjoy the day."

"You too," Rose said. The smile she offered didn't quite reach her eyes. Acheson smiled back anyway.

###

The bug was a fascinating one. For years, it had commanded Dr. Andrew Kerr's attention and provided him with the most challenging pursuit of his clinical career. It was only seven-thirty in the morning, and he was already examining the object via a monitor connected to a powerful microscope in "the Zone," the clean room where biologicals were isolated and studied. Shaped like a double-headed cane with a crook at each end, Kerr knew its configuration by heart. Comprised of eight strands of RNA containing the virus's genetic code, at either end of the crooks were four curled structures that housed separate proteins. The function of the protein structures wasn't fully understood by Kerr, his staff, or his colleagues at Fort Dietrick, Maryland, where the U.S. Army's biological research was conducted. Kerr knew the proteins were the key. Map out what they did and how they did it and they would know how to beat it.

The samples Kerr examined came from the last vampire sanctioned by Acheson's team. He compared it with specimens taken almost two decades earlier, and the match was identical. This was not unusual; viruses of the same classification tended to mirror one another almost exactly at the genetic level. There was no sign of mutation, little change even in the shape of the virus or how it responded to various tests. For that, Kerr was thankful. A virus resistant to mutation was easier to defeat.

Still, it was confounding. A virus wasn't even technically alive. In order for it to be classified as an organism, it needed both RNA and DNA, but a virus had only one or the other. How it worked—in theory, of course—was that it lay dormant until it came into contact with something that possessed a measure of either RNA or DNA, say the cells of a living host. Once that contact occurred, the virus animated like some murderous monster. In the case of this virus, its incubation period was only three to five days. The changes to the host brought about by that incubation were still mysterious. Of course, it transformed an infected human into a vampire, even if that human was clinically dead. In this case, they also knew that a day or so before the transformation was complete, the bodies would begin to exhibit some signs of life. Brain activity and minor muscle spasms could be detected. But the real changes occurred deep inside the body, where infected cells grew at a phenomenal rate, essentially rearranging the entire digestive tract. Organs such as the spleen were devoured by the new cellular growths, as if attacked by cancer. More intriguing was that fact that if the body had been eviscerated by a mortician, the changes happened anyway. The phenomenon was quite unusual, and utterly mystifying.

It was called Rex Mortis Articuli, "King of the Living Dead". The acronym was RMA, a fitting counterpoint to the DNA and RNA that gave life. Elegant in a simplistic way, RMA was also very, very tiny. Several hundred thousand particles laid end-to-end would scarcely fill up an inch of space. This is how they were so easily dispersed through the host. A few beats of the failing heart would transmit them throughout the entire body, where they nestled into cellular structures and began their work. Essentially, the virus attached itself to a cellular wall, where two of the proteins changed in composition. What they changed into had been mapped but remained mysterious.

Once bound, other presumed protein changes commenced the actual infection of the cells. The infected cells emitted even more viral particles, allowing the infection to spread rapidly through cellular walls themselves. Kerr determined a key component of combating RMA involved preventing it from adhering to as many cells as possible. He learned that a common inhibitor found in several widely used medications did in fact serve to prevent mass attachment in laboratory studies. Of course, the problem was in administering the pseudo-vaccine to the patient almost immediately, otherwise the spread would be too great. And it was hardly a cure. The turning process could still continue, albeit at a greatly reduced rate.

What happened next was another unanswered question. It might prove useful in the laboratory, but it would be of little benefit to the victim. A turning was a turning, and the end result was a bloodsucker that had to be killed. Kerr's only hope was that he might have the opportunity to study a specimen with a slower conversion process. His ultimate hope was that such observations would give rise to a retrovirus that could halt the process entirely. Which would mean the end of the vampire race.

And that was what Dr. Andrew Kerr was paid for.

###

"You're shitting me," Winston said. He gripped the armrests of his chair with white-knuckled hands. "You are absolutely shitting me!"

Schwimmer didn't even blink. "No. I'm not. I want the plant closed by five this evening."

Winston released his grip on the chair and eased back. "You're firing us? All of us?"

"Everyone gets a severance check that will equate to a full year's salary, plus bonus. And full matching on the 401k, plus an additional two percent. And medical coverage for the rest of the year," Schwimmer intoned.

David Winston looked at his boss. The shock had started to wear off, and anger began to mount.

"You're selling the company," he said. "After all of these years, you're selling the company? How come I didn't know about this sooner? I'm the fucking plant manager!"

"Was," Schwimmer interjected. "As of five o'clock this evening, you're free to find other work."

At thirty-seven, Winston was accustomed to a decent income, earning a gross salary of 106,000 dollars plus bonus. He and the rest of the workers in the manufacturing complex turned out decent work, and the sales had been consistently brisk. Schwimmer's little southern California coffin empire was cash-rich, without much in the way of debt. How could the old man just walk away from it? It was what he lived for!

"This doesn't make any sense. You've been approached with buyouts before, and you've always sent them packing. Why now?"

"I'm old," Schwimmer said. "I'm tired. I want to sell the company and be done with it, with a full inventory, with the shelves fully stocked."

"You have a buyer already?"

"Yes, I do." Schwimmer slowly leaned back in his high-backed leather office chair. The old man didn't look well to Winston. His normally tan skin was pale and a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. He wore a wrinkled suit for the first time Winston could remember. Upon closer inspection, Winston realized it was the same suit Schwimmer had worn yesterday.

"Who?" Winston asked.

"That's none of your affair," Schwimmer responded stonily. "You know what I want, now see to it. That is, if you want the year's pay and bonus," he added.

Damn... the old guy's a real sweetheart, Winston thought.

"The union won't go for it—"

"This is a privately-held company," Schwimmer said. "I own everything. If I want the union out of here, I'm within my rights to do it. Now, get the word out. I want a memo in everyone's mailbox by lunch break."

Shit! "If that's what you want."

"It is," Schwimmer confirmed. "Now get to it."

###

The session was a bust. Under Dr. Kerr and Julia McGuiness, Claudia Nero had been induced into a state of hypnosis on the leather sofa in Acheson's darkened office. Even when in such a vulnerable state, she was unable to specify what it was that had captivated her for almost 20 minutes the previous night. She could remember everything that had happened before and after her Seeing—she even described in great detail how the clutch in her Audi was sticking—but could recall nothing of what she had actually Seen.

"Guess I didn't deliver the goods," Claudia said when Kerr brought her back to reality. "I see it on Mark's face."

"Well." Acheson rose from his chair. "I guess the method acting lessons didn't take too well. Doctor, can I...?" Acheson waved toward the closed vertical blinds covering the windows. Kerr nodded. Acheson opened the blinds. Warm California sunlight spilled into the office. Claudia blinked as she sat up on the couch.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Nothing to apologize for," Acheson said.

"But you're disappointed."

Acheson shrugged and returned to his chair. "Something strange may be going on, and I like as much advance warning as I can get. But you're not our only source. If you were, then we probably wouldn't have intel analysts sitting here twenty-four seven."

Claudia smiled wanly. "Thanks for that."

"Free of charge." Acheson looked at Julia and Kerr. "I guess we're done here?"

"Looks like," Julia said.

"Then I'll get back to the lab." Kerr rose ponderously, and adjusted his suspenders before he slipped on his jacket.

"There might be something else," Claudia said suddenly. "It's probably nothing, but..."

"What is it?" Julia asked.

"I've been having unusual... well, dreams lately."

"What's unusual about them?" Acheson took a pull off his Starbucks. It was cold. He tried not to make a face.

"I've been dreaming about a black man," Claudia said after a pause.

Julia laughed. "Good God, tell me it's not Cecil!"

Claudia shook her head. "No, no, sorry, not an African-American man. Just a... black man. With a lot of power. Not physical power, though he has that, but another kind of power. A power I can feel."

"How often have you had these dreams?" Kerr asked.

"Often," Claudia said.

"For how long?"

"The past several days," she admitted.

"Interesting. Why didn't you mention them earlier?"

Claudia looked away. "They're just dreams. And they're... very sexual."

"But your orientation is not heterosexual," Kerr said, his voice mild yet clinical. "Correct?"

Claudia blushed and looked at the floor. "Correct. Look, I'm sure it's nothing—"

"Claudia," Acheson said. "Where you're concerned, we have to take everything seriously and with an open mind."

"Have you ever had sexually oriented dreams involving men before?" Julia asked.

"Yes," Claudia admitted. "But not like this. Not with the same man over and over again. I mean, I never see his face, but I know it's the same man. He has the same power—that's how I can tell. We're in a house somewhere... definitely in L.A., up in the hills. He calls it his city of the damned."

Her face turned red. "And then it gets very... sexual. And that's all after that."

Acheson looked at Kerr. "Hypnosis again, doctor?"

Kerr continued to stroke his beard, looking at Claudia directly. He took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.

"No," he said after a moment. "Not yet."

Acheson leaned back in his chair. "Well Claud, it sounds like you need to have you car's clutch looked at."

"At least we got that much out of it." Claudia's Blackberry beeped. She pulled it from its holster and stared at its display.

"I have to pick up Chiho at the airport," she explained.

"Ah, actually I'll do that, if you don't mind," Acheson said suddenly. "I need to discuss something with her about her trip to Washington. Will that be a problem, Claud?"

"No," Claudia said, but there was no disguising the fact she was put out by it.

"I'll be back in about an hour," he said, rising from his chair.

"You never picked me up at the airport when I did the federal runs," Julia groused. She had played the courier role for a year, right after the team moved to Los Angeles. Acheson laughed.

###

He took the Harbor Freeway to the 105 Westbound to get to Los Angeles International. Chiho's flight was due to arrive at 1:25pm, and the light traffic allowed him to arrive twelve minutes early. Acheson parked the Tahoe and walked across the eight lanes of airport traffic to the baggage claim area.

Not much later he spotted Chiho Hara's small frame on the escalator. She wore a tan business outfit and sunglasses and had her long black hair pulled back in a ponytail that reached to the small of her back. She spoke into her cell phone. Acheson knew it was Claudia informing Chiho she would not be the one meeting her.

Acheson met Chiho at the base of the escalator. She nodded to him slightly.

"Mark, I'm surprised to see you here."

"What, can't I pick up one of my favorite troops? How was Washington? Fiedler give you a tough time?"

Chiho shook her head. "No, I only saw Millhouse and Schectner."

"And how are the Twins of Evil?" Michael Millhouse and Bernard Schectner were civil service employees who reported to the Group's senior director, Erskine Fiedler, himself a career government man.

"They're well. I have nothing in the courier pack."

"Cool. Let's beat it."

Acheson escorted her across the airport access roads to the parking garage. He opened the Tahoe's passenger door for her.

"Ever the gentleman," she commented as she climbed up into the SUV.

"At least someone recognizes it."

As they merged onto Century Boulevard on their way to the 405, Chiho looked at him sidelong.

"Why are you here, Mark?"

Acheson adjusted his sunglasses as accelerated onto the southbound 405.

"How are things with you and Claudia?" he asked.

"Since when are my personal affairs your concern?" she asked lightly.

"Since never," Acheson replied. "But she's been acting very hinky lately, and—"

"You frighten her. She thinks you don't respect her talents."

"Untrue. If I didn't think she was an asset, she'd be gone. Claud's letting her personal feelings cloud her judgment." He paused for a moment. "And I guess you haven't been exactly trying to dissuade her, am I right?"

Chiho said nothing. Acheson merged onto the 105.

"Again: how are things between you and Claudia?"

"We get along well," Chiho answered. "She's a kind and gentle woman." She removed her sunglasses and looked at him for a moment as he drove.

"You're not really here to talk about Claudia," she said finally.

Acheson sighed and smiled. "I guess I'm not. Sharon wants to get married."

Chiho continued to look at him for a time. Then she slipped on her sunglasses and faced forward again.

"Then congratulations must be in order," she said. "You must be happy."

"You know that's not the case."

"Then perhaps choosing her over me was the wrong choice."

Acheson clenched his teeth, but said nothing.

Chiho sighed after a long moment. "I'm sorry for that," she said softly. "I'm just—I'm still angry with you, Mark. For choosing Sharon." A pause. "Was it because I'm bisexual? Is that why—"

"That has absolutely nothing to do with it," Acheson said. "Sharon and I get along better than you and I did. That's all there is to it."

Chiho took off her sunglasses and looked at him directly. "So you just used me in bed, then?"

Acheson clenched his teeth and took his eyes off the road for a moment to return her gaze. One thing Chiho had going for her was a pair of the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. Of a deep brown that bordered on black, they were the kind of eyes a man could lose himself in. She had a uniquely Japanese beauty, a sensuality that was only enhanced by a frosty—yet placid—demeanor.

"As I recall, you used me, too," he said.

Chiho slowly put her sunglasses on again. "It only started out that way," she said softly. She folded her arms beneath her small (but quite firm, he recalled unwillingly) breasts. "Kuso."

Acheson fidgeted in his seat and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. "I don't want to make this into a Peyton Place moment," he said after a time. "I just want to know if Claudia's communicated anything to you that might shed light on what is going on in this city."

"She hasn't been sleeping well, and she has a hard time getting up in the morning," Chiho said. "I asked how she was feeling, and she said fine. But other than that, I've noticed nothing else."

"She went into a fugue state last night when we were leaving the office." Acheson went on to brief Chiho on the events of the night before.

"She hadn't mentioned that to me," Chiho said.

"That ever happen at home?"

"Not in my presence, no."

"All right. So other than the sleepless nights, nothing else to report?"

"Her..." Chiho paused for a moment. "Her sex drive has been off lately. She hasn't seemed very interested for the past week or so."

Acheson thought about mentioning Claudia's dreams, but elected to withhold that information. Better to let Claudia tell her.

"All right, then," Acheson said. "Let me know if something else comes up."

"Another reason Claudia feels troubled around you is that she knows how I feel about you," Chiho blurted. "I'm not good at hiding my feelings from her."

"I'm sorry for that," Acheson said sincerely.

"I miss you, Mark. I miss your hands on me, I miss you inside of me, I miss your touch, I miss you all the time."

"Stop." Acheson kept his tone even, trying hard not to reveal the anger he felt. He wasn't angry with Chiho; he was angry with himself, because her declarations of lust for him excited him. He was already well on the way to a full erection.

"I'm sorry about all of that, Chiho. But those days should stay in the past."

Chiho leaned back in her seat and looked out the passenger window. "I know," she said. Nothing else was said during the rest of the ride downtown.

CHAPTER 3

The trucks began arriving after sundown. They entered the loading area and backed up to the docks, where they started the process of unloading. Schwimmer asked no questions. He did not watch the proceedings at all closely. Even if he had wanted to, he was compelled to overlook almost everything he saw, so great was the power over him. The Master had not even threatened him with violence. Just one casual glance into that pair of undead eyes was all it took for Schwimmer to be held in a near-eternal state of thrall.

Oh, he could still think for himself. He formed his thoughts freely, and could still employ shrewd logic. For instance, he knew that his Master couldn't exist in secrecy for much longer. Eventually, within days, perhaps weeks, people would begin asking questions and hunt about for clues. Discovery was unavoidable.

Schwimmer opined the Master did not need a great deal of time to complete his plan. He did not know what the Master's plan was, of course, nor did he particularly care to find out. Schwimmer was just a lower functionary, his importance rivaling that of a fly. As he sat in his darkened office, he knew quite well his time was almost done.

"Still alive, are you?"

Schwimmer looked up. Tremaine stood in the doorway. Schwimmer would have hated him on sight in ordinary life. Now that his life was suddenly more than ordinary, Schwimmer hated him even more.

"What do you care?" Schwimmer asked.

Tremaine shrugged. "I don't. Do you know what's happening out there?"

"No... and I don't want to."

Tremaine laughed easily. He flipped on the overhead lights, and the fluorescent tubes flickered to life. Schwimmer blinked against the sterile brightness. Tremaine sat on the leather couch after taking a moment to smooth out his white slacks. He regarded Schwimmer's desk for a moment.

"One could certainly get laid on this. Ever bonked a birdie on it?"

Schwimmer turned his head away from Tremaine, disgusted despite his soul-wrenching fatigue. Tremaine chuckled heartily.

"I'll take that as a no. So... you want to be a member of the family?"

Schwimmer shook his head. "I don't want any part of this."

"Too bad. You're in it all the way, my kike friend. Try and enjoy it while it lasts."

To hell with you, Schwimmer wanted to say, but didn't. They all lived in Hell already.

###

"How do you like my city of the damned?" the powerful Black Man asked. His voice was at once as sultry as a whisper sliding across satin, as raucous as a shout in a mausoleum. Claudia Nero trembled at the sound of it, at its sheer seductive force. No man's voice had ever stirred such conflicting feelings in her.

She peered over the balcony railing. The glittering lights of Los Angeles beckoned to her, a terrestrial constellation infiltrating the night, whirling and twirling around the jaunty terrain. It was beautiful. And it was damned. It always had been.

"But why is it damned," she asked, her voice paler than the moon overhead.

"A modern Sodom and Gomorrah... commerce, death, business, flesh, all rolled into one," the Black Man said. "There exists no other city quite like this in the entire world. So modern. So sprawling. So normal in appearance, yet just beneath the surface, so impenetrably decadent. Anything can happen here. A lawless land hidden beneath a veil of civility."

"You hate it."

"On the contrary," the Black Man said with a laugh, "I adore it. It just needs to be... refined a trifle." Claudia gasped as cold fingertips stroked her back. Chills ran up and down her spine, as fleet as centipedes scrambling to evade a sudden light. But the chills did not leave her in the least bit cold; mysteriously, they coalesced into a moist heat that left her vagina almost soaking.

"Why am I here?" Her voice was a half-sob, half-sigh. "Why are you showing me these things? They'll find out through me—"

"They will find out what I wish them to know," the Black Man said. "Do you think I fear them? That fool Ellenshaw... he paled before me, caved in. His underling Acheson... torn by competing desires he hides from even himself, leaving him adrift and ineffective. The others, a motley collection of military burnouts who spend their earnings carelessly, not even saving enough for a single day's retirement... if they were to live that long, which they will not. You know this, don't you, my bitch?"

A cold hand slid over her shoulder like a spider, gliding on fingertips as hard as spikes; claws really. They tweaked her left nipple, teased it for a moment. Claudia moaned as an orgasm tore through her like wildfire, so intense that she almost wilted to the floor. The orgasm ceased suddenly as the hand floated away from her breast.

"You desire more?"

Claudia steadied herself on quivering legs. There was no denying it.

"Yes."

"You will have to earn it, my bitch. You are a child of the City of the Damned, and you know the desires of the flesh, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then perhaps it's time to start showing you some more." With that, a hand as cold and lifeless as granite seized her jaw, turning her head away from the lights of Los Angeles. A figure lay supine not far from where she stood with the Black Man—

Claudia's eyes snapped open as her heart pounded and her breath caught in her throat. The bedroom was quiet. A pale glow from the streetlights cast the lazily-moving shadows of a tree's branches across the ceiling. The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:14am. Beside her, Chiho Hara was fast asleep, her dark hair smelling of lilac.

Claudia rolled over onto her back and tried to recall her dream. Parts of it were clear, but other parts... they retreated from her recollection like phantoms slinking off into a misty night. There was nothing for her mind's eye to survey. All that remained was a nameless sense of dread tinged with excitement.

Claudia rolled toward Chiho, spooning up against the smaller woman. Chiho's body was not soft and curvy like her own, but hard, lithe, in phenomenal shape. She exercised like a soldier, keeping herself as close to her physical prime as possible. Aerobics, resistance training, martial arts—all conspired to leave her with a physique that Claudia could only liken to that of a coiled spring.

But Chiho's control over her emotions was less solid than the discipline she exercised with her physical body. There were times when Claudia could read Chiho, and read her well. While they had never discussed it at length, Claudia knew Chiho was obsessed with Mark Acheson, a man Claudia had no beef with and generally liked. It pained Chiho that Acheson had turned her away, instead seeking out the companionship of Sharon Thomas. Claudia had nothing against Sharon, but when she compared her with Chiho, Sharon did seem a bit on the vanilla side (a thought that struck Claudia as funny, since Sharon was black). It all went to further prove that, to Claudia at least, men were a puzzle she felt she'd never quite understand.

Not that she hadn't tried. Though she could count on one hand the times she'd tried to become familiar with a man—physically, at least—they just didn't capture her attention the way a woman did. They did not arouse her, either intellectually or sexually...

...at least not until the Black Man in her dreams. And that was another cause for concern. Claudia had never been truly secure in her sense of self. She did not, on a fundamental level, know herself well. And like many people, she identified herself with her sexuality. Was it possible her preferences were changing? That seemed unlikely, as she and Chiho had enjoyed themselves for almost two hours before falling to sleep. If nothing else, it demonstrated to her that her desire for Chiho, while erratic as of late, was still genuine.

So why the dreams? Why such outright sexuality with a man whose face she hadn't even seen?

None of it made any sense. And Claudia feared that by the time it did, it would be too late.

She fell into a blessedly dreamless sleep just before dawn.

CHAPTER 4

At long last, the delivery van appeared at the wrought-iron gates. Tremaine verified its presence through the closed-circuit security monitors—Schwimmer had installed a comprehensive security suite—then pressed the control button that opened the gates. He rolled over on the big bed and kissed each of Holly's breasts, then moved down and kissed her semi-hard cock.

"Do take care of this while I'm gone, love," he said. "I won't be but a few minutes."

Holly gave him a sly smile and nodded.

The doorbell rang as he sauntered down the wide staircase to the great hall below. He opened the thick double doors and regarded the man standing on the stoop outside. He was thin, dark-skinned, and wore sunglasses. A huge afro sprouted from his head like a bush.

"Delivery," he said. He held out a clipboard, which Tremaine accepted. He read the shipping list and nodded.

"Will you have any problems moving it up the stairs?"

The mover looked past Tremaine at the sweeping staircase that lay behind him.

"We'll do our best, but man, this thing's heavy! You sure you want it upstairs?"

"Positive."

"Okay, man. We'll do our best."

The shipping crate barely fit through the doors. The movers pulled apart the crate in the entry hall. The object inside was encased in a thick padding of bubble wrap held in place by copious amounts of duct tape. It was a neat, thorough job, and the seal around the bubble wrap had been secured by hot wax that was unbroken, indicating U.S. Customs had not tampered with it. Not that they would have found anything remarkable if they had.

It took the movers almost thirty minutes to get the object upstairs and into the large, empty bedroom that had an entire western exposure. Using a metal measuring tape, Tremaine ensured they placed the object in the room's exact center and oriented its back to the windows. The movers did as requested without much grumbling.

Once satisfied that all was in order, Tremaine signed for the object and gave the movers a $200 tip.

"You don't want us to take off the wrap?" The foreman motioned toward the object, still ensconced in its plastic bubble wrap.

"I shall attend to that myself."

The foreman shrugged and led his three man crew downstairs. They cleaned up the shipping materials in the great hall and disappeared. Tremaine closed the gate behind the truck.

Using a box cutter he gently sliced through the bubble wrap. The packing job was thorough, as one might expect from a German shipping company. It took quite some time to cut through it all, and he was happy to see that no one had applied any tape to the dark wood. Its finish was polished to a rich luster. Tremaine gathered up the packing and tossed it into the hallway, then walked back inside and examined the artifact.

It was a large, pedestal-mounted mirror of sorts, its fine woodwork adorned by an array of demons and wraiths. Surrounded by the bizarre mount of sculpted wood was a mirror of black glass so dark that it was a wonder it reflected light. Tremaine found he very much wanted to touch its surface, but he had been instructed to avoid contact with the dark glass. The Master had not told him why.

Still...

Tremaine lifted a hand and held it an inch from mirror's surface. There was something there, a sensation, something that tickled the nerves of his fingers and made the hairs on the back of his hand stand up...

Death Damnation Carnage Sex Blood Murder Gore Laughter Rape Abomination Flame Desecration Feces Insects Filth Terror

Tremaine gasped, reeling. The sudden mental barrage of disjointed images left him chilled to the bone. What had he just witnessed? He tried to recall, but the imagery retreated from his mind's eye. He stepped away from the mirror, fearing he had done something terribly wrong...

No. He had not touched the glass. He took a tentative step toward the mirror again. He stared at its barren, immutable surface and saw... nothing. Not even his reflection.

A chill ran through Tremaine as he stood in the bright light that streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows and into the second story great room. Clearly it was not a mirror at all, but something much greater. Something far beyond him, until such time as the Master informed him what it was... or showed him.

Tremaine felt the stirrings of anticipation. Anything that might serve to bring him closer to entering the Family was something he eagerly welcomed.

CHAPTER 5

Acheson emailed the spreadsheets to Washington. There they would be used as tools championing the next round of weapon, training, office, and paper clip purchases. How the organization remained secret with all the bean counting going on remained a mystery to Acheson.

Damn, I hate this job, he thought, rubbing his eyes. Then he smiled to himself. That wasn't true. He hated the administrative functions of the job, but the rest was an adrenaline junkie's dream.

He went into the ensuite washroom and splashed some water on his face. He dried off and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Acheson had never looked particularly youthful, and now that he was in his early 40s, time had left indelible marks of passage. The crow's feet surrounding his eyes and the wrinkles in his brow made him look older than he actually was. He wondered what his high school girlfriend would say if she could see him now.

"Another late night, I see."

Acheson turned. Chiho stood in his office, peering through the bathroom doorway.

"Oh... hey. Yeah, it's that time of year. But I'm almost done, I think." He walked past her to his desk and settled back in his chair. "What are you still doing here?"

Chiho leaned against the front of his desk. "Claudia has yoga and won't be home until after ten, so I have no real plans. Yourself?"

Acheson checked his watch. "Well, dinner with Sharon and her family. They'll be heading back to Detroit tomorrow afternoon, so we'll be giving them a quiet send-off. And then, hopefully... a return to normalcy."

"It's been difficult? With her family?"

Acheson shrugged. "I'm hardly Joe Social when it comes to things like this. Is everything okay with you?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

Acheson hesitated for a moment, then rose and headed for the couch. "Close the door," he said.

Chiho did as he instructed. Acheson motioned for her to join him on the couch, and she slowly lowered her compact frame into its leather confines.

"I've been thinking about the discussion we had a few days ago," he said.

Chiho looked embarrassed, but she didn't lower her eyes. "I was out of line. I said inappropriate things. But I did speak from the heart."

"I know you did. You've been very much on my mind lately."

"And you on mine," she said. She looked around the office, then down at her hands, folded primly in her lap. "I honestly don't know what I expected to happen. I always knew that marriage and children were out of the question. But I'd hoped for a permanent companion. I do need affection in my life, and someone who cares for me."

"Well... you have Claud now, right?"

Chiho smiled and looked up at him. "I prefer a man in that role. The life Claudia prefers is a softer one than I like."

"I'll avoid the wide open double entendre there."

Chiho smiled again. "You never used to do that. Why now?"

Because the only thing I can think of right now is fucking you, he thought. He kept that to himself, crossing his legs as surreptitiously as he could to hide his erection. This brought another smile to Chiho's face, and her eyes never left his.

"You still want me," she said softly. "Tell me truthfully. Does Sharon have the same power as I do? Is she as insatiable as I am? Does she treat you as well as I did?"

Acheson swallowed, avoiding her gaze. "You've... you've always been one of a kind."

"Then why her, not me?"

Acheson sighed and looked out the windows at the city beyond. He thought about it for a moment, then shrugged.

"I don't know why," he admitted finally. "I can't put my finger on it. The two of you are like night and day. You offer things she never could."

"Then what does she offer that I cannot?"

"Stability," Acheson responded, immediately wishing he could take it back. Still, he pressed on. "Stability... and familiarity. I can always tell where Sharon's coming from."

Chiho's expression remained serene. "And you feel those things are beyond me?"

Acheson turned to her. "Chiho, right now, you should be hopping mad, or depressed, or at least leaving the room. That's what I would expect. But you're sitting there, placid as a cloud, while I tell you things that should be tearing you up. Sharon couldn't do that, which means I can be sure that she would never hide things from me. You, I'm not so sure about."

Chiho looked down at her hands again. "You know I've never been given to emotional outbursts, Mark. It's not my nature, and it is not my culture. JMshiki... I told you what that is. Do you remember?"

"Yeah. Japanese 'national thought' or something."

"More than that," Chiho said. "Cultural thought. Women in Japan are still secondary to men by far. The most the majority can hope for is to be an 'office lady' somewhere. They live with their parents until marriage, and if marriage never comes, they live with their parents until they die, and then they live alone, perhaps watching after the neighbor's children, working to fill up the time, living a life empty of dreams and fulfillment. Perpetually anonymous."

Chiho looked up at him, her eyes bright, and Acheson saw the emotion in them. "I'm not at all like that, Mark. But I am sometimes not unlike that, either. It's the way I was created, though it is not the way I live. So this is perhaps why you thought I was—what?—unavailable to you. But when you picked me up at the airport, I was very, very open to you. It made you angry."

"I wasn't angry with you." Acheson rose from the couch suddenly and stalked toward the windows, his body rigid. He crossed his arms and looked out at what passed for civilization in southern California, a land rent by crime, shrieking car alarms, theft, intolerable traffic, relentless smog.

"I am damned angry with myself, however," he said finally. "After you said the things you did on the way back, I realized I made a mistake. And I feel very stupid about that."

"What mistake?"

"I'm in charge here," he said softly. "I have to remain consistent. I have to remain frosty. I can't let myself get bogged down by things that aren't mission-oriented, because if I do, things could get messy very quickly. Responsibility and duty first, everything else second. That's how it's got to be."

"You would have made a perfect Japanese," Chiho said, and Acheson knew she had left the couch and stood behind him. "Leading a life of duty and denial."

"Chiho, what is it you want me to do?"

He gasped lightly when she put her hands on the small of his back. It was electric, arousing virtually every nerve in his body. She moved her hands slowly up the curve of his spine, her touch lighter than that of a butterfly.

"I want you to feel free to do what you want," she said. "Not what you feel obligated to do... not what duty compels you to do. I could never hold you back. I would never hold you back... I just want to see you happy, and I would do anything to help you with that..."

"Please stop," he said.

"I can't." Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

Acheson spun around and grabbed hold of her arms, pinning them to her sides. He lowered his face to hers. Their lips touched, and her mouth opened like a blooming flower, her tongue meeting his. Chiho grabbed his hips and pulled closer. She moaned in her throat gently, and again when Acheson's hips thrust against her rhythmically. Acheson had never known such arousal before, such pulse-quickening excitement. His hands roamed about her small frame, cupping her buttocks, trapping her against his body. His erection throbbed almost painfully against her abdomen. In the back of his mind, he realized why the excitement was so great. He had never been one to cheat on a lover. But the small voice of correctitude was drowned out by his mounting passion.

Still, the voice came through for an instant, and the self-loathing that descended upon him brought with it a moment's pause. Then desire overwhelmed it, triumphing in a microsecond.

He was rough with her, picking her up and virtually slamming her to the top of his desk, sending spreadsheets and files flying. She gasped, her startled eyes meeting his. He grabbed her upper arms and pinned them to her sides, pressing her flat against the desk. Her skirt had ridden up, exposing her lightly tanned thighs. A hint of cream-colored panties gleamed at their apex.

"Is this what you want?" he growled at her.

Without hesitation, she reached down and pulled her skirt up to her waist and spread her legs. The thong panties she wore were moist.

"Fuck me." Though her voice was barely above a whisper, there was no mistaking it was a command. "As hard as you can."

###

Sharon hit the brakes when she came around the bend and saw the coyotes on the road. The vintage Mustang almost fishtailed as the drum brakes did their job, but she kept the vehicle under control. Five of the coyotes scampered across the road, disappearing into the brush on the other side. The sixth—the largest and probably the pack's leader—halted momentarily and faced the idling Mustang, its eyes gleaming in the glow of the headlights. Then the coyote let out a harsh yip and bolted after its packmates.

Sharon relaxed behind the wheel. Coyote sightings were not uncommon. She wondered how they managed to survive so close to the city, and remembered that they occasionally ate people's pets. It was an unusual circumstance, living in a place where man's buildings and highways coexisted with the raw, sometimes dangerous wilds of nature.

As Sharon pulled her Mustang into the driveway minutes later she saw the Mulholland Drive house was dark. She busied herself with the two bags of last-minute groceries she had bought—including some freshly cut tuna steaks, the night's main course—then closed the car door behind her. She fumbled with her keys as she headed for the house.

When she reached the front stoop, she noticed the door was open. Not just ajar, but entirely open. For a heartbeat, she was perplexed. Her sister knew better than to do this, and her husband didn't seem to be a fool...

From inside the dark house came a coughing cry. Her infant niece.

Sharon dropped the groceries to the pavement. She pulled the Glock .40 caliber pistol from its kidney holster with her right hand while going for the cell phone with her left. She hit the speed dial for Acheson's cell and lifted the phone to her ear, pistol at ready.

Ringing... then, "This is Acheson. Leave a message." Beep!

Sharon hit the speed dial for the office line. The phone rang, then went into voice mail. "Hi, you've reached Mark Acheson. I'm either on the phone or away from my desk, so please leave me a—" Sharon pressed the # key, and was transferred into Acheson's voice mail.

"Mark, there's a shake at the house," she said before disconnecting.

He's either in the elevator or in the parking garage, she thought, her mind starting to whirl in several different directions at once, on the verge of panic. Cecil—call Cecil, or Rick or Nacho—

Again, the baby cried. This time she kept on crying.

Sharon hit the speed dial, going for Cecil, but hit the wrong combination of keys.

"This is Rick. Sharon?"

"There's a shake at the house," Sharon blurted. "No lights, and I can hear my niece crying—"

"Get out of there," Rick said immediately. She heard the engine of his Dodge Ram rise into a bellow. "It's a trap, get out of there!"

The baby. Crying.

"I can't," Sharon said, her voice small. "They're my family."

"I'm on the 110, headed away from you. I'm turning around now, but I'm a good twenty minutes out. Get out of there!"

"Tell the rest of the team Two-Five needs backup," Sharon said. She disconnected before Rick could protest and slid the phone into her jacket pocket. There was a pair of night vision goggles in the hall closet, less than thirty feet from where she stood. They could help even the odds slightly.

She moved quickly but stealthily. Over the threshold. Scanned left, scanned right, scanned above—they could cling to ceilings when they wanted to. Nothing she could see in the darkness. The soles of her running shoes whispered across the Saltillo tile in the foyer. Five steps, and she made it to the closet. She pulled it open, reached for the NVGs in their case on the shelf—

Gone. She reached down into the corner of the closet, where the Mossberg shotgun... wasn't.

My God. She was going into the fight with what she had.

She pressed on. Covered the stairs for a moment, but nothing was there—or was there? She couldn't see well enough to be sure. Swung left, panning the pistol's glowing sights across the living room. Nothing but furniture and a hundred hiding places.

Keisha continued sobbing, her cries rising and falling. From the kitchen? Sharon set off in that direction.

She almost tripped over something in the darkness. Her breath caught in her throat as her heart hammered overtime in her chest. She backed up and looked down. A body—no, two bodies.

A man. A woman. She didn't have to guess who they were.

Oh, Rosie...

Keisha continued to wail.

"Hush little baby, don't you cry..."

Sharon whirled toward the direction of the voice. A woman's voice, not much more than a child's. A cold familiarity raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She sidled toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was aglow with the lights of Los Angeles streaming through the window. A woman stood in the center of the kitchen, near the island where Sharon had planned to prepare the tuna. Her strawberry blonde hair illuminated by the austere glow from the windows, she wore an evening gown, strapless, over skin the color of porcelain. Against the whiteness of her skin, Keisha looked as dark as graphite.

The vampire's silver-in-black eyes glittered in the semi-darkness, and a grin broke out across her childlike face.

"Hello, Sharon. Surprised?"

"Helena... you're..." Sharon's voice trailed off.

"Alive?" What had once been Helena Rubenstein laughed demurely. "Well, not exactly. I see you've set up house with Mark? That's so sweet!"

"How did you find us?" Sharon asked.

Helena grinned impishly. "Oh, I was always special, you know? Empathic. I still am, and I know some of you so well that tracking you was easy. Still, it took some doing... months, really. But the wonderful thing about being a vampire is that time is no longer your enemy."

Things slid into place for Sharon. The gravity of what was occurring hit her then, and the pistol wavered in her hand.

Osric, a small voice whispered in her head.

"Let go of my niece, Helena."

Helena looked at the sobbing infant in her arms. "Such a lovely child... you know, I had one, inside of me, before crossing over. She didn't make it, I'm afraid... so perhaps I'll just keep this one?" Helena kissed Keisha's forehead and smiled again. Fangs glinted in the night.

Sharon fired at Helena's right eye without hesitation. She was an accurate shot, excellent at this kind of engagement, and maintained her proficiency with constant drilling. But somehow, she missed. The bullet lodged itself into the microwave behind Helena, shattering the insulated glass. Helena laughed as she stepped to her left, almost blurring. Sharon pivoted, tracking her with the pistol, her movements smooth and machinelike as years of training took hold and shunted aside her fear for Keisha. She fired—and missed—again. Just by a hair's breadth. She increased her pivot, stepping forward with her right foot to give her more play, aiming at the dead air Helena advanced toward...

A tall figure detached itself from the shadow beside the refrigerator to Sharon's left, appearing virtually out of thin air. Before she could react, a cold hand clutched her arm, stopping her pivot. Another hand closed about the pistol, crushing its upper receiver. Sharon gasped as the trigger guard bent, pinching her finger. She depressed the trigger, but the hammer didn't fall. Her pistol was destroyed.

Sharon twisted against the tall man's might. She lashed out with her foot, striking at one of his knees. He hurled her aside, and she skidded across the tiled floor and crashed into a cabinet headfirst.

"That will be enough of that," the man said lightly, his English accented, somewhat dainty. Sharon felt the power of his presence even through the pain in her head. She avoided looking at him as she slowly rolled into a seated position.

You're dead, dearie. This was followed by a more forlorn thought: Oh Mark, where are you?

As if in answer, her cell phone chirped. It was the ringtone reserved for Acheson. She scrabbled for her pocket and rolled away from Helena and the tall man...

... only to roll into another vamp, this one a female with coal-black hair. She scooped up Sharon and sent her spinning through the air like a top. She cried out when the tall man snatched her up in an icy embrace. His arms were like steel.

"We don't need any interruptions now, do we?" he asked as he reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her cell phone. He crushed it in his hand, and shattered plastic fell to the floor.

"Look at me, darling. Don't be rude."

There was a quality to the command that compelled her to do as she was told, but the suggestion was not strong enough to overcome the aversion she felt. Sharon screwed her eyes shut and turned away.

"Look at me!" the man repeated, and this time his voice was pitched low and full of barbs that raked across her psyche. Still Sharon held out, though it took all of her willpower. The man grabbed her chin, and she could do nothing to prevent him from turning her toward him. He had the strength to crush cinderblocks with his bare hands.

Sharon opened her eyes and found herself faced with a strong, masculine face, almost completely white from hairline to chin. He wore a dark suit, and for a moment, Sharon had the impression he had stepped out of a black-and-white movie. His eyes were the same silver-in-black as every other vampire she had seen, but these held something beyond psychic power. A cold intellect filled them, colder than a shark, more calculating than a computer.

"Do you know me?"

"Yes. Osric."

He smiled and bowed his head to her. "Indeed. Are you surprised that I'm still among you?"

Sharon did not answer. She trembled uncontrollably. Should she fight? Submit? Try to flee?

"Why are you waiting?" she asked, finally.

"I'm sure your teams are on their way, but we still have some time."

"Time for what?"

Osric grinned, exposing his fangs. "Oh, come now, darling. What do we—you call us goblins, yes?—what do we goblins always want?"

Keisha hiccupped another cry, attracting his attention. Helena bounced the baby slightly in the air, but the look on her face was anything but maternal.

"Such a charming cub," Osric said. "An excellent appetizer, wouldn't you agree?"

"No!" Sharon struggled with all her might. Osric gave her only a single glance, and she was as if paralyzed. Her body would not obey her commands, no matter how fast and furiously those commands were issued.

She despaired.

Osric reached out. Helena planted another kiss on the child's forehead with her cold, dead lips, and handed over the infant. Keisha wailed. Even her fledgling consciousness recognized the touch of absolute evil, and she struggled against it as best as she could.

"Ah, the problem with humans this young," Osric sighed. "No way to pacify them. One must merely get on with the business at hand."

"Watch," he told Sharon, and her eyes focused on him and Keisha instantly. Osric brought the crying infant to his lips, baring his fangs.

God no, don't let this happen, was Sharon's last coherent thought before Osric fed. It lasted for only a few moments, and his hands palpitated Keisha's body, squeezing out as much sustenance as possible before dropping the lifeless figure to the floor as one might discard a cigarette butt.

"So tasty, the younglings are!" Osric smiled at her, blotches of Keisha's blood clinging his fangs.

The last threads holding Sharon's sanity in place snapped, and she retreated deep inside herself as Osric reached for her, his taloned hands moving like twin serpents.

CHAPTER 6

Acheson disconnected when his call went into Sharon's voicemail. He dropped the cell phone into the Tahoe's center console as he wove in and out of the northbound traffic on the Hollywood Expressway. Beside him, Chiho finished a brief conversation on her own cell.

"Claudia can sense it quite strongly. It's her man in black."

"Who'll get there first?" Acheson asked.

"Julia and Nacho are five minutes out. Rick and Cecil a few minutes later. We'll be last. Julia's calling plan two, with she and Nacho hitting the front while Rick and Cecil come in from the back."

"They need to check the swimming pool. Goblins like to use them as hiding places."

"They know, Mark."

By the time they made it to Mulholland, Julia and Nacho had already reported in, having parked their vehicles a few hundred feet up the road at a turnoff. Rick and Cecil parked half a mile uprange and were heading overland as quickly as they could.

Eight minutes later, Acheson pulled into his own driveway.

"Is this wise?" Chiho asked. "We should link up—"

"They're already gone." Acheson threw open the door and stepped out into the night. Chiho donned her radio headset.

"Two-Six is on scene," she said before leaving the Tahoe.

"Moving in," was Julia's response.

Chiho hurried after Acheson as he marched toward the door. His night vision goggles were in place, and his SigArms P220 was in his right hand. Chiho slipped on her own NVGs and drew her pistol. Acheson walked inside without a moment's hesitation.

"Two-Six, wait for the team!" Chiho hissed over the headset.

Acheson didn't respond. Chiho picked up the pace, her weapon at ready.

"Two-One, what's going on?" Julia asked.

"Two-Six is in the AO," Chiho whispered back. "Two-One is moving in after him."

"Two-Six, Two-Four. Hold and wait! We're not in position yet!" Julia barked over the net. "Two-Six? Come in!"

Chiho hurried up the steps and into the entry hall. There were no lights, but through the NVGs she could see everything as if the house were bathed by luminous green floodlights. Acheson stood over two figures wrapped together in the hallway outside the kitchen. Chiho didn't know who they were, but neither was Sharon. Acheson pivoted, weapon trained on something inside the next room—the kitchen. Scanning the area as she had been trained, she followed Acheson as he stepped into the kitchen.

Chiho's breath froze in her throat. The corpse of an infant lay just inside the threshold. She panned her Sig's luminous sights across the entire room. Acheson moved to the center of the kitchen. Another corpse lay at his feet.

Sharon.

Shikata ga nai, Chiho thought. Nothing can be done now.

The rest of the team arrived moments later. Julia and Nacho were first in, each carrying MP-5s with laser sights. Cecil and Rick came in from the back, breathing hard from sprinting up the hill. Cecil carried the SAW, while Rick held an M4 with an M203 grenade launcher mounted beneath the barrel.

"Let's clear this place," Cecil said, all business.

She followed him and Rick upstairs, while Julia and Nacho took the ground floor. Acheson had been correct. The goblins had left long before the team arrived.

But not before exacting a terrible toll.

"Main floor, clear."

"Second floor, clear."

"Garage, clear!"

Acheson remained in the kitchen. He knelt beside Sharon and touched her face; it was still warm. She had been fanged on the inside of her right thigh, bitten all the way through to the femoral artery. As he watched, blood oozed from the wounds... or did it? He looked closer. The blood was pulsing from her in weak but consistent waves...

Acheson put his fingers to her neck and could feel a diminishing pulse.

"Two-Five's still alive," he said over the net.

"Come again, Two-Six?" Cecil asked.

"I said Two-Five's still alive. Someone get me a medical kit!"

The team quickly assembled in the kitchen. Rick found the fuse box. The main breakers had been turned off.

"Lights on in five!" he said over the net. He counted off five seconds, then flipped on the mains. Lights flickered to life throughout the house, and the team removed their goggles. Cecil and Nacho went through the house closing drapes while Rick retrieved a medical kit from Acheson's Tahoe, then sprinted back to the kitchen. He set the kit on the floor beside Sharon.

"Look, uh, what exactly are we trying to do here...?"

Acheson looked at him sharply. "What the hell do you mean?"

"She's been fanged, man," Rick said softly.

Acheson snapped open the medical kit.

"Mark." Julia's voice was level and firm. "Mark, she's been fanged. We can't save her. She'll start to turn in seventy-two hours—"

"Thanks for the update," Acheson said. He glared at Julia as he set about bandaging Sharon's wounded thigh. Cecil stepped inside the kitchen and moved past Chiho, who stood and watched.

"What the hell," the hulking black man muttered.

"Jules, I need plasma expander," Acheson said.

Julia hesitated for a moment, then reached into the kit for the intravenous system.

"You really need to think this through," she said, her voice almost a whisper as she tore open the packages. "We're not going to be able to save her—"

"What the fuck are you doin?" Cecil fairly shouted. "Just let the sister go! She's gonna become one of them, man!"

After Acheson finished dressing the bite on Sharon's thigh he glared up at Cecil with such intensity that the bigger man took a step back.

"Not if we can get her to the Plant in time."

Cecil's jaw dropped. "Sumbitch," he uttered.

"Rick, call Kerr," said Acheson. "Have him get his ass to the Plant. Tell him we have a subject for his newest batch of anti-pathogens."

Rick hesitated and looked at the others. Chiho stepped forward and knelt beside Acheson. She put a hand on his shoulder and shook him.

"Mark. There's little chance of this working. You must know this."

"If we don't try, we lose right out of the gate," Acheson said. He kept his eyes on Rick. His gaze was steady, but there was no panic to it... only a mild cast of desperation.

Rick made the call.

###

By the time the Tactical Operations Team arrived on-station, Sharon had already been loaded into Rick's Dodge Ram. Acheson tasked Rick and Julia to deliver her to Andrew Kerr, who had assured Acheson he and his staff would have everything in place by the time Sharon arrived at the Plant, the group's research facility in Alhambra, a small city several miles east of Los Angeles.

The rest of the team went about their duties and further secured the area. As far as such things went, it was an easy task. Since the area of operations was Acheson's own home, they had no need to resort to the usual stealth and dispersal tactics. They were free to do what they wished.

When they were finished, Cecil pulled Acheson aside. "You may want to go to the Plant with her, boss. We got it under control here."

Acheson shook his head. "No. This is my job, and Kerr's better at handling this type of thing than I am."

Cecil frowned. "You sure, man?"

"Yes, Cecil, I'm sure."

Cecil hesitated for a moment, then stepped away.

Chiho approached him right after that, her face betraying no emotion. "Claudia is here."

"Let's see if she can give us a hand," Acheson said. "Fill her in, and let me know when she's ready."

"Yes, of course."

They parted ways. Acheson walked through the house, examining every room with a critical, practiced eye. At first, it was difficult. Though the slain family had been loaded into body bags, it was no easy task for him to compartmentalize the despair he felt upon seeing them. While he didn't know them well, he had known them. And no one deserved their fate, especially an infant.

He managed as best he could by allowing his training and professionalism to take over. There were no signs of forced entry, which was not entirely unusual. The goblins could be uncannily efficient at covering their tracks, especially when under the direction of an experienced master. Just the same, Acheson inspected every entrance and window. All was in order. No shattered locks or glass, and all the sliding glass doors were still in their tracks. Members of the TOC team were already collecting more formal forensic evidence, but any clues they might yield would not be known for days. In time, the group should be able to determine if the goblins involved were members of a known clan or a new one. The answer would inform the group's tactical responses. But Acheson had no doubts.

This was a known clan... if not by its individual members, then certainly by virtue of its leadership. And while he resisted it as well as he was able, it was impossible for Acheson not to dwell on that aspect.

"Mark." Chiho's voice sliced through his reverie like an arrow through a paper target. Acheson turned and saw her standing on the stairs behind him. He was shocked to discover he had made it all the way to the second floor.

Outstanding. I'm running on autopilot.

"Mark?" Chiho called again. "Claudia's ready. You asked to be present when—"

"Let's go."

When he rejoined the rest of the team in the main floor foyer, Acheson wasn't oblivious to the furtive, awkward glances his subordinates shot his way when they thought he wasn't looking. Even the old hands seemed disquieted by his presence. Acheson didn't bother with small talk in an attempt to make them feel better. Besides, there wasn't any time for that.

Instead, he turned his attention to Claudia. To his muted surprise, her gaze was hard-edged, cold, unsympathetic.

She knows I just fucked Chiho.

That didn't surprise him in the least. Chiho had already told him that Claudia could read her well. And while Acheson wrestled with his own compounded guilt, he belatedly realized that Chiho was doubtless trying to win out over her own. Claudia must have read it the second she laid eyes on her partner.

"Claud. Can you give us a hand?"

"I can try." Claudia's tone sounded normal, but it didn't dissuade Acheson from the notion that she hated him right now.

Acheson nodded. Claudia stepped away from him, and in so doing she shot a quick glance toward Chiho. Chiho didn't look away, but from the sudden set in Claudia's jaw, Acheson surmised that Chiho's emotions were just below the surface. For Claudia, it was probably like she was being showered with them.

Let's save this for another time, ladies... when we can all try and make some amends.

"Hara, check out the pool area with Nacho. Nach, your dogs here yet?"

"Just arrived," Nacho said.

"Then walk the grounds, see what you can find. Actually, let's get everyone out of here and let Claud do some work."

"You all heard the man!" Cecil shouted. "Let's shake a leg an get outta here."

The rest of the assemblage began to break up. Nacho headed for the front door. Chiho looked back at Acheson and Claudia, and after a moment she followed Nacho.

Acheson turned to Claudia.  "You need me to step away also?"

"If I can't do it with you here, I'll tell you." She looked around. "Where's Jules?"

"With Rick. Taking Sharon to the Plant."

Claudia's hard expression softened. "I'm sorry, Mark."

"Thanks, but let's get on with this."

Claudia nodded again. "Yes, let's."

###

The Plant was a warehouse in Alhambra, not far from the I-10 and the Pacific rail line. In the center of the structure stood a large tank of laminated Plexiglas that it could deflect .50 caliber machinegun rounds fired at close range. Inside the tank was a surgical area, complete with an operating theater and a recovery area. It was an elaborate arrangement, complete with its own secured ventilation, plumbing, and secondary power. The perfect isolation ward.

Or a prison cell, Kerr mused to himself as he strode past it. Several of his technicians were inside the center, making last minute preparations.

The Plant also had its own loading dock, which was hardly a surprise, given that it had originally been a warehouse. The security guard manning the entrance opened the dock door, and the heavy gate rolled up on its ceiling rails. A moment later, Rick's pickup truck pulled in, and the guard closed the door behind it. Kerr hurried to the truck as Rick and Julia climbed out.

"She's in back," Julia said, opening the Ram's rear door.

Kerr waved to the two medics standing by with a gurney. They joined Julia and carefully removed the still figure from the crew cab's rear bench seat. She had been wrapped in a blanket, Kerr realized, not a body bag.  While he watched the medics remove the blanket and strap Sharon to the gurney, he considered the virus that was replicating inside her body. Each beat of her heart propelled thousands of the malignant particles to every organ, and eventually, every cell.

Julia had said something about a blood transfusion. He turned to her and nodded as comfortingly as he could.

"We'll take care of that," he told her as the medics finally got the gurney going, speeding it along toward the containment center. "We have full stocks of her type."

"Will you need us?" Julia asked. "I don't want to appear callous, but..."

"No, we have it in hand. Mark needs you both at the house. We'll take it from here, and someone will keep you updated."

"You're sure?"

"Positive," Kerr said. "But time is of the essence, so I really need to go now. I'm sorry."

Julia nodded. "Understood. Do what you can."

With that, Kerr spun on his heel and hurried after his patient. Or was it subject? In the moment, even he couldn't decide.

###

Acheson grabbed Jerry Licht, a sandy-haired man with a hooked nose and a penchant for wearing his striped polo shirts untucked to try and mask his expanding midsection, and waved him toward the kitchen.

"Jerry, grab your camera. Claud's going to try and dance."

"Gotcha."

Acheson led Claudia down the hall toward the kitchen. Her face was now blank, mask-like. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that she was uncomfortable with whatever psychic residue still lingered in the kitchen. Hell, it bothered him, and he was about as psychic as a rock.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Yes. Let's get it over with."

"Okay. The kitchen is where we found Sharon and the baby. The others were—"

"Out here, in the hallway," Claudia finished. Her voice was suddenly soft, tranquil. Her dark brown eyes hardly matched her voice, however. Acheson fancied them gateways to a terror he didn't want to know anything about. "They went down without much of a fight. The woman was first. I think she invited them in. She didn't know, couldn't know, but they had her once she opened the door..."

"Licht!" Acheson called out.

"Here." Licht appeared at the end of the hallway, his digital camcorder switched on.

"The man was tougher to overcome," Claudia continued. "He knew something was wrong, and they took the baby from him. Even through their influence, he knew it was wrong, and he tried to fight. That's when they let the lesser ones feed."

Claudia squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw. After a pause, she pressed on. "They got an artery on the man and fought over him, like animals. The blood hit the ceiling."

Acheson looked up and saw a dark fanning of droplets on the ceiling almost directly overhead. He hadn't noticed it before.

"The masters controlled them before it got too far out of hand," Claudia continued, her eyes still shut. "They took the baby..."

Claudia fell silent. She trembled, eyes closed.

"Where did they go, Claudia?" Acheson asked.

Claudia opened her eyes and slowly turned her head until she was looking into the kitchen.

"In there," she whispered.

"Can you go in there? Can you continue?"

Claudia looked around the hallway, at Acheson, at Licht and his camera, at Cecil, who stood by the front door watching them with frank concern. Claudia reminded Acheson of a trapped animal, seeking to evade a powerful predator.

"Claudia," he said again.

"Yes, I can go in there." Claudia's voice was a pale, wispy thing. "But I don't want to."

Nevertheless, she took one faltering step toward the kitchen, followed by another, and another, until she stood at the threshold. She sighed, and pushed past it as if it were a physical thing. Acheson followed, with Licht close behind.

"She waited for Sharon here," Claudia said as she lurched toward the center of the kitchen. "Not a master. She's young, and she knows Sharon, she knows Sharon can't let anything happen to the baby..."

"She knows Sharon?" Acheson asked.

"She knows Sharon," Claudia repeated.

"Claudia, can you tell us who she is?"

Claudia turned a slow circle, as if examining the kitchen. But her gaze was firmly locked on the past now, and she was completely oblivious all else. Claudia rotated once, then twice. Each time her face turned toward Acheson, he saw her eyes darting this way and that, wild and unfocused.

"Helena," she said. "Helena Rube..."

My God, Acheson thought as Claudia's voice trailed off.

"Claudia." Acheson had to stop and clear his suddenly dry throat. "Is the name of the vamp Helena Rubenstein?"

"That's the name," Claudia whispered. "She knew she could lure Sharon into the house. With the baby."

"Did Helena attack Sharon?"

Claudia appeared to think about it, reaching out with her mind, fearfully evaluating visions only she could see. What she saw seemed to revolt her. Her respiration went off the scale, as if she had just finished running a marathon.

"No," she gasped. Tears began to stream from her eyes.

"Then who attacked Sharon?"

Claudia began to weep, having to fight for each breath.

"Mark." Licht's voice was alarmed. "We've got to bring her out of here—"

"Not yet! Claudia, who attacked Sharon?"

Claudia sobbed. Mucus trickled from one of her nostrils, tracing along the contour of her upper lip. She sucked in one ragged breath, wheezing and trembling.

"It was the man in black. It was Osric."

Consciousness fled from her then, and Claudia Nero collapsed into a heap on the floor before Acheson could catch her.

CHAPTER 7

It was almost eleven o'clock in the morning before they finished with the house. After the first pass at evidence collection, Acheson had allowed the two teams to leave and gather their vehicles and get some breakfast. Many of those present hadn't had dinner the night before, and through the melancholy malaise that had descended upon him like a heavy cloak, he realized that his people needed a break. Though the desire to press on was intense, he knew he couldn't push them too hard. Not yet.

"You wanna eat, man?" Cecil asked after he had broken down the SAW and placed it in a black nylon transport bag.

"I'll stay here. You guys go on ahead." Acheson turned away from the hulking black man and walked into the living room. He sat heavily on the long leather couch and stared through the trendy glass-topped table at the throw rug. He recalled vividly when he and Sharon had bought it, at a store in Orange County. It had been a beautiful southern California day, much like the one that was forming now. A day that found his conscience free of cast shadows.

My God. What the hell am I going to do?

There was no answer forthcoming, of course. He merely sat and stared, listening to the sounds of his team preparing to depart. There was no witty repartee; no gallows humor, no jokes, not even much conversation. It was all business.

Finally, there was a stirring in the entranceway. Chiho walked to the couch, her feet making almost no noise on the shining hardwood floor. When they alighted on the throw rug, her footfalls fell completely silent.

"Mark." Chiho lowered herself to the couch beside him. "Mark... I'm so sorry."

"I was careless," he said. "It's my fault. I must've been made, and the vamp's bloodhound followed me here. My own fucking fault."

Chiho touched his arm. "We're only human. And it could have been Sharon who was scouted. Making this your fault is... pointless." When he said nothing, she added, "Cecil says you're going to stay here."

"Yeah."

"I'll stay with you."

"No," Acheson said immediately.

Chiho reached out and cupped his chin in one of her small hands. Gently, she turned his head and looked into his eyes.

"I don't think you should stay here alone," she said. "Now is not the time for you to retreat."

"I'll be fine, Chiho. I'm not in the mood to run out for a sit-down breakfast. I just want to be alone. I need to sit and try to get a handle on things."

Chiho dropped her hand from his face but held his gaze. Acheson had to look away after a moment.

"I don't blame you if you hate me right now," she said.

"I don't hate you. But things are very... confusing right now. You're part of the reason, but it mostly has to do with me not being able to keep my prick in my pants."

Chiho said nothing.

"You go on," he told her after a time, his voice as hollow as his heart. "I'll be fine. Nothing's going to come after me during daylight."

Chiho persisted. "You're sure you'll be fine?"

The irritation he felt finally made its way into his voice. "I'll be fine. Now go."

Chiho looked at him sadly for a moment longer, then rose. "As you wish, Mark."

Acheson was left alone in the house. For a time, he simply sat and listened to the wind rushing through the canyons. It was an odd thing. He had grown so accustomed to his lifestyle that he'd become almost normalized by it, by the routines he stuck to. It had been a subtle but insidious thing. His discipline had eroded. He had even allowed his dissatisfaction with his relationship to lead him to behave like "other men"—the philanderers he so looked down on. Acheson was surprised at how shallow he had become.

After a time, he got up and wandered through the house again, this time seeing everything in stark detail, courtesy of the morning sun. The blood. The obvious signs of struggle, such as the shattered microwave in the kitchen and the bullet hole in one of the cabinets. Most of the physical evidence had already been removed under the cover of darkness, including the bodies.

He found himself out by the pool, standing in the bright sunlight, the only true ally he had at the moment. Usually, after a night of dealing with the Undead, he welcomed daylight like a lover's kiss. Today, he felt a chill that wouldn't fade, as if his blood was refrigerated. The cold cut to his very core, and he wondered if it would be this way for the rest of his life.

His cell phone rang. It was Kerr. Acheson answered it with great trepidation.

"Acheson."

"Mark, she's conscious."

###

It was still rush hour in the City of Angels, and if there was one thing insurmountable in this world, it was traffic. Acheson had no choice but to creep along with the rest of the pack. No lane was a better choice than the one he was already in, and the surface streets would be just as clogged. This was how life was led in Los Angeles, and no amount of frustration on his part could change that. He passed the time by ensuring that the evidence samples had been transported to the Plant for analysis. All was going as it should. Even though the victim was one of their own, the team wasn't about to fall down on the job. They were, despite their own personal shortcomings, the most professional group of individuals he had ever known.

Kerr met him in the reception area, still clad in his white lab coat. There were dark circles under his eyes. Clearly the work had taken a toll on the portly medical researcher. Judging from the expression of concern that flashed across Kerr's face, Acheson presumed he looked much, much worse.

"How are you holding up, Mark?" It was an unusual question, justified only by the circumstances. For all his technical expertise, Kerr was not the warmest of personalities, and the nuances behind such things as interpersonal relationships were fairly beyond him. That he had even made the attempt to bridge that capability gap was something of a minor event.

Still, Acheson ignored the question. "What's her status?"

"Let's talk about that," Kerr said. He led Acheson to his office, a neat, sterile environment that reflected Kerr's most basic personality. Acheson sat in one of the institutional, no-frills chairs that faced Kerr's equally institutional, no-frills desk. Nothing on the desktop indicated Kerr might have a personal life beyond his work.

"What's the story, doctor? You said she was conscious—"

Kerr held up a hand as he eased himself into his chair. It creaked beneath his bulk. "I know you're anxious to see her, but we need to discuss some things first, if you don't mind."

The truth of the matter was, Acheson really didn't mind the delay. He had come to the Plant on autopilot, without having any idea what to say to Sharon. Sorry honey, I was fucking Chiho Hara while you were getting fanged.

"Go on," he said, trying to wrestle his guilt into submission for the moment.

Kerr nodded and flipped open a metal clipboard on top of the files stacked neatly on one side of his desk. He scanned the first page for a moment before beginning.

"When she was brought it, Sharon's core body temperature had dropped to 96 degrees. Respiration was 20 breaths per minute, with a correspondingly low blood pressure. She was unresponsive to all stimuli, and had a wound on—"

"I know all of this, doctor. I treated her in the field."

"Of course. At any rate, within five minutes of securing her in the isolation chamber, we administered the retroviral medication we've been working on. Blood samples drawn before and after the administration prove she is infected with the RMA virus, but I can tell you the medication seems to be working. After a second dosage, the virus replication slowed considerably. And notably, it appears Sharon's own antibodies are starting to rally against the infection."

"Really." Acheson was a little dumbfounded. "Isn't that unusual?"

"Perhaps not. The medication obviously slowed the viral replication enough for Sharon's body to catch up and start doing some work of its own. As you know, the host body does try to fight the virus, but cells are infected at such a rate the human body's natural defenses can't contain it, much less defeat it. This is all extremely premature, but the benefit of a healthy host reaction is something that could tip the scales in our favor. However..."

Kerr pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair. It creaked again in protest. He toyed with a pen for a moment before looking at Acheson.

"The process has only been slowed, Mark. It hasn't been arrested, nor has it been defeated. We'll continue with the regimen, administered through an IV so there's a constant supply in her bloodstream, but... she's still very likely to Turn."

Acheson absorbed this for a moment, turning it over in his head. He looked away from Kerr and sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"When will it happen?"

"I can't be positive—"

"I know that, doctor!" Acheson snapped. "Give me your best damned guess. That's all I'm asking for."

"Ten days at the most," Kerr replied. "Though seven days seems more reasonable. And I would prepare you for that window to grow even smaller."

Acheson squeezed shut his eyes. Seven to ten days, he thought. A week. One week to try and... and what? Redeem myself?

"We'll keep trying, of course," Kerr added hastily. "We're going to be very aggressive about it. We have the virus contained in a human host, and we can come up with some procedures on the fly to try and stop it in its tracks—"

Acheson rose to his feet. "I know you and your staff will do your best. You have free reign to do whatever you feel is necessary. Just don't treat her like... like a lab animal. She couldn't take that."

"Of course not," Kerr said. "She's a brave, courageous, smart woman, Mark, and I intend to do my damnedest to help her. Even..." Kerr looked down at his desk, suddenly groping for words. "Even if it only means minimizing her suffering."

"Thanks for that, Andrew." Acheson smiled tightly at the scientist when he looked up. Kerr smiled back sadly.

###

The containment area of the Plant was active in a muted sort of way. The medical specialists went about their duties like machines programmed to set about their tasks. They barely glanced at Acheson as Kerr led him to the area. Even those he knew personally didn't make eye contact. Acheson didn't blame them. Even consummate professionalism wasn't enough to keep at bay the terror of having to work on someone you knew. Or that any one of them might be next.

That was something Acheson had lived with for years, and it had never bothered him much.

Until now.

The containment area itself was vacant of all technicians. Only the solitary patient sat inside the recovery area, visible through the walls of thick Plexiglas that made up what was called the tank. It was Sharon, of course. She wore a pair of olive-drab cargo pants and a pale yellow T-shirt.  Her head was bowed, her eyes fixed on her bare feet. Acheson's heart leapt into his throat when he saw her. Her body language said it all. She was defeated.

"You can speak to her through the intercom," Kerr murmured as they stopped by the tank's airlock. "Per protocol, we're recording everything, so if... if things become emotional or intimate, I'm sorry. You know we can't have any gaps in the logs—"

"Fuck that. Can I go in?"

Kerr shook his head. "She's in isolation, and her immune system is depressed while it's trying to fight the virus. Any sort of ailment could lead to severe complications."

Acheson clenched his teeth. "I think that's the least of her worries right now, Doc."

"What would you have me do, Mark? These are the procedures we came up with. We all agreed to them, and Washington insists they be followed."

Acheson faced Kerr directly, his expression set into hard lines. "In that case, I expect you'd better return to your work."

Kerr got the message. "Of course. Call if you need me."

With that, the rotund researcher stepped away from the tank. He beckoned to some staffers standing nearby to follow him.

There was a telephone handset built into a support post near the tank. Acheson picked it up and dialed 777#, activating the intercom. He heard a click as the microphones inside the containment area went live.

"Sharon... it's Mark. Can you hear me?" He approached the tank and peered through the heavy pane. She sat motionless on the hospital bed, her back half-turned to him.

"Baby... talk to me."

She did not stir. If it weren't for the slow rise and fall of her shoulders, she could have been confused for a mannequin.

"Sharon. You have to talk with me, hon. Please." Acheson tightened his grip on the handset. Everything he said was being recorded, which didn't make it any easier. He tried to push the sudden self-consciousness from his mind. It was absurd to feel this way, and he didn't need anything else competing for his attention right now.

Sharon remained silent. Acheson replaced the telephone in its cradle and reached for the keypad once again. He typed in a six-digit code that he had memorized years ago, and was rewarded with a series of clicks and whirs as gears engaged and the outer airlock door cycled open.

"Sir, you can't go in there!" shouted one of the technicians from his desk. "She's in quarantine!"

Acheson didn't look at the technician as he pushed through the open airlock door and pulled it shut behind him. The inner lock opened automatically, and his ears popped due to the pressure differential. The interior of the tank was kept in a slight overpressure condition to prevent external contaminants from entering.

Acheson walked into the recovery area where Sharon sat. Through the Plexiglas walls, Kerr's staff peered in with frank curiosity tempered by the clinical reproach he expected. Even Kerr showed up, pushing his way through them.

For her part, Sharon did nothing but offer him a sad, vacant look. Her face looked gaunt, almost skeletal. Acheson's heart felt heavy when he met her gaze, and he imagined for a moment he could see the unspoken accusations in her eyes.

Where were you, Mark?

"Sharon?" He felt like there was a lump the size of Mount Everest in his throat. "Baby..."

Sharon regarded him dully for a moment. She slowly straightened on the cot and favored him with a wan smile.

"I must look like total shit, right?" she asked, her voice weak.

Acheson stepped toward her. "You look great. Certainly a lot better than I expected."

Sharon smiled again, then dropped her gaze. She placed her elbows on her thighs and slouched forward.

"My family's dead. They killed Keisha right in front of me," Sharon whispered. "There was nothing I could do—" Her voice hitched, and she squeezed her eyes closed in an attempt to ward off the images that he knew were assaulting her mind's eye. It wouldn't help.

Acheson knelt before her and took a hold of her hands. They felt cool and dry, completely human. Sharon didn't respond to his touch.

"Was Helena there?"

Sharon nodded after a moment's pause. "Yes. It was Helena."

Acheson licked his lips. "And... Osric?"

Sharon nodded again. When she spoke, her voice was a tight whisper. "He killed Keisha. And made me watch."

Acheson raised his hands and grabbed Sharon's upper arms gently, mindful of the IV lines. "Sharon," he said as forcefully as he could, "we're going to get him. We will avenge your family. I don't know what game he's playing, but it's going to be the biggest mistake he ever made. I promise you that."

Sharon said nothing, just sat on the edge of the bed with her eyes closed.

"You're going to be fine, hon," Acheson continued, wondering if the words sounded as hollow to her as they did to him. "We're going to fight this thing, and we're going to win."

Sharon opened her eyes and looked at him sadly. She slowly shook her head, her expression one of utter defeat.

"I'm damned," she whispered.

Acheson jumped to his feet, pulling her up with him. The motion was so violent that she let out a small gasp. The IV lines twirled in the air, and for a moment, he was afraid the metal tree holding the IV bags aloft would topple to the floor.

"God damn it, you are not damned! We can beat this thing, but if you don't do your part, then you, me, all of us are going to lose!" Acheson shook her twice, roughly. "Do you hear me?" he yelled. "We're not going to lose this one!"

Sharon looked up at him, startled. Then the mask of depression and defeat settled back into place, and she sank back to the edge of the bed. Acheson let her go.

"Oh Mark," she said, her voice still barely a whisper. "You have no idea what you're saying. No idea."

Acheson cupped her chin in one hand and forced her to look up at him.

"Yes I do, Sharon. You've been fanged, and now you're connected to Osric. And you are going to help us find him."

PART THREE:

THE DAMNED

"Awaken to darkness on this place we call Earth,

One vampire's bite brings another one's birth.

A vampire wakes with blood thirsty needs

On the warm rich sensation he feels when he feeds.

He stalks in the night like a disastrous beast,

And what once was alive will soon be deceased.

So when the last bit of sunlight disappears from the sky,

You better watch out unless you want to die."

— VICTORIA BOATWRIGHT

CHAPTER 1

The ride to Santa Barbara was a blur. Traffic was light, so the miles passed beneath the Tahoe's tires effortlessly as the truck's engine rumbled its basso song. For once, the stereo was off, and all the company Acheson had for an hour and a half was the wail of the off-road tires and the snort of eight cylinders.

He turned off an exit too early and wound his way through the exclusive community of Santa Barbara until he turned onto State Street. He headed north in stop-and-go traffic up one of the most expensive streets in America. While not intimately familiar with the town, Acheson was no stranger to it. On past trips, he had walked up State Street mostly to gawk at the women, who were lovely in a fresh-faced way he didn't often see in Los Angeles.  But today, he paid them absolutely no mind.

He turned right on East Sola Street. The Tahoe rumbled past Alameda Park, where red-ear turtles sunned themselves on rocks in the lily-covered pond. He slowed, scouting for an address as he eased the SUV past row after row of small homes perched on well-maintained lawns.

The house he sought was a low-slung Santa Fe-style affair with a one-car garage. Parked in the driveway was a staid white Saab. Acheson parked the Tahoe at the curb and switched off the engine. He checked the battery level on his cell phone and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

His mouth felt dry, so he rummaged around in the center console until he found an old container of Tic-Tacs. He dropped three of them onto his tongue and sucked on them for a while. A Mercedes glided past on its technologically superior suspension. Acheson finally stepped out onto the pavement and locked the Tahoe behind him. He marched up the brick walkway to the house's stoop, pressed the doorbell. Before long the door opened. Acheson and the gray-haired man standing in the doorway regarded each other wordlessly.

"Hello, Robert"

"Hello, Mark." Robert Ellenshaw's blue eyes gave no sign of what he might have been feeling at the moment. "You look well."

"You look pretty good yourself," Acheson said.

Ellenshaw nodded, examining Acheson openly for a moment longer before stepping back from the doorway.

"I was just having a cup of coffee out back. Care for one?"

"That would be great," Acheson said.

###

After leaving the Group over two years ago Ellenshaw had taken a teaching job at UC-Santa Barbara. As with all departures, he had been contractually obligated to remain silent regarding the Group's mission and existence. He was also to forgo any communication with the Group's members, and likewise they were to avoid contacting him. There was no acrimony in the arrangement. It was merely one of a million standard operating procedures dreamed up in Washington.

As the university professor led him through the small house, Acheson saw no sign that the time leading the Group bore any special significance to Ellenshaw. There were no revealing photos on the walls, no tomes on vampirism or the undead in the otherwise well-stocked bookcase in the living room, no garlic on the walls or wooden stakes in the fireplace. It was as if the years Ellenshaw had spent chasing the darkest children of the night had never happened.

Ellenshaw led him to the small back yard, where a simple glass-topped patio table made from black wrought iron stood beneath a small awning that provided some welcome shade. An exquisite sterling silver coffee service sat in the center of the table, along with a book and a stack of papers. Two padded chairs made from the same iron flanked the table.

"I was just going over some student papers when you rang," Ellenshaw explained. "Dreadful stuff, really. Er—the papers, not the coffee."

Acheson smiled.

"Well then, have a seat. I'll fetch you another cup. One second." Ellenshaw gestured toward an empty chair, then disappeared inside the house. Acheson slowly sat, inhaling the muted scent of coffee as it mingled with that of nearby orchids. The yard was small but meticulously maintained. Ellenshaw obviously had something of a green thumb, judging from the copious arrangements of flowers and plants. Acheson leaned back against the white cushions and found that, if he concentrated hard enough, he could actually enjoy the bright sunny day.

Ellenshaw returned a moment later. Acheson cleared his throat as the older man poured coffee into the new sterling cup he held.

"Cream? Sugar?"

"A little cream, please."

Ellenshaw added a shot of light cream, and gave the elixir a quick stir before handing it to Acheson.

"Indonesian. I hope you'll like it."

Acheson sipped the coffee. "It's stellar. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Ellenshaw reclaimed his seat and leaned back slowly. He crossed his legs and freshened his own coffee. He brought the cup to his lips and looked over its brim at Acheson.

"So I presume that Fiedler told you where to find me," Ellenshaw said after a couple of sips. He placed the cup on the table and crossed his arms.

Acheson enjoyed his coffee, trying to figure out how to set about what he had come to do. He stared down at his cup for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

"You remember Sharon Thomas?"

"Of course I remember her."

"We've been... we've been in a relationship for some time. Since just before you left, I guess."

"Yes, I remember that, too. Things going well on that front?"

Acheson set down his cup and rubbed his eyes. He was tired of dancing around already. He sighed and faced Ellenshaw directly.

"She was fanged last night, in our own house. Her sister and her sister's family were visiting. They were killed, while Sharon was... infected."

Ellenshaw's lips parted in shock. He took a deep breath and released it in a long sigh.

"My God, Mark. that's... that's horrifying! Attacked in the house, you say? Was it random, or—"

"It was deliberate attack," Acheson said.

"God. My God." Ellenshaw shook his head, clearly stunned. His head snapped up suddenly, and he looked at Acheson with wide eyes. "Wait—Sharon was infected? Not killed?"

"That's right."

Acheson could see Ellenshaw was already attacking that fact with every ounce of analytical skill he could muster. His face was composed but his blue eyes had that far-off look that Acheson remembered so well.

"There's more to it, Robert. A lot more."

Ellenshaw met Acheson's gaze. "You think there's something I can do to help?"

"Not really," Acheson answered truthfully. "Honestly, I almost didn't bother coming up here. You have a right to your privacy, but I figured you deserved to hear the whole story—or, at least what we know of it."

Ellenshaw's eyes narrowed. He stared at Acheson for a full thirty seconds before finally nodding curtly.

"Tell me, Mark."

"It was Osric. You were right all along, Robert. It was Osric, and he's apparently more powerful than any of us gave him credit for."

Ellenshaw's face turned ashen when he heard the name, even though Acheson felt he'd known it was coming. Ellenshaw shook his head slowly, looking through the glass tabletop at the concrete patio beneath.

"I hoped I'd never hear that name again," he whispered. "Of all the times I wish I'd been wrong, this is the one."

"It's worse," Acheson said.

Ellenshaw slowly raised his eyes back to Acheson. It became immediately plain to Acheson that the older man didn't want to hear any of it, but it was too late for that now.

"Go on," Ellenshaw said. It was clear that he realized there was no going back now.

"Helena was captured that evening in Arizona," Acheson told him. "She was Turned. She was at the house last night, and participated in the attack on Sharon."

Ellenshaw squeezed his eyes closed. He covered his mouth with one hand and rose to his feet. He lurched away from the table and into the yard. Into the sunlight. He buried his face in his hands.

Acheson helped himself to some more coffee, uncertain of what to do next.

When Ellenshaw lifted his face toward the sun Acheson saw a sudden sparkle on the older man's cheek... a single tear, shining like a radiant jewel as it slowly rolled down the contour of his cheek. Ellenshaw wiped it away with an unsteady hand. Acheson realized that the older man had probably never stopped loving Helena. The news that she was a walking plague on the face of the Earth must have wounded him to the core.

"The sun—" Ellenshaw said before his voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again, eyes closed. "It always seemed to make me feel better after that day in Arizona. Always seemed to make me feel safe, even when I wasn't. You know that some vampires, some masters... according to some of the texts, when they're powerful enough, they can become daywalkers. They can't expose themselves to pure daylight, of course, but they can remain conscious during daylight hours. Perhaps even walk in shadows. Did you notice that where the RV was parked, it would have been in shadow as the sun set, Mark? Had you noticed that?"

"No. I hadn't."

"I did. But I kept it to myself. I'd always dismissed the daywalker story as legend, since we'd never come across anything to indicate it might actually be grounded in fact. But over the months that I've relived that damned day, I've come back to that moment we found the RV. And it was in shadow."

Ellenshaw turned and faced Acheson. The torture in his eyes was depthless.

"Osric's a daywalker, Mark. You've got to be ready for that. The more powerful he gets, the less we can consider daylight a sanctuary. Even if he can't face it directly, he can still operate, can still manipulate, can still scheme and plan."

Acheson merely nodded.

Ellenshaw swung away from him again, and his shoulders sagged.

"God damn you for telling me this," he sobbed. "God damn you!"

Acheson got to his feet slowly. He had nothing more to say. Through the haze of his own guilt and remorse, he knew he'd basically stabbed Ellenshaw through the heart with a corkscrew. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He produced a plain white card with a telephone number printed on it.

"When you decide what you want to do," he said, placing the card on the coffee service. "We'll come to an arrangement. Fiedler agrees that..."

"That what!" Ellenshaw snapped.

Acheson shoved his wallet back into his pocket. "That if you want to come back in, we'll make the accommodations. After all, no one knows Osric better than you, and if you have an appetite for revenge, this is the time. Or you can stay here in Santa Barbara. It's up to you, Robert."

"Get the hell out of my house!" Ellenshaw snapped.

"You might want to take some precautions, Robert. They're onto us, and there's a chance they might be onto you, too."

With that, Acheson showed himself out. Less than ten minutes later, he was on the 101 headed back for Los Angeles, leaving behind the soft greenery of Santa Barbara.

CHAPTER 2

Back at the roof-side pool area, Tremaine lounged about in the bright sunlight. The haze of smog that obscured the hills to the north did nothing to mask his view of the U.S. Bank Tower. He examined it lazily from behind his sunglasses. There was little to see, but he was certain his Master's enemies were ensconced within the gleaming construct, no doubt setting about the task of exacting revenge. Tremaine knew a massive effort to find the Family was likely underway, comprising a vast array of resources both in and outside of Los Angeles. A great deal of the Family's strength came from staying hidden, but was that enough? He hadn't the courage to question the Master's wisdom for attacking Acheson's woman, any more than he could reason his body out of drawing its next breath. But whereas his body functioned on instinct, obeying a set of autonomous commands ingrained at the cellular level, the Master relied on a complex web of inputs and intelligence, of which Tremaine himself was but one small part. It took little to convince Tremaine that the Master knew exactly what he was doing.

Tremaine checked his Rolex. He had just enough time for a shower and lunch before his next appointment with Holly. Ah, the joys of sex, he thought, smiling to himself.

###

Despite the events of the previous night, it was a busy day on the 68th floor of the U.S. Bank Tower. With Acheson out of the office and Sharon confined to the Plant, Julia McGuiness led the day's efforts. When she wasn't stalking the floor and riding herd on the intel analysts, she was in her office poring over raw intelligence. Most of it was gathered from news reports in the public domain—the Internet and sundry media agencies offered a wealth of information for free, even if tainted by bias—but she also had at her disposal data from several other agencies. High on that list were the local honchos: LAPD, LASD, and the district office of the FBI.

It didn't help that their quarry was cunning—no, outright brilliant—when it came to masking their operations. Mankind itself provided them with substantial cover, since rampant crime routinely spiraled out of control in the heavily populated centers. And leading the way was Los Angeles: upward of 1.6 murders a day, most of them gang-related, which the vamps used to their advantage when stalking human prey. It was a successful tactic. While vamps didn't often employ firearms—there were indications it was culturally repugnant to them—it was not unheard of. In addition to the several thousand people in the Los Angeles County area who disappeared annually and were never found again... it made for a daunting picture.

But the detail that afforded the vampires the most protection was their singular ability to remain in the shadows; their existence was, simply put, purely unbelievable. For them, Mankind's ignorance was their greatest bliss, and what a wonderful safety net it afforded. Even the most aggressive homicide investigation would never determine vampirism to be a victim's cause of death. Vampires were things of film, of fiction. Even if someone was compelled to broach the subject on a professional level, everyone knew concluding a vampire had murdered a victim meant the end of an investigator's career.

At the same time, she and the Group's analysts wrestled with historical evidence that indicated vamps avoided the heavy population centers whenever possible, taking up residence for only short periods of time. Feeding was the obvious reason for that; prey was bountiful, but the risk of exposure was great. Remaining undetected was their greatest strength, since once a Family was found, it was eradicated. But another potential reason for operating in a large population center was to gather intel on humankind. Julia considered this seriously. It made sense for the vamps to try and learn how their quarry advanced, adapted, and lived. After all, the more they learned about humans, the more easily they could operate among them.

So Julia pored over the vetted reports, looking for anything unusual, something that might indicate a center of gravity for vamp operations. As a rule, vamps operated close to their home base. But in Los Angeles, a city connected by superhighways that were usually passable in the wee hours of the night, that base could be located anywhere within a 4,000-square-mile area.

But all of these issues were secondary at the moment. While Julia focused dutifully on her task, her mind was busy analyzing other factors. How had the Group been compromised? How did the vamps know the Group had relocated to Los Angeles? If the real target was Acheson, how had they known to use Sharon to get to him? And why not come after the entire Group, as opposed to merely fanging one member?

Julia suspected there were wheels turning within wheels. And that was what frightened her the most.

###

"How am I doing?"

The question seemed to startle Andrew Kerr and the female PA tending to Sharon. Kerr's eyes widened behind his surgical mask, and he cocked an eyebrow.

"At long last, a real question. Are you coming back to us?"

Sharon leaned back on the hospital bed and stared at the lights overhead. "Am I Turning?"

Kerr finished drawing blood and handed the vials to the PA assisting him. "Allison, I'll handle this from here. You get those samples to the lab, please. Yi-Ting will want to get right on them."

The PA nodded and made her way out of the tank. The airlock door hissed closed and cycled shut behind her.

Kerr sighed and placed his latex-gloved hands on what would pass for his hips. He looked at Sharon with a frankness that almost made her uncomfortable.

"Are you Turning? I don't know yet. You definitely have a high concentration of RMA in your bloodstream, and I don't think it's dying. But the count isn't increasing, so that's a good sign." Kerr placed a hand on her thigh, where she'd been bitten. "How are the wounds?"

"Healing. You already know that."

"And aside from the wounds, how are you feeling? Dizziness, nausea, sensitivity to light, lethargy?"

"Doctor, I've been through a hell of a lot. All I want to do is to sleep."

Kerr nodded sympathetically. "I don't doubt that, and that's normal. How's your strength, overall? Any weakness, tremors?"

"Nothing!" Sharon snapped. "How long are you people going to keep me here? How long are you going to treat me like a... a leper, or something?"

"No one's treating you like a leper. You've been fanged, and you're infected. We're trying to help you."

Sharon rolled into a sitting position with one sudden movement. Kerr stepped back, startled. Sharon smiled thinly.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she said.

Kerr seemed relieved, and Sharon realized the portly researcher wasn't used to being read so easily. After all, in the clinical environment, he was supposed to be the master of the domain, as enigmatic as God Himself.

"I didn't think you would," he said unconvincingly.

"You can relax, doctor. I'm not ready to do any biting just yet."

"An encouraging sign," Kerr replied. He stepped toward her and looked her in the eye. "Tell me how you are. With no bullshit, if you please."

Sharon thought about it for a long time. "Physically... I'm okay, I guess. Tired, but not in any pain. Mentally... that's a different matter." She paused for a moment. "I watched him kill my niece right in front of me, Kerr. And there was nothing I could do to stop it. I tried, but..."

She bowed her head as hot, stinging tears spilled down her cheeks. She released a rattling sob, fighting against the tide of despair with everything she had. It took some time, but in the end, she won. As she always did.

Sharon dried her tears with the back of her hand, ignoring the tissue Kerr held out to her.

"I'm all right," she said, her voice still choked with emotion. She cleared her throat forcefully. Pull it together, woman! "Sorry, Doc."

Kerr pulled his surgical mask from his face. When he smiled at her, Sharon was surprised to find the sight of his exposed face so comforting. It made her feel human.

"You have absolutely nothing to apologize for, Sharon. You've been through hell, and that you're handling it this well speaks volumes."

If you only knew, Kerr. I guess you're not as smart as we all give you credit for. Sharon wisely kept the uncharitable, entirely self-centered sentiment to herself. After all, Kerr and his staff were only trying to help.

Are they really? she asked herself a moment later. They've hit the mother lode with me—a cooperative subject to study and experiment on...

"Careful, Dr. Kerr. You're exposing yourself to some potentially nasty germs." She pointed to his unmasked face.

"Nonsense. There's never been any indication that the virus exists in anything but an infected human host, or a full-on vampire." Kerr's smile broadened, and he reached out and put a hand on Sharon's shoulder. He sobered quickly.

"I want you to know that we're doing everything we can for you. We'll spare no expense, and we have the Plant staffed 24/7. If we can come up with anything that can help, we'll apply it. I promise you this."

Sharon inclined her head toward him, staring down at her bare feet. She felt mortally embarrassed. Did he know what she had been thinking? "I know, Doc. Really." She straightened, and refocused her gaze on his face. "Now... what's going on outside? What's the plan?"

Kerr shrugged. "I'm not sure. Obviously, the Group is being thorough, and Washington has piled on the resources. I have dedicated supercomputer access for a few hours tonight, all to process the findings of your specimens."

Sharon couldn't share the scientist's apparent joy at the prospect, but she understood he meant well.

"Where's Mark?" she asked.

Kerr frowned slightly. "He's left the city for a brief time. Some sort of errand. Julia's running the show for now, but I'm sure the boys in Washington have Mark jumping through hoops."

"I'm sure." But where the hell was he when I was getting fanged? Where was he when my family was being slaughtered? "Do you have any idea when I'll Turn, doctor?"

Kerr blinked. It was obvious the question made him uncomfortable, but there was no getting around that.

"As I said, I don't—"

"Andrew, please. I'm not asking for any guarantees, but I need to know how much time I can expect." Sharon kept her voice steady.

"I simply don't know," Kerr said.

"You don't understand, Andrew. I'm not looking for comfort here. I'm a realist."

Kerr slid his hands into his the pockets of his lab coat. "Then what exactly are you looking for?"

"I'm a member of the containment team. And we both know that as a stiff starts to turn, it becomes a member of the vamp's coven, and that a link of sorts is established between the higher order vamps and the... the ghoul." Sharon paused, swallowing. Turning into a mindless ghoul, thirsting for blood and capable of only the most animalistic responses... the thought of it chilled her to the bone.

"I'm hoping that the farther I advance, the closer I'll get to the vamps. I'll be able to sense them, where they are, where they're sleeping, maybe even what they're up to."

Kerr shook his head. "Our intention is to prevent you from Turning. You're going to remain human, Sharon. You're not going to turn into—"

"You don't know that. And if I have a choice, I'd rather go out making some sort of contribution instead of just sitting here and Turning... and Mark knows that, too, which is why he said that I was going to help find Osric."

Kerr folded his arms across his chest and sighed. "I think you need to temper your desire to 'remain useful' with the reality of the situation. In order for us to treat you effectively, in order for us to be able to respond to the changes in your condition, you need to remain here. Not on the outside, doing whatever it is the containment team does. I'm sorry, but that's just not going to happen."

"Well now, that might not be your decision to make," Sharon said. "I appreciate your logic, but the fact is this: As a patient I'm very likely a lost cause, and any useful data you collect during the transition is going to be a goldmine for you and those who follow your work. Correct?"

For the first time she could recall, she saw anger sweep across Kerr's normally placid face like a thunderstorm churning across a Kansas cornfield. His bushy brows knitted and his dark eyes narrowed.

"I resent the implication you're making," he said. "I take my responsibilities quite seriously, thank you very much, and the lion's share of those responsibilities entail ensuring this team can continue with its mission!"

"No offense, but I'm pretty certain my short-term contributions will outweigh yours," Sharon said, unfazed by his outburst. "There's a tremendous amount we simply do not know, and the situation I'm in might make up for that."

Kerr stared at Sharon for a few moments, his face still set in lines of anger, but she could see the wheels of his great intellect turning as he processed what she had said.

"I understand your position," he said finally, "but it's not realistic. You're sick, Sharon. You need treatment."

"Which I can get whether I'm locked up here or working on the outside. If things start to degrade and I become more of a liability, then you'll have no argument from me."

"So what do you expect from me?"

"Let me out of here. Let me return to the Group and work on finding these vamps. We know what we're dealing with, and it's absolutely up to no good."

Kerr sighed again and clasped his hands behind his back. He turned away from Sharon and began to pace. The floor area was small, with the bed and medical equipment filling the room and his own bulk contributing to the clutter. But pace he did, four steps in one direction, four steps back. Sharon eased herself back onto the edge of the bed and watched.

At last, he stopped and turned to face her. "I'll bring it up to Mark and Julia. If they agree, I'll release you into their care. If not, then you stay here with no argument. But if your condition deteriorates, and you find yourself establishing a link with the vamps, you report such immediately. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough," Sharon said.

###

"Where were you last night?" Claudia asked.

Chiho tried her best to control her emotions, but it was useless. Once onto something, Claudia had all the tenacity of a pit bull.

They were in their apartment in a high-rise building in Santa Monica, packing clothes. As Acheson had obviously been tailed and targeted, the rest of the team was taking no chances. Everyone was moving to the Plant. It was a novel event for Chiho. The Group had never been compromised before, and even the best laid plans were being executed slower than expected.

"Working, of course. Why do you ask?" Chiho responded as casually as she could.

Claudia finished packing her duffel and sat on the bed and watched as Chiho stuffed some clothing into her bag.

"At the house today, you and Mark were feeling pretty damned guilty about something," Claudia said. "Even through all the despair and confusion and general bullshit going on, I could read both of you clear as day."

Chiho sighed. "I thought your skill was a wild one, darling."

"It is. But sometimes, it's crystal clear. Today was one of those days." Claudia rubbed at her eyes. Everyone was going on no sleep and lots of adrenalin.

"So you were really working late last night?"

"Of course," Chiho said.

"Then why so guilty, Chiho? Can you tell me that?"

Chiho only folded some shirts neatly and placed them in her duffel bag, pausing to smooth out some wrinkles.

"So you're going to lie to me," Claudia said dejectedly.

Chiho sighed again and straightened up. She put her hands on her hips and looked at Claudia for a time before softening her stance. She eased herself to the bed beside Claudia and took her hand.

"No. I won't lie to you, Claudia."

"Then tell me." Claudia's voice was barely more than a whisper, and Chiho didn't need to be an empath to feel the emotion coursing through the taller woman.

"I was with Mark last night," Chiho said. "Obviously, we weren't just working. I'm sorry, but it... it..."

"Just happened," Claudia said. "Sure. I thought you said you wouldn't lie to me."

Chiho was perplexed. "I'm not lying."

Claudia withdrew her hand and rose to her feet. She crossed her arms and faced the wall. Chiho could see the silhouette of her face reflected in the mirrored closet doors. Eyes closed, jaw set in a hard line.

Oh Claudia, I'm so sorry.

"I've always known you wanted Mark," Claudia said, the pain in her voice matched only by anger. "I could feel it, every time the two of you were together. Both of you acted so cool on the outside, but inside you were burning up, and the only thing that might have even masked that from me was the guilt the two of you felt. Even before today. Him feeling guilty because he was with Sharon, and you feeling guilty because you were with me."

"It's not like that at all, Claudia."

"Don't patronize me!" Claudia shouted as she whirled upon her, fists clenched. "I can feel your emotions like they're my own! You love Acheson, and you always have! You might love me, too, but you outright adore that man and worship the ground he walks on!"

Chiho cleared her throat and looked away. She was caught off-guard by Claudia's succinct—and to her shame, accurate—analysis.

"I... I would not characterize it that way, Claudia."

"I'm sure you wouldn't! You just waited it out, until the tension did its job and broke him. And in the meantime, you found yourself some pussy to taste at night, because you knew if you went with another man, he'd never come around to you again!"

"That isn't so. It was never like that. Never. Ever."

Claudia must have felt the hurt that Chiho radiated, and as quickly as it had come, the anger seemed to ebb out of her. Claudia stepped toward Chiho and lowered herself to her knees. Chiho couldn't meet her eyes, so Claudia took Chiho's hands in hers.

"I'm not stupid, Chiho," Claudia said quietly. "I know that a lot of people think I'm a vacant, flower-child airhead, but I'm not. I knew this would happen. I'd just hoped that... that maybe you would have enough respect for me to tell me before you allowed it to happen."

Chiho remained silent.

Claudia refused to let her off the hook. "So what's going to happen now?"

"I have no idea," Chiho said. "I have no idea how things will work—if they even can work now—between you and I and Mark. Things are... incredibly complex."

"He'll try to keep you. There's no way he can turn his back on you this time." Claudia squeezed Chiho's hands. "Will you allow him to keep you?"

Chiho squeezed her eyes shut and was surprised to find hot tears sliding down her cheeks. She realized the damage she had caused was irreparable, and she prayed the damage that lay ahead of her would not be fatal. She pulled her hands away from Claudia and swept her up into a tight hug, her face against Claudia's cheek.

"I love you and respect you," she whispered, her throat tight and constricted. "You are one of the most important people in my life. But Mark has no choice but to keep me. I belong to him, and he belongs to me."

Claudia released a sobbing sigh. She held Chiho even closer, and kissed her forehead.

"I know," she whispered. "I just wish I didn't."

CHAPTER 3

When Erskine Fiedler's office line rang, the small technocrat answered it with his usual immediate efficiency, which meant he snatched it up before the second ring.

"This is Erskine Fiedler," he said into the mouthpiece.

"Hello, Erskine. It's been a long time," said a familiar voice. Fiedler ran a hand over his shaved head. How would this go, he wondered?

"Yes, it has. Hello, Robert. How are you doing?"

There was a long pause, so long that Fiedler wondered if the call from Santa Barbara had dropped.

"Mark Acheson visited me today."

"Yes. I'd thought he might."

"You're obviously up to speed on the situation," Ellenshaw said. "I'm wondering why Acheson left me your number."

Fiedler leaned back in his office chair and switched the phone to his right ear. "There's a limit to what I can say over an unsecure line, but Acheson thought that, given what's happened, you might want to come in for a while. Lend him your expertise in these matters."

"Acheson has no need of my 'expertise', Erskine. At this point, I'd imagine he's more on the ball than I ever was, seeing as I was always just a back office type."

"Not always," Fiedler reminded him. "Back in the day, you were the man in the field, Robert. Acheson is a hard-charger who's very good at what he does, but he might need some help with this one." Fiedler paused. "And now, both of you have a personal stake in this. No pun intended, of course."

"How long has this track been on the plot?"

"Only since last night's attack. We're well behind the power curve on this one. The infestation's likely been growing for some time, but we have no idea where, or for how long. We're approaching it with the worst-case scenario in mind."

"You mean a full takeover," Ellenshaw said.

"This line isn't secure."

Ellenshaw fell silent once more. Fiedler tried waiting him out, but his officious nature didn't allow for it.

"Robert, are you interested in coming back in? If so, we can make the necessary arrangements. Of course, you'd be acting as a special consultant to the Group, and you will be compensated for your time. I'll even—"

"Are you absolutely certain that Helena is one of them?"

Fiedler heard the undercurrent of emotion in Ellenshaw's voice, and it made him uncomfortable. He was a technocrat, not someone used to dealing with the vagaries of the human condition. He fidgeted in his chair.

"That's what's been reported to me. All I know is what I've been told, and those reports are being amended here and there as more evidence comes in. So far, it does seem that Helena is in fact one of the Undead." Fiedler switched ears again. "I'm very mindful of the personal toll this must be taking on you. Please understand, the offer to come back in is just that—an offer. Don't feel obligated to accept. You can decline and remain where you are. We don't believe your personal safety has been compromised."

"I'm not worried for myself," Ellenshaw said. "Not in the slightest. Osric's playing a game while setting about his work, Erskine. This is how he is. We're like animals to him, and he enjoys torturing us for as long as he's able."

"And we intend to put a stop to it this time. But as I was saying, you're under no obligation."

"No obligation." Ellenshaw snorted. "That's hilarious, Erskine. I had no idea you'd developed such a sophisticated sense of humor while I've been gone."

"Robert, really. There's no need for—"

"I'm in," Ellenshaw said. "I'm in for the whole game. And I'm not going to step out of it until it's done. Do you understand me, Erskine?"

"Yes. Perfectly."

"I'll fly down to Los Angeles as soon as possible. I'll arrange my own transportation, as I'm sure the Group has more pressing items on its agenda right now. I'll need the address."

"Everything will be taken care of, Robert. And you'll be met at the airport. I'll see to that." Now it was Fiedler's turn to pause. "Robert... I truly am sorry for all of this. We'd hoped for the best, but—"

"The Russians have a saying: 'We'd hoped for the best, but things wound up as usual.'" With that, Ellenshaw hung up.

Fiedler removed his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes. And to think the day was just beginning.

###

When Acheson returned to the Plant, he was surprised to find Sharon out of the tank. Through Kerr's glass-walled office, he watched as she and Kerr examined something on the researcher's computer screen. Acheson knocked on the door and pushed it open when Kerr waved him in.

"Hey, what's going on?" He looked at Sharon significantly.

"If I'm going to help you track Osric, I need to be operational again," Sharon said.

Acheson looked at Kerr, who leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers across his stomach.

"I disagreed at first," Kerr said. "But it makes some sense. We know that there's a psychic connection of sorts between... well, between the vamps. And even though it appears the regimen we've started Sharon on has showed phenomenal promise, I can't guarantee she'll be cured."

"So what are you telling me?" Acheson asked.

"We have samples of her blood and snapshots of her DNA, both pre- and post-infection. We have all the raw materials we need to keep tweaking the serum until we can refine it enough to approach 100 percent effectiveness."

Acheson looked back at Sharon. "You always were a persuasive lady."

"Everyone needs a talent, as you like to say."

Acheson grunted. "And you're for this, Andrew?"

Kerr shrugged. "The reality of the situation is we don't really need her here to continue our work. We were just going over a schedule for treatment. Provided she sticks to it, I see no need to keep her confined to the Plant." Kerr paused, stroking his full beard for a moment. "Security implications aside, that is."

"There are no security implications," Sharon said. "I feel fine. Still human."

"That's not Kerr's call," Acheson told her. To Kerr: "Have you run this past Washington?"

Kerr shook his head.

"Were you at least considering it?"

"I'd thought we'd speak about that before we finalized things," Kerr said. "At the end of the day, the decision rests with you. You're accountable."

"Thanks for keeping that in mind," Acheson said acidly.

"Mark." Sharon stood up and approached him. Acheson crossed his arms, ready for the harangue he believed was unavoidable. Instead, Sharon reached out and put her hand on his wrist.

"I need to do this," she told him softly. "Andrew can't vouch for anything medically because he's breaking new ground. But he's right about the psychic link. I can... I can already feel something in my mind."

Acheson was surprised, and so was Kerr. He leaned forward in his chair, placing his palms on his desk.

"You didn't mention this to me earlier."

Sharon looked over her shoulder at him, then back at Acheson. "I've only become aware of it over the past hour or so. It's nothing I can put my finger on..."

"Can you describe it?" Acheson asked.

Sharon thought about it for a long moment. "It's like I can sense something out there, but it's all in my head."

Kerr rose to his feet. "This might change things."

"It changes nothing, Andrew!" Sharon said. "We knew this was going to happen—hell, you brought it up yourself a few minutes ago! That it's happening—or even might be happening—shouldn't be that much of a shock to anyone!"

Kerr walked around his desk and stood beside her and Acheson. "At the very least, we need to run an EEG. We have a baseline from before, of course, and we need something to compare it to. This could be a very significant event, Sharon. It should be monitored and studied extremely carefully."

"How long will it take to run an EEG?" Acheson asked.

"An hour," Kerr said. "But running a series over the next couple of days would be extremely beneficial."

"I agree," Acheson said.

Sharon looked up at him, her expression one of betrayal. Acheson put a hand on her shoulder before she could get wound up any further.

"It's just an EEG, Sharon."

"The neurological aspects of infection are very poorly understood," Kerr said. "This could be a goldmine of knowledge."

Sharon looked at Acheson. "I really need to get out of here."

"Andrew, you said you needed an hour?"

"Yes, to start with. I'll know more once I review the results."

Acheson squeezed Sharon's shoulder. She was as tense as a bowstring.

"You can give him sixty minutes, can't you?" he asked.

Sharon nodded almost imperceptibly. "I guess," she mumbled.

"Once it's over, I'll get you out of here. I promise," Acheson said. He cupped her face in his hands gently and held her that way until she looked at him. "I promise, all right?"

She nodded a little more earnestly this time. "Okay."

Kerr walked past them. "I'll make things ready. It shouldn't take very long. I'll come back for you when it's time, Sharon." With that, he left the two of them in his office.

Acheson pulled Sharon into his arms. She put her hands on his hips and, after a moment, rested her head on his shoulder. She touched the lapel of his suit jacket.

"Your green suit," she said. "I always liked this one, but you almost never wear it."

"Green kind of bores me after ten years in the military. How're you feeling, babe?"

"I'm pretty fucked up, Mark," she said. "I don't know if I'm coming or going, and I'm scared shitless."

Acheson squeezed her. "I know." He kissed the top of her head. "We're going to get through this, one way or the other."

"Hopefully not the way where I turn into a full-on ghoul and you guys stake and behead me."

"I'm kind of rooting against that one myself." He squeezed her again. "I love you, babe."

"Will you still love me when I'm trying to fang you in a couple of nights?"

Acheson broke the embrace and pushed away, holding her at arm's length. She smiled at him sheepishly.

"Sorry," she said softly.

"It's not going to come to that," Acheson said.

Sharon reached up and touched his face. Her fingertips were cool and gentle against his skin.

"Mark..."

Kerr reappeared suddenly. "Sharon, we're ready for you now." Belatedly he added, "Sorry to interrupt."

Acheson released her. "Let me know when she's finished, Andrew. I need to check in with the others."

"Of course," Kerr said. He reached out and put a hand on Sharon's arm. "Now, if you'll follow me?"

Sharon allowed herself to be led away from Acheson. As they walked out of the office, she turned and looked back over her shoulder.

"Don't go too far, okay?" she asked, and for a moment, she looked nothing like a hardcore ex-Marine. She looked like a little girl being led off to some dark place that terrified her.

"I won't," Acheson said with a smile.

###

It took twice as long as usual to drive to Santa Monica because Acheson used every surveillance detection routine in the book. He piloted a Ford Crown Victoria through the streets of downtown Los Angeles, using the traffic as cover. Then he took the Hollywood Freeway for several exits, got off, doubled back, then got on again. The trip took almost an hour.

"You know, vampires don't normally travel by day," Sharon said. From the passenger seat she admired the brilliant day. It felt good to be outside, if only for a little while.

"But their flunkies do, and that's probably how we got tagged." As he spoke, he hit a speed dial button on the telephone mounted to the dashboard and activated the Blue Tooth headset in his right ear. "How's it look?"

"No signs of a tail," said Nacho Delgado, traveling in another car almost a half-mile back. "I have you in sight, and you're clear."

"Thanks. Keep your eyes out."

"Always do, amigo."

Eventually, they pulled into a parking garage off of Ocean Avenue. Acheson pocketed his cell phone and switched off the Ford's engine, then climbed out. He started around to the other side to get Sharon's door, but she threw it open herself.

"Don't worry about being the gentleman right now. We've got more important things to get through."

"Okay, you're right. Hungry?"

She shrugged and adjusted her sunglasses. "I guess."

"Come on."

He led her to a nearby restaurant called The Lobster, one of their regular haunts. Acheson requested a corner table on the terrace next to the thick glass partitions that diffused the breeze coming in off the Pacific. It was late for the lunch crowd, and he was pleased to see the nearby tables were vacant. He seated Sharon and sat down across from her, keeping the entrance in sight. Because he wore a pistol, he did not remove his jacket.

The waitress brought menus and took their drink orders. Acheson went with spring water. Sharon did the same, and looked at her menu listlessly for a time.

"Have the bodies been taken care of?" she asked. "My family?"

Acheson nodded slowly. "Yes. It'll be done."

She looked at him, but the sunglasses hid her eyes from him. "What kind of accident will they have?"

"I honestly don't know," Acheson said. "I didn't handle that. Jules did." He paused, stirring uncomfortably. "I can find out for you, but now probably isn't the best time."

"And a good time would be when? What did you think Mark, you would take me to lunch and we'd make small talk?" Sharon flipped through her menu angrily, then stopped. "Look, I don't mean to—" Her voice hitched suddenly, and she clamped a hand over her mouth. Acheson reached across the table and grabbed her free hand in his, and she held on tight. It took her a moment to pull herself together, and by the time the waitress returned with their drinks, she was under control. Just the same, she avoided eye contact with the waitress when she placed the water glasses before them.

"We'll need another minute," Acheson said.

"Sure, I'll be back in a bit," the waitress said brightly. She smiled radiantly at Acheson and walked away.

"Sharon?"

She sighed and pulled her hand away. "I'm fine. Sorry, I'm still raw."

"I know," Acheson said softly. "There's no way you couldn't be."

"Maybe I don't want to know what's going to happen to them," she said, looking through the glass at the beach and surf beyond. "Maybe it's better to just put that away for now. I can't believe I’m saying that, but it's what I've got to do, right?"

"You do whatever keeps you sane and gets you through the day."

"I want to kill that fucker, Mark. I want to take his head while he's still alive. Even better, I want to drag his Undead ass out into the sun and watch him burn."

Acheson nodded. He had similar plans for Osric.

"Where were you last night?"

Acheson hadn't been expecting the question right there and then, and he hadn't figured out how to answer it when it came. The truth was out of the question. Sharon was far too fragile for that. And even if he wanted to approach the subject honestly, he was too cowardly to tell her at the moment.

"Working," he told her. "I must've been in the elevator or the parking garage when you called. I didn't get your message or the alert until after I'd left the office."

Sharon merely nodded and continued watching the surf. Surfers and kids on boogie boards took turns trying to conquer the waves. Some of them were pretty good.

Finally, she returned to her menu. "Okay. I'm ready."

Acheson signaled the waitress, who bounced over with excessive enthusiasm. Sharon ordered a grilled Southwestern chicken Cobb salad. Acheson went for a grilled swordfish BLT. The waitress took their menus and bounded off.

"So what's the plan, and how do you see me fitting in?" Sharon asked. "I don't think you'll want me as XO now."

"Well..."

Sharon looked at him. "If Kerr pulls me out of the line for treatments and tests, I can't watch over the troops like I'm supposed to. And I'm not really here enough"—she tapped her temple with one finger—"to square away the logistics. I take it we're operating in contingency mode?"

"Yes, of course."

"Julia should be acting XO, not Cecil. I know he's got the seniority, but Jules has a mind for the details."

"Jules is working the intel side. I need her doing what she's best at." Acheson sipped some water. "Actually, I was thinking of tapping Chiho for the XO slot. She has the aptitude, and she can step into the role without wasting a lot of time spooling up."

Sharon nodded, but said nothing.

"You disagree?" Acheson asked.

After a long pause, Sharon shook her head. "No. If you think she's competent, then give her the job."

"All right. What you said back at the Plant, is that true? You can feel Osric?"

Sharon pursed her lips for a moment. She removed her sunglasses and rubbed her bloodshot eyes, then shrugged at him.

"I can feel something. A presence. But only in my head. It might just be psychosomatic, but it's not like we have a lot of experience with this kind of stuff."

"Why did Osric attack you? Why expose himself like that?"

Sharon shrugged again and put her sunglasses back on.

"You feel sensitive to sunlight?" Acheson asked.

"No more than usual." Sharon looked around the terrace, at the street below, then at the beach again. She focused on the big Ferris wheel slowly rotating near the Santa Monica Pier.

"It's nice here," she said. "Thanks for bringing me."

"You don't have to thank me," Acheson said. "Sharon... I should have been there for you. I wasn't. I'm sorry as hell for that."

"I know," she said as their food arrived.

Sharon's appetite seemed to increase the more she ate, and soon she was shoveling the salad into her mouth. It made Acheson feel a little better to see her acting so human, and he even managed to feel a little bit better about himself. Maybe things would work out. Maybe Kerr would perfect the treatment, and maybe Sharon would never have to fear the sun for a single minute.

Maybe.

"So how do we do this?" she asked when her plate was empty.

"The same as always. We scour the intel, we start looking for things that don't add up. Spikes in missing persons reports. Unusual activity at nighttime. Anything. Everything."

Sharon looked up into the sky. Seagulls cavorted nearby.

"If I can feel Osric, he can feel me, too. He might come for us again."

"You think that's his plan?"

"I don't know. If he knew where we lived, he could have killed us when we were together."

"That might have been risky, with both of us in the house at the same time. At the very least he probably wouldn't have come away from that with all his minions intact."

"I don't think he cares. More likely he's hoping to wound us, break us down bit by bit. He might start coming after the others, too. The analysts, the office staff, who knows?"

"Office staff was stood down and given furloughs. The rest of the team is staying at the Plant, so if he comes for us, he'd better be ready for a fight."

Sharon shrugged again. The unknowns were piling up, and she was in no position to shed any light on them.

The waitress returned to clear the table, and Acheson handed her his credit card. When she returned Acheson signed the receipt and looked across the table at Sharon.

"We should head back," he said.

As they rose from their chairs, Sharon removed her sunglasses. She looked at him directly for a moment.

"What?" Acheson asked.

"You haven't kissed me," she said. "I wonder why that is."

Acheson smiled and rubbed his eyes. "It's been a long day, hon. I'm sorry about that." He walked around the table and pulled her into an embrace, kissing her gently on the lips. A husband and wife a few tables over looked on and smiled. One of the young boys made a retching noise, and his mother shushed him.

Acheson kissed her again, and led her back to the car. He dialed Nacho, who had parked somewhere nearby.

"We're heading back for the garage," he said.

"Roger that."

CHAPTER 4

Ellenshaw looked out the windows at the darkening city. Shadow started to overwhelm light, part of the usual cycle of life, but this time the implications were far more sinister. To him, Los Angeles had always been a dark place made artificially bright. It was a city in which people often gave in to the dark pursuits of drug addiction, hedonism, sybaritism, and criminal transgression against their fellow Angelenos. But that was a manmade darkness and one he had long grown accustomed to. What lurked about in the shadows now was something he never thought he would have to face in southern California.

Was Helena beginning to stir, coming out of her deep diurnal slumber? She'd been sleeping as the Undead for over a year now. Ellenshaw wondered how much power Osric had channeled through her to elevate her past the ghoul stage. It must have cost him dearly to get her past the primordial need for sustenance. And all for this gamble, to break apart the team and bring him back into the game. Osric's ego knew no bounds.

And what he had done to Helena... what sort of existence she must have led. Hers had been a kind, good-spirited soul. Ellenshaw's heart ached when he contemplated how she had been doomed to walk the Earth as one of the damned.

This led him to voice his next thought. "How is Sharon doing?" His voice seemed loud in the hulking Excursion's passenger compartment. Chiho stirred uneasily beside him; Cecil and Rick exchanged looks up front.

"'Bout as well as could be expected," Cecil answered as he drove. In the deepening gloom, he had finally removed his sunglasses, but Ellenshaw couldn't see his eyes in the rear view mirror. "She was holdin' up okay when she left the Plant."

"She left the Plant?" Chiho's voiced incredulity matched that which Ellenshaw felt.

"Well, yeah...she and Mark took off. Sister was goin' stir in there, had to get out. Kerr cleared her for it, so it's not a big deal." Cecil braked. Up ahead, taillights flared.

"Which is against procedure," Ellenshaw said with a heavy sigh.  "How long until we get there, Cecil?"

"A while." Ahead of them, traffic slowly unspooled.

Ellenshaw nodded to himself and looked out the window. Another tour of darkness was underway.

###

Awakening.

It was like rebirth. Within an instant Osric went from complete inexistence to full sentience and sensation. During those hours when his body slept the sleep of the dead, he knew nothing. The entire planet marched on, and he knew nothing of its progress until he awakened. When he slept he was vulnerable, and he had to depend on humans, those weakling creatures he dominated and entreated with suggestions of immortality, to keep him safe from his enemies while he and his Family slept.

But when the sun's rays shone their last across the darkening skies, the Family awoke. Those of status slept in coffins; newlings, who were more animal than anything else and needed the control of a strong mind, slept beneath blankets or cardboard boxes or in a simple heap wherever they could find sufficient darkness. Death's dominion over both high and low castes lasted only for hours, never the promised eternity.

He swept open his great casket and sat up, completely alert, utterly vital. His senses were already fully attuned. Whereas even his fellow masters might need some time to reach their peak ability after awakening, Osric always emerged from death's embrace completely functional. It was this ability he had developed that had saved him more than once, from humans and treacherous vampires alike. He slipped out of his resting place and sealed it behind him, then stepped toward a group of newlings. These new vampires were slow and slothful, emerging from the Dead Sleep with difficulty. Osric moved among them, using his presence as well as his body to spur them on. Soon they were awake and aware, groveling before him. Though their minds were still forming, they could feel his power and knew to pay homage whenever he was near.

"Rodrigo," he called into the darkness.

Emerging from a coffin, Rodrigo still had youthful looks, even though he was several hundred years old. "Yes, Master."

"Attend to the newlings. They will need to feed soon."

"At once."

There was more movement in the darkness. Osric stepped away from the cowering newlings and made his way across the subterranean room beneath the mansion he had claimed. It once had been a wine cellar, filled with esoteric vintages, some of which had been worth thousands of dollars. Osric's personal slave, Tremaine, had seen to their disposal, liquidating the stock for as much cash as he could get. While Osric had no need for money, it was useful, and he always kept considerable sums in bank accounts throughout the world.

More of the Family greeted him. Almost all were lower masters. He nodded to them and even touched a few, those who had been with him the longest. He urged them to go upstairs and prepare. After all, the night would not last forever.

At that point he turned his attention to her.

She was still in her coffin, one he had procured specifically for her from the casket factory he now owned. It was made of polished mahogany, and it seemed to gleam even in almost total darkness. It was the type of casket that rich captains of industry would be buried in, and it was constructed to convey their final impression on the world they had departed. Osric opened the casket.

"Helena," he whispered.

She lay in the coffin with her eyes closed. They opened at the sound of his voice and the brush of his power, which undulated over her slowly like the aftermath of a lover's kiss. Her silver-in-black eyes sought out his, and she smiled when their gazes locked.

"He's here," she whispered. "He's here now."

Osric grinned with delight as he helped her out of the casket.

###

Tremaine looked up as the senior members of the Family emerged from the cellar. He busied himself with sweeping open the heavy drapes that led out to the main terrace. His master enjoyed gazing over the brightly lit city below, the city that he had claimed for his own. Other humans, in the service of the various masters that were part of the Family, set about their own tasks. One of the masters, a hulking German named Stahl, stalked through all the rooms accompanied by a group of mangy dogs. Tremaine feared this particular vampire, and with good reason: he was Osric's chief enforcer and personal guard. Osric once told Tremaine that Stahl had been a mighty warrior of Germania during the time of the Roman Empire, which meant he was nearly as old as Osric himself. Unlike Osric, Stahl had adopted no particular graces, for his face was always dark and brooding, as if he were perpetually irritated with something. And his dogs! Tremaine had never seen such a collection of mutts in his life. They were practically feral, glaring at him with deranged eyes, saliva frothing at their mouths. Although dogs had a natural hatred for vampires, man's best friend was also susceptible to their guile, and as such they could be controlled. But they never lasted long in the service of a Family. They began to look and behave as if rabid, eventually refusing food and water. Tremaine would have liked nothing more than to put them down.

The masters ignored Tremaine and focused on their own needs. Some took blood from the hostages that had been tied to beds on the upper floor; others conversed in whatever language suited them. They numbered twelve, and they came from all parts of Europe and even America, though the Americans were lesser masters, too young to have amassed as much power as the old Europeans. One master was absent—the Spaniard Rodrigo. Osric had put him in charge of overseeing the shuffling, snarling newlings. They would be let loose on the city soon enough, Tremaine knew. Through Rodrigo, they would do Osric's bidding.

Finally, Osric himself appeared. He cut a striking figure, standing six feet four inches tall. His mane of dark hair was parted slightly off center, and a shock of white hair sprouted from the widow's peak on his forehead. His angular face was composed and serene, and he smiled at Tremaine as he approached. He looked splendid in a gray suit from one of the high-end European designers. If one overlooked his eyes and the pallor of his skin, one might regard him as a wealthy businessman.

On his arm was his newest lady, Helena, dressed in a billowing gown of lavenders and whites and grays. Her shoulders were bare, and her strawberry-blonde hair was held in place by an ivory hairpin. She also looked at peace, and Tremaine never failed to be amazed by her transformation. Just over a year ago she had been one of those hissing, spitting newlings. She had even tried to attack him once, hungering for his blood. And she would have had it, too, if not for Osric's direct intervention.

"Tremaine," Osric said by way of greeting. "The lady and I will have our usual on the balcony. Then join us, won't you?"

"At once, my master," Tremaine said, bowing his head as he swept open the glass door that led to the wide wraparound balcony attached to the main level of the house. The property was a three-story structure, with the lowermost floor consisting of the entertainment area, staff quarters, and a three-car garage. Tremaine bowed his head again as Osric led Helena past him, then closed it behind them.

He darted upstairs to the master bedroom suite and flipped on the lights. Tied spread-eagled to the bed was Noam Schwimmer. His skin was ghostly white, and the age spots on his body stood out in stark relief like bloodless bullet holes. He gave no indication he was aware of Tremaine's presence, only stared at the ceiling overhead. Tremaine was thankful for that. He didn't need any delays at the moment, just to collect a pint of Schwimmer's blood for his master. The old casket magnate had the occasional honor of being his master's personal appetizer.

An IV needle was inserted in Schwimmer's neck, sunk deep into his carotid artery. Tremaine turned the brake on the line, and bright red blood flowed into the tubing that led to a plastic bag hanging on a nearby IV tree. Tremaine watched the bag fill, wondering if he would be repulsed by the substance when he first tried to feed as a member of the Family. In his current state, he felt no attraction to blood whatsoever. But that would change when he was reborn as a newling, as it was the only substance that could sustain him.

The bag filled, and Tremaine reapplied the IV brake. He unhooked the bag from the tree and hurried downstairs. He poured the contents of the bag into two pilsner glasses and brought them out to the balcony. Osric and Helena sat at one of the tables regarding the twinkling lights of Los Angeles below.

"Here you are, master. My lady." Tremaine set a glass before each of them, along with white cloth napkins. A chill breeze rustled through the canyons tonight.

Helena sampled hers greedily, then made a face. "It's too cold," she hissed.

Osric sipped his. "Cold blood has its own appeal, my darling. An acquired taste, but one worth developing."

Helena glared at Tremaine with vengeful eyes. Tremaine stepped back. Despite Osric spending great time and energy, Helena occasionally fell victim to bestial impulses.

"Be calm, Helena. Do you wish Tremaine to warm your drink?"

Helena recovered and smiled at Osric sweetly. Her fangs glistened in the glow of the city lights below.

"This will be fine, my master." Her voice was much like a child's. Tremaine wondered if that was how it sounded when she had still been among the living.

"Then drink. Tremaine and I must talk for a moment."

"Shall I leave, my master?"

"Stay right where you are and look out over our city." Osric smiled at the small vampire for a moment, then cut his eyes toward Tremaine. Tremaine was seized by an unnamable force, and before he knew it, he had slid into a chair and joined them at the table.

"Tremaine," Osric said, still smiling. "Do tell me of the day's events. Have our enemies dispersed?"

"They have, my master. To where, I was unable to determine, but they have vacated their offices in the Bank Tower."

"No matter. They'll turn up, I guarantee it." Osric smiled at Helena again, as one might a favored child. He reached across the table and touched one of her hands. "Our dear Helena tells me Ellenshaw has arrived. His flunky Acheson ran to him after we took his woman. Soon, we'll only need to wait for them to come to us."

Tremaine nodded. "As my master says."

Osric frowned. "You feel they're still a threat?"

"I... I wouldn't know, my master. Certainly, they have killed families before." Tremaine paused for a moment to summon his courage. "Isn't it possible they could do so again?"

Osric drank and wiped his mouth with one of the towels. He studied the stain on the white cloth for a moment.

"We have our darling Helena here to warn us," he said. "You see, she has the skill of empathy, something even I do not possess. She can sense the presence of others by their emotional signature. Once I was able to determine she was one of Ellenshaw's principal weapons against us, I had to have her."

Again, Osric reached across the table and squeezed Helena's hand as she drank. She swallowed and beamed at him. Blood glistened on her pale lips.

"Are you happy to be one of the Family, dear Helena?"

"Oh yes," Helena said.

"Do you miss your old life?"

"Never! I never even think of it. I was weak then. I needed a man like Ellenshaw to keep me safe. Now I am complete, and you and the Family are my power."

"Liberating, isn't it?" Osric jerked his chin toward the city below. "To be forever free of them?"

"Yes, my master." Helena laughed, and drank more blood. Osric frowned and held out a napkin to her.

"You mustn't sully your clothes. Wipe your mouth. There's a good dear." Osric leaned back and looked at Tremaine. "But there's another part to it, Tremaine. While I can rely on Helena to alert me to their presence, I can depend on Acheson's bitch to alert me to their plans."

Helena giggled. "Sharon... so stupid! Wanting a family with a man like Acheson!"

Tremaine asked, "My master, you can read her mind?"

Osric looked down at the city lights again. "Not yet. But my vision into her mind will increase the closer she comes to Turning. Right now, all I know is that she exists somewhere down there." Osric pointed to the city. "But it's a transitory thing, a scant glimmer of light in the darkness."

Osric finished his drink in one hungry draught, then wiped his mouth. "It's time, darling." Osric rose and took Helena's hand. He held it while she got to her feet. Tremaine rose also.

"We'll be going into the city tonight, Tremaine. You'll drive us in the limo. While Rodrigo and Anthony take the newlings out hunting, we and the rest of the Family shall partake of some of the delights this city has to offer."

CHAPTER 5

In Ellenshaw's time, the Plant had been located back east and was officially part of Fort Dietrick. It made sense then, as the research into the vampiric pathogens had been conducted by the Army in a top-secret laboratory. But today the facility was located near the heart of Alhambra. Ellenshaw found the wisdom of such relocation debatable, but a reasonable argument could be made for the move. After all, if a vampire were captured alive, best to have Containment Team 6 on hand to ensure it didn't get away—and if it did, to hunt it down and kill it.

"Home sweet home," Cecil said as he swiped his card at the electric reader on the street. Ellenshaw watched from the back seat as the heavy gate slid open. Rick Wallace exited the vehicle and kept his eyes peeled as the SUV pulled through. He ensured the gate locked into place behind the Excursion.

Cecil and Chiho exited the vehicle as Rick hurried toward them. Rick swiped his card through the reader next to a gray metal door and pulled it open while Ellenshaw alighted from the SUV, hauling his bag with him. There was a chill to the air, and the streets beyond the razor-wire fences were quiet and deserted.

"Doc, you'll crash here," Cecil said as they escorted Ellenshaw to one of the bunk rooms. "We're in a contingency situation, so no hotels with room service."

Julia McGuiness walked toward them. Her light brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she looked exhausted. For the first time, Ellenshaw noticed all of them did.

"Good to see you again, Robert," Julia said, shaking his hand. "Once you get squared away, you're invited to a tactical meeting."

Ellenshaw hurled his bag into his room. "Squared away."

Cecil laughed. "Damn, when did you get so eager?"

"Ever since I found out Osric was still walking the Earth."

###

The conference room was well appointed, with a long rectangular table and comfortable chairs. It had an entire audio-visual setup consisting of multiple speakers, an overhead projector, and two large LED displays for videoconferencing. The room was surrounded by thick glass walls that gave the impression of openness, but large shades could be lowered to provide privacy. As Julia led Ellenshaw into the conference room, he noticed Acheson seated at the far end of the table going through what could only be intelligence summaries. And on one of the LCD displays was the visage of Erskine Fiedler. As usual, the wiry bald technocrat was speaking into a telephone, though the audio was muted on his end.

"Hello Mark," Ellenshaw said before Julia announced him.

Acheson rose and met Ellenshaw as he walked toward the table, offering his hand. Ellenshaw accepted it.

"Robert. Sorry I couldn't meet you at the airport. I was on my way back, and—"

"Yes, you were on your way back with Sharon. I heard about that. Where is she?"

Acheson turned and pointed through one of the glass walls. On the far side of the research area was the tank. Sharon lay inside on a hospital bed, being tended to by several medical technicians. She turned her head in the conference room's direction. Ellenshaw raised his hand in greeting, and she nodded back. One of the technicians noticed this and pulled a portable curtain around the bed, cutting Sharon off from view.

Ellenshaw looked back to Acheson. "How's she doing?"

"Not so hot." Acheson returned to his seat. Ellenshaw took the seat next to him.

"I meant, how is she progressing? How advanced is the infection?"

"Kerr will brief us on that."

Erskine Fiedler's voice boomed from the speakers in the conference room's ceiling. "Sorry for the delay. Robert, is that you?" On the LCD screen, Fiedler was shown head on.

"It is. Good to see you again, Erskine."

Fiedler let out a reedy laugh. "I'm sure that's not true, but I appreciate the gesture!"

Ellenshaw smiled politely. A dark-haired woman with tan skin stepped into the room and made a beeline for Chiho. Her gaze lingered on Ellenshaw for a moment as she sat next to the lithe Japanese woman. She averted her gaze when Ellenshaw nodded to her.

Andrew Kerr hurried in and closed the door behind him. He cast an apologetic glance around the room as he took a seat at the opposite end of the table.

"Sorry," he said, "but I had an obstacle to overcome. Namely, changing the toner cartridge in my desktop printer."

"Mark, we're ready to begin?" Fiedler asked.

"We're ready, sir."

"Thank you. Allow me to review the circumstances. There was an attack against a Containment Group 6 operative last night in the hills above Los Angeles, in the Griffith Park area. This attack resulted in the deaths of two adults and one infant, as well as the infection of the team executive officer. She is under the care of Doctor Kerr, and her operational status is clearly in question.

"Starting with last night—where did things break down? We have several different plans for this sort of thing, and none of them worked. According to the reports, the XO was able to reach Rick Wallace and issue the alert. Wallace advised her that he would propagate the alert and provide on-site support within twenty minutes. Mister Wallace, correct?"

"Yes sir," Rick said.

"Thank you. Procedure in a situation like this is for the team member in contact to disengage and await reinforcements. Apparently, Miss Thomas did not consider this, as her sister's family was in grave danger. She entered the premises alone, without waiting for additional support. Mark, this is the case?"

"It is. Also, additional weapons and support devices inside the house had been moved. This plus the fact that the core temperature of the bodies was approximately seventy-seven degrees Fahrenheit upon examination indicates that the vamps had been in the house for quite some time. They'd had ample time to move the weapons. We found them in the garage.

"The breakdown was when Sharon ignored procedure," Acheson said. "She had a tough choice to make, and she was also fixated on getting through to me, as opposed to alerting other members of the team. I was... unavailable."

"Define 'unavailable,'" Fiedler said.

Acheson hesitated. "I was either in the elevator bay or the parking garage. Both areas offer exceptionally spotty reception, even for our phones."

"And Miss Hara was with you at the time?"

"Yes, sir. We left together."

Fiedler nodded. "From a training perspective, have any deficiencies been identified?"

"None. The chain was broken by personal choice. And in all honesty, if Sharon had been able to contact me, I doubt I could have persuaded her to wait for us to arrive."

"I'm not on a witch-hunt, Mark. These were tough circumstances, and the outcome isn't surprising. Despite the loss of life and the need to engage in contingency operations, we have come out ahead—Sharon is still alive.

"And this leads me to my next question. Why was she spared?"

"I don't know. We were still at least ten minutes out, which would have given them time to kill Sharon. Clearly, she was left alive for a purpose."

"And what might that purpose be? Robert?" Fiedler asked.

Ellenshaw exchanged glances with Acheson before he faced the monitor at the end of the table.

"I can't say, Erskine. Leaving a survivor behind to identify the numbers and specific personalities involved doesn't seem particularly prudent."

"We know there's evidence of a psychic link between the vamps. Could such a link be possible between a living person and one of the Undead?" Fiedler asked.

Kerr stirred in his chair. "Sharon has reported some... 'psychic discomfort'. She reports being able to sense a presence she identified as Osric. I can't say if this is real or imagined. But remember, being suddenly thrust into the position she's in could introduce some unique mental health issues. Not to mention losing her family, of course. She's a prime candidate for post-traumatic stress disorder."

"Understood." Fiedler took a moment to sip from a white porcelain mug. "What else, Dr. Ellenshaw?"

"If Sharon does Turn, then Osric will be able to manipulate her," Ellenshaw said. "And there is the possibility that as she approaches Turning—before she transforms into one of the Undead—he could have some abilities over her. But this is speculation."

"Best to accept that as a truth until proven otherwise," Fiedler said. "Dr. Kerr, can you take a moment to bring us up to date on Sharon's condition? In layman's terms, please."

Kerr opened the manila folder he had brought with him. "Sharon's condition is stable. We're continuing the regimen we mapped out earlier today, and it seems to be holding. Her vitals remain normal. The bite site is healing quicker than expected, and while that's good, it may also be the work of the RMA virus in her system. It actually assists the host repair damage to tissues and the like, part of a sophisticated symbiosis which takes place before the Turning. This is all assumption, of course—there's no dependable science to refer to here. The virus count in her bloodstream is holding at one thousand four hundred parts per million, which is higher than I want, but it's not increasing. From historical data, we know that the amount of viral particles tends to increase almost exponentially in a human host and can induce death within forty-eight to ninety-six hours. It's coming up on twenty-four hours now since Sharon was infected."

Fiedler nodded while jotting down some notes. "According to data that I have here, the last person who was infected by a vampire and received treatment within minutes of the attack actually had a viral particulate count of almost thirteen thousand per million, which increased until the individual Turned roughly seventy-two hours after the attack. That's excellent news and wonderful results, Andrew. Your research is paying off."

"Thank you, director," Kerr said self-consciously. "But I need to stress that we've been unsuccessful in reducing the particulate count. A substantial number of those particulates have penetrated her cellular structure, and there's no easy way to reverse that."

"Understood. Julia, any intel update? Any spikes in missing persons, disappearances, murders?" Fiedler added as an afterthought, "Or anything plain weird?"

"This is Los Angeles, director. There's always something weird on the radar." She thumbed through the stack of reports before her. "There may be something with regard to disappearances. There's been some chatter regarding a neighborhood in Encino. It's still internal to the local police department, but several houses were reported as abandoned this morning. Los Angeles Sheriff's Department has been called in, but nothing official from them has hit the wire. This data was elevated to me just before the meeting, so I've not vetted it."

"Bodies?" Fiedler asked.

"Not that we're aware of."

"Keep working it. Anything else?"

"No, sir."

"All right. Mark, next steps?"

"Tactically, we do what we're doing," Acheson said. "We keep mining intel and doing the usual follow-ups. Until something breaks and we either get a sighting or some bodies pop up, we just keep looking.

"Operationally, Sharon can't serve as executive officer. She has volunteered to serve in a different capacity, however, one that might pan out for us. As Andrew already noted, she mentioned being able to 'sense' something out there, a presence in her mind. We presume it's Osric, so it makes sense to capitalize on that."

"I disagree," Ellenshaw said. "It would be a mistake to place Sharon in the field. Firstly, we have to consider her condition. Secondly, if this psychic bond between her and the vampires intensifies, it could give them visibility into the Group's operations. To what extent is debatable, but to minimize it we should keep her out of the loop."

"I'm willing to listen to both sides of the argument," Fiedler said.

"We need to be more flexible in our methods," Acheson said. "The potential to gather intel like this has never come our way before. Osric might be employing the same tactic against us—Sharon identified Helena Rubenstein as one of the vamps at the house. We don't know if she's still empathic, but if she is, then she knows our personal signatures. I think that's how Osric got the bead on us in the first place."

Julia nodded, her expression thoughtful. "That would explain a lot."

"I agree," Fiedler said. "Miss Nero? Would you consider this a likely prospect, given that you and Rubenstein share the same talents?"

Claudia seemed surprised to be singled out by the technocrat. "Um... it's possible. Maybe very much so."

"Robert, your opinion?"

Ellenshaw rubbed his eyes. "Vampirism does magnify a lot of traits, and Helena's talents might be one of those."

Fiedler nodded pensively. "Mark, I accept your plan to use Sharon as a countermeasure to whatever methods Osric might use, if Dr. Kerr agrees."

"I've given my concurrence," Kerr said. "Mark, Sharon and I have already come to an understanding."

"Excellent. Mark, what else?"

"Since we're without an exec, I'd like to elevate Chiho to that role. Cecil, Nacho, I know you're both senior in grade, as is Julia. But I want Julia to stay where she is. Chiho has the aptitude for the position, and I don't want the two of you distracted with command concerns during an op."

"No problem," Cecil said. "I ain't the man for that gig. I need to stay operational."

"Same here," Nacho added. "No time for that crap. Good luck to you, Chiho. We'll try to do as you tell us."

"Good to see no one's feelings are hurt," Acheson observed. To Chiho: "Well? You up for it?"

Chiho exchanged glances with Claudia, then looked at Cecil and Nacho. "Of course, but what does Sharon have to say?"

"We discussed it earlier. She's good with it."

Chiho slowly nodded. "I accept, with thanks. I'll do my very best."

"Director, if the missing persons reports out of Encino pan out, it gives us a search vector," Acheson said. "But Los Angeles is a big place, with a population that's highly mobile. Chances are good the vamps are capitalizing on that, especially since Osric's been whacked by us before. No matter what theatrics he pulled with the attack on Sharon, we should be mindful of the fact that he's intelligent and capable of using our infrastructure to his advantage if it suits him."

"I agree," Ellenshaw said. "While it wasn't intentional, it should be obvious to all in this room that we—" The older man stopped and sighed before he continued. "That I underestimated Osric before. I suspect this is why I was invited back, to help ensure the same mistakes aren't made."

"Accountability isn't the issue," Fiedler said. "We followed tried-and-proven procedures that have resulted in the sterilization of several vampire families and individuals in the past. But our enemy has mounted an asymmetric response, and we now need to be more innovative in our approach. That's easily said; how we go about it, I'm not sure. I have taken one small liberty, however. I liaised with Homeland Security and Special Operations Command, and I've managed to have a helicopter removed from the battle roster of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment out of Fort Campbell. That aircraft has been deployed to Van Nuys airport. I've emailed the contact information your way, Mark. The helicopter's call sign is SHADOW FLIGHT."

Acheson was puzzled. "And what would we need the Night Stalkers for?"

"Mobility. As you said, Los Angeles is very big, and covering the territory as quickly as possible is imperative. If you need the helicopter, call for it and give them a pick-up point. They'll handle the rest."

"How much do they know about us?" Chiho asked.

"As far as the Night Stalkers and SOCOM go, Containment Team 6 is a special anti-terrorist unit that's operating in the black. That's good enough for them."

"Using them might raise our profile a little higher than we'd like," Acheson said.

"Agreed, so use your best judgment." Fiedler checked his watch. "For the time being, we should focus on processing intel and trying to develop some actionable leads. And of course, you'll continue to pursue the possibility of using Sharon as a means to further infiltrate the family's decision cycles. Am I correct?"

"You are." Acheson looked around the table. There was nothing further. Fiedler called the meeting to a close.

"As always, keep my office updated as frequently as possible," he said. "If you require anything, let me know. I can reallocate resources as necessary."

"Understood, sir," Acheson said.

"Excellent. Then with that, I bid you all a good night." The big display screen at the end of the room went dark as Fiedler terminated the connection. Acheson rose to his feet.

"Let's get back to work, folks."

CHAPTER 6

Amerikan Gothik was located on Sunset Boulevard, only blocks from The House of Blues and the much-revered though falling-out-of-fashion Viper Room. Osric looked out into the night as Tremaine guided the stretch Lincoln Town Car through the nighttime traffic, past the LAPD patrol cars and motorcycles out to enforce the No Cruising law. As it approached the nightclub, he saw other stretch limousines parked at the curb, their opera lights glowing in the darkness. Burly men in black vests provided security and crowd control, and there was a long line stretching down the block. Young men and women waited in varying states of patience, clad in the latest gothic styles. As Tremaine pulled the limo to the curb, Osric smiled to himself. Some of the hopeful nightclub patrons were trying to pass themselves off as vampires!

"Here we are, Master," Tremaine said over the intercom.

"Remain with the vehicle, and wait for us to return," Osric said.

Osric stepped out into the night, his face composed and tranquil. He swept his gaze across the throng of people waiting to get into the nightclub, itself a rather drab affair of black and gray, a mere storefront facing Sunset Boulevard. He turned and held his hand out toward the open door. With a soft giggle, Helena reached out and took his hand. As she emerged from the car, a black youth in a dark leather vest approached.

"Excuse me, sir, but you need an invitation to get inside tonight—"

Osric stared at him full on. "I think you'll make an exception for us, yes?"

The youth was instantly enraptured by Osric's gaze. "Uh, yeah, yeah, we can do that," he stammered. "You can leave the car where it is, we'll make sure nothing happens to it."

Osric led Helena toward the door. The two bouncers there puffed out their chests and faced him. Their expressions were dark, their postures supposedly intimidating. Osric laughed.

"Invitation, please?" said the broad-shouldered white man with the shaved head.

Osric stared at him. "My party will pass uncontested."

"Sure thing," said the bald man.

"What?" snapped his partner, a similarly hairless black man who was short but stout, with a massive chest and biceps. "Whaddya mean? Where's his invite?"

"You've already seen my invitation," Osric said. "And after my party enters, you'll lock the doors behind us."

The black man was stronger than the others, and for a moment he fought against Osric's gaze. Osric sensed the fear come from him in waves when he looked into Osric's eyes and saw them for what they were, could feel the man's heart rate increase and send delicious blood hurtling through his veins and arteries. But then the man saw past the silver-and-black eyes themselves and received their message, and his pulse rate normalized.

"We'll lock the doors behind you," the man whispered. As he turned and pulled open the heavy oak door, throbbing dance music poured out into the street. Osric urged Helena to enter before him.

"Make sure no one comes out and no one goes in," Osric said.

"Done," said the man.

"Hey, how come those guys get to cut in line?" asked a mop-headed young man wearing black lipstick and harsh eyeliner. "We've been waiting for almost forty minutes!"

Osric turned. He didn't push any suggestion through his eyes, just stared at the young man. He laughed when the man recoiled, then stepped inside the nightclub.

"Damn, you see those contacts?" the man asked his chubby companion. "They musta cost a bundle!"

Inside, the nightclub was dark and cool. Dance music pulsated through the air at an uncomfortable volume, and strobe lights slashed through the darkness at irregular intervals. Osric led Helena onto the dance floor. To his right was the bar, crowded with young men and women queued up for drinks. Some of them wore false fingernails and, he saw to his delight, fangs that were much too small to serve a true vampire's purpose.

Helena grew enraged. "They mock us," she hissed, her voice barely audible above the music.

"Now, now, my darling," Osric cooed. "Don't become too upset. After all, they do objectify us to a degree, and who could take issue with that?"

He glanced over his shoulder at Stahl, looming right behind him. "Take Marie and begin at the back. Ensure no one escapes through the rear door. Feed with abandon, and purge if you must in order to feed again. Do you understand?"

Stahl nodded his large head once.

"François, you and Sagan shall remain with us," Osric said, this time to the slight, pale blond-haired man standing behind Stahl along with a slender, taller vampire. Both of them looked around, noses wrinkled in disgust at the strange scents and thundering sound of the music.

"As you wish, Master," François responded with a slight bow. He rubbed his hands together and glanced at the mass of bodies swaying rhythmically on the dance floor. "So many... surely some will escape?"

Osric smiled lightly. "They have no chance against us," he said. "You remember Versailles, my friend?"

François smiled and nodded. The music began to fade, and Osric looked to a woman at the back of the group. "Antoinette, my darling, do watch the door for us, yes?"

"When will I be able to hunt?" she asked, pouting.

"Not to worry. More than a few will come your way," Osric replied. "Stahl, you and Marie get into your positions. We'll start in just a moment."

Stahl nodded silently, then reached behind him and grabbed Marie's wrist. He towed her along behind him, her small legs working overtime to keep pace.

"Are you ready, darling Helena?" As he cupped her face in his hands, Osric saw the blood lust rising as her expression morphed into something feral.

"Wow, that's awesome," said a young woman wearing a black crepe dress and small fake fangs. "Those teeth look absolutely hot!"

"Yours could stand a bit of work," Osric said. "Allow us to assist you. Helena...?"

Helena spun away from Osric and slammed into the woman in black, driving her to the floor with such ferocity that nearby revelers were knocked back. The woman shouted as she tried to push Helena off her, then screamed when she felt the bite of real fangs. Osric sighed. Helena hadn't bothered to hypnotize the woman first.

"Still some work to be done with you, darling," he muttered. Then louder, to the people who were beginning to react to the scene unfolding before them, "You say you want to be vampires?" Osric's voice boomed as if artificially amplified, even louder than the dance music, which was beginning to pick up again. "Then offer yourselves to me, little sheep, and perhaps you shall!"

The vampires closed in, fangs glittering, eyes gleaming, as their prey tried to escape. Those who tried to fight back were hopelessly outmatched. When Osric and the other vampires allowed the bloodlust to overcome them, they were as unstoppable as a hurricane, and many times more lethal.

Hours later, the trucks would come. And dozens of corpses would be transported through the night to safety, where they would awaken and join the ranks of the Undead.

###

Sharon lay on her bed in the tank, staring at the overhead. While the rest of the team worked the night away sifting through intelligence, she was left alone in near silence. The lights outside the tank had been dimmed, and most of the medical technicians were in the small dormitory at the far end of the complex. For the time being, Sharon had the market cornered on peace and quiet.

Not that she was completely alone. When the feelings of distant bloodlust registered on her consciousness, it was disconcerting and quite alarming. Her heart pounded, despite her best efforts to control it. The electrocardiogram monitoring her would doubtless detect the elevated heart rate and summon one of the medical assistants. But that wasn't the worst of it. The absolute thirst that accompanied the sudden sensation was almost overpowering. Sharon squeezed her eyes shut, but she could do nothing to close the eye of her mind. Across that flickered images of death and terror, jumbled, nonsensical fragments that stirred her consciousness in a way that was wholly alien to her... and that at the same time felt totally right.

Oh God, help me. They're feeding. Osric is feeding...

The door to the tank clicked open as one of the medics stepped inside. She wore a surgical mask. Sharon didn't recognize her, but that wasn't surprising. Like everyone on the Containment Team, she hadn't really interacted with the personnel at the Plant.

"Is everything all right, Sharon?" the woman asked, bringing up the lights. She glanced at the electrocardiogram's display and reached for the chart at the foot of the bed.

"I'm all right," Sharon said. Her voice was hoarse, and she felt lightheaded.

"Your heart rate's through the roof," the medic said. "Let me take your blood pressure."

"I'm just having a little panic attack," Sharon said.

"Let's see if we can fix that. Sit up for me?"

Sharon slowly sat up in bed and swept the sheet aside. She swung her legs over the side. Her feet dangled just above the cold tile floor. She wore a T-shirt and blue sweatpants. The medic unclipped the sphygmomanometer from the wall, wrapped the Velcro cuff around Sharon's upper right arm, and slipped her stethoscope's earpieces into her ears.

"This will just take a second," she said. The medic played with the sphygmomanometer for a few moments, eying a gauge before slowly deflating the cuff. She hung her stethoscope around her neck and replaced the sphygmomanometer on its wall clips.

"It's elevated," she said as she picked up the clipboard from the foot of the bed and jotted something down. "Are you having trouble sleeping? Would you like something to help you sleep?"

Sharon shrugged. "Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad idea."

"I'll check with Dr. Kerr." The skin around the medic's eyes crinkled as she smiled beneath her mask. "But before I do that, I'll need to take another blood specimen. Sorry."

Sharon held out her arm with a sigh. "What a surprise."

The medic busied herself with the preparations to draw the blood. Sharon stared at the far wall—through the far wall actually, as it was transparent Plexiglas—and worked on controlling her breathing. By concentrating, she found she could bring the strange impulses under some degree of control. Her heart rate slowed to its normal rhythm. A small wave of elation crested inside her chest.

Not so strong just yet, Osric. I can still block you out, you bastard—even when you're feeding. But that wouldn't be the case for long, and she knew it.

She remained damned.

CHAPTER 7

"Mark? Mark, wake up. We've got something!"

Acheson snapped to. He rubbed his eyes—God, how they burned!—and realized he'd fallen asleep at his desk in the small office he'd taken over at the Plant. His laptop screen was dark—the computer had gone into hibernation mode. He glanced at his watch and frowned. He'd been out for almost an hour.

"Mark?"

Acheson looked up at Julia. She looked perfectly presentable for someone who'd been up for almost forty-eight hours. Acheson wondered how she did it.

"What've you got?" he asked. His voice was raspy.

"This just came in from Dietrick a few minutes ago." Julia handed him a printout. He took it from her and stared at it. The print seemed to swim before his eyes for a moment before he could make sense of the words.

"RMA virus was found in a body?" he asked. "Where?"

"At the L.A. County Coroner's. Five of them, all gang-bangers with MS13. They were taken down during an anti-gang operation, practically right in front of the cops. No good guys got fanged, only the gang members." Julia slipped her hands into the pockets of her indigo jeans. "Happened in Hawthorne... three nights ago, Mark."

Acheson looked up at her. "Three nights ago?" He glanced at his watch again. It was a quarter after six in the evening. Sun's already down.

"The coroner's department is at the USC Medical Center. It's on the hospital campus," Julia continued. "They've got everything there, Mark—trauma center, intensive care, everything. It'll be like a la carte service for those ghouls when they wake up."

"What's the traffic like?" Acheson asked.

"Rush hour—it's a mess, like always."

Acheson rose to his feet. "Get the team together. We're going to have to go in quick. Fiedler got us a helicopter—let's use it."

###

Despite the urgency of the situation, the Containment Team had time to kill. SHADOW FLIGHT wouldn't be on-station for at least fifteen minutes, and Acheson took the opportunity to brief the team on what would be going down. They would need to make some compromises. Nacho's dogs couldn't be transported by air. They had only a sketchy layout of the buildings on the medical center campus and almost nothing on the coroner's building itself. Julia's team of analysts had mined for that data and come up short. The plans they'd found were outdated, as the coroner's building had been revamped in the 1990s. It was a blind jump, but they were professionals, and they'd done this sort of thing before. They gathered their gear, donned jackets, and waited in the dark, chilly parking lot. A handful of stars burned overhead, cold and distant like the love of God.

Acheson found Sharon standing apart from the group, staring at the horizon. There wasn't much to see. The low-lying buildings and homes that made up Alhambra offered a mundane visual tableau. She started when he touched her shoulder.

"Nervous?" Acheson asked. Through the hand on her shoulder he could feel the tension radiating from her body as if it were a physical thing.

"Sorry," Sharon said softly.

"You up for this? Tell me straight up if you're not, because this whole thing is going to get weirder by the second."

"I'm fine, Mark. You don't have to worry."

Acheson nodded as he looked down at her. Her face was masked in shadow, as the floodlights from the warehouse weren't bright enough to reveal details, only shapes. Her eyes gleamed in the wan light, and her gaze kept straying to the western horizon.

"You feel Osric?" he asked after a moment.

Sharon nodded. "I can feel his presence. It's becoming distinct. It has its own signature. But I have no idea what he's doing, what he's thinking, what he's up to."

"Can you feel any of the other vamps?"

Sharon looked back at the horizon again and nodded. "Like one big mass on a radar screen. I can't differentiate between them, but they're there. Between us and the sun."

"To our west," Acheson said. "That helps us out a bit."

Sharon shrugged. "Maybe Claudia can tell you more."

Acheson shook his head. "I already asked. She can't feel any of them."

"There are a lot of them," Sharon whispered.

"Do you think if we get closer to the AO your impressions will be clearer?"

"We'll have to see." Sharon paused. "I don't think he can block me out, Mark. I think this is part of what happens to the vamps. They're so attuned to their master that it's part of their... biology. He couldn't block me out any more than I could will my heart to stop beating."

"All right," Acheson said. "That's good to know."

"Don't tell Kerr about this," Sharon whispered. "I don't want him to know that I'm getting closer to Turning."

Acheson put his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward him. She resisted slightly, not wanting to remove her eyes from the horizon. This concerned him a bit. Was Osric's presence something she simply was aware of, or was it more like a siren's call, something she had little power to resist?

"Sharon," he said softly. When she kept her head craned toward the western horizon, he put the steel of command in his voice. "Sharon!"

Finally she turned to him, her eyes downcast. Acheson cupped her chin in one hand and gently raised her face toward his. Nonetheless, she wouldn't meet his eyes.

"You're going to make it through this," Acheson told her. "Believe me."

Sharon nodded, still not looking at him. Her voice was small when she spoke.

"If I start to Turn, you have to kill me." She finally met his gaze. "Promise me you'll do that, Mark, so I don't become one of those things. I want to be killed while I'm still human."

It was Acheson's turn to look away. "Sharon," he gasped. "I—I..."

"You said you loved me," she whispered. "If you love me, please, please save me from that."

Acheson clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. Suddenly he pulled her into his arms. She stiffened in response, putting her hands on his chest as if she wanted to push away—but she didn't.

"I do love you, Sharon," he affirmed, his voice thick with emotion. "And that's why it's so Goddamned tough to agree to do what you're asking me."

"Just save me from that, Mark. Please."

Acheson's vision went blurred with welling tears as the terrible weight of what she was asking of him finally settled on his shoulders. There was no way he could deny her. To allow her to become one of the Undead would destroy him as well.

"I promise," he gasped. "I'll do it."

Slowly, Sharon slipped her arms around him. She rested her head against his chest, and some of the tension drained out of her.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."

Acheson said nothing in return. He had given his word, and in order to save them both he would have to keep it. He kissed the top of her head and inhaled the scent of her hair. He recalled how it had been between them, how the good times had been quite good and the bad times not as terrible as he once thought.

I've been such a fool.

"Please forgive me... but Mark, we need to talk," Ellenshaw said from nearby. Acheson straightened, and Sharon released him. She smiled up at him through the darkness.

"Time to go back to work," she said.

Acheson smiled back and turned to Ellenshaw. Ellenshaw looked embarrassed, his hands shoved into the pockets of his dark gray utility pants.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"No problem, Robert." Acheson looked past him at the rest of the team. They all leaned against the warehouse, staring out across the parking lot. Chiho met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. Acheson wondered how he would make his way out of the mess he'd gotten himself into.

"You need to alert Fiedler as to what's going down," Ellenshaw continued. "This will be a very public display of the Containment Team, and we all know how hard it will be to cover things up with the local authorities. And this is Los Angeles—you can’t throw a rock without hitting a news helicopter or remote unit. Washington needs to give you the final go-ahead."

"We have the green light, Robert. At this point, we just report back to them when we're done."

Ellenshaw persisted. "Osric is playing a much more complex game than we're used to. He's hiding amongst our own population and using our fear of publicity against us—"

"Who's this 'us' you're talking about?" Acheson demanded. "The last time I checked, you weren't with 'us,' you were on your own."

Ellenshaw's lips compressed into a tight line. He glared at Acheson. For a moment Acheson thought the older man was going to try and make something out of it, but it didn't happen. Typical Ellenshaw; his blood never ran hot, always cold.

"The way I see it, Fiedler and the rest of the Beltway crowd wouldn't want us to diddle around worrying about things like public relations when there's a full-on infestation happening right next to a hospital," Acheson continued. "I think they'd probably have a bigger problem with vamps running around loose, tearing up a bunch of people during their first feeding frenzy, don't you?"

"I realize I'm only here as a consultant, Mark, but the team might need additional support in the field this time. Only Fiedler can line that up for us—"

Acheson pointed up at the sky over Ellenshaw's shoulder, where the anti-collision lights of the MH-60 winked. Rotorbeats thrummed in the near distance above the whine of jet engines.

"He already has," Acheson said. "And here it is. But I'll tell you what, Robert—you want to call him, be my guest. You want to stay here at the Plant, that's fine by me, too." Acheson walked past him, heading toward the rest of the team as they gathered up their duffel bags.

"Y'see, the rest of us didn't quit," Acheson finished as the helicopter descended toward the parking lot. The rotorwash hit them all with near-hurricane force winds, and Ellenshaw couldn't respond to the jibe if he'd wanted to.

CHAPTER 8

Even with foam hearing protectors and headsets, it was loud as hell inside the MH-60. Strapped to the long, hard bench seat that ran the width of the aircraft, Acheson noticed the Night Stalkers had forgone wearing their night vision goggles. It made sense. The lights of Los Angeles provided more than enough illumination to fly by.

"Mr. Acheson, we'll be at the DZ in about eight minutes," the pilot-in-command said. He'd introduced himself as Zaslow, the man Acheson had spoken with earlier to arrange the flight.

Acheson pressed the push-to-talk button on his headset's cable. "Roger that, chief. There's a full landing pad at the hospital, but there's a parking lot closer to our target. Can you land there?"

"So long as there aren't any obstructions," Zaslow replied. The pilot spoke without looking back, and Acheson realized he had no idea what the man looked like. Maybe that was for the best. As he and his copilot flew, they turned their heads from left to right, scanning the horizon for other aircraft and any obstructions. Even though they were over a large American metropolis, the Night Stalkers flew like they were transporting Special Forces grunts through hostile airspace. Thundering along at 200 feet, the MH-60 ran lower than any other aircraft in the sky, even the police helicopters. Aside from a lack of night vision goggles, the only other difference between this and a "real world" combat insertion was the fact that the aircraft's two M134 miniguns had been stowed. The crew chief and door gunner sat on either side of the helicopter right behind the pilots, and each man leaned out his respective gunnery door, exposing his torso to the rotor wash as he kept "eyes out", as it was called. Acheson had worked with the troops of the 160th SOAR before. He was pleased to see they still retained the professionalism they were renowned for, even on a relative milk run such as this.

There was movement to his left. Acheson looked over as Claudia released her restraints and leaned out the open troop door. She removed her headset and spasmed. Chiho, seated beside her, reached out and held onto her. Cecil nudged Acheson.

"Looks like Claud's a bit airsick," he said over the intercom. The crewman on the left side of the helicopter ducked back inside. He wore a long tether connected to his harness that allowed for more mobility, and he leaned toward Claudia and Chiho.

"She can puke all she wants to, but she can't remove her harness," the man said to no one in particular, pushing Claudia upright in her seat. "Lean out, but keep the harness on, ma'am!"

Claudia rewarded him for his meticulous concern by vomiting all over his boots. The soldier swore and retreated to his position. Acheson's nose wrinkled when he caught the scent of bile, but so much turbulent air passed through the troop area that it lingered only for an instant. Claudia clutched her knees to her chest. She shuddered again, but held it back.

"I don't believe she just upchucked all over me," the disgusted soldier said as he pushed his head and shoulders through the open gunnery door.

"Hey, Mr. Zaslow, this bird got a name? If it don't, I'd like to recommend Vomit Comet," Cecil said with a chuckle.

"We've got a job to do, so if you don't mind, don't bother us unless it's important," Zaslow said. "And by 'important' I mean if a fire breaks out."

Cecil laughed again, making sure he'd depressed his push-to-talk button so the aircrew could hear him. Acheson motioned for him to knock it off.

Ahead loomed Interstate 5, a glowing python filled with slow-moving headlights and brake lights. Beyond that rose downtown L.A.. Acheson saw their office tower, its regal crown fully illuminated. Traffic helicopters and other small aircraft flitted about. They did not appear to notice the bigger helicopter hurtling through the deepening night at over 160 miles an hour. The Black Hawk drifted into a left turn.

"We'll orbit above the medical center campus, Mr. Acheson," Zaslow said. "It'll be a hard right bank. You call out when you see the parking lot."

"Roger that," Acheson said.

The Black Hawk recovered from its left turn and flew straight and level for a moment before banking hard to the right. As the buildings of the USC Medical Center slid into view, Acheson leaned over Cecil to see as much as he could. The helicopter orbited over the I-5, giving him a clear view of the coroner building.

"Parking lot's at thirty degrees," Acheson reported.

"Roger. We've got some cars and light posts there, and we'd damage property if we try to squeeze in. What about that parking garage right next door? We can hover over one corner while you guys bail out."

Acheson considered it. The parking garage Zaslow spoke of was much closer to the coroner's office than the hospital landing pad, which was a city block away. It would be easier, especially when lugging their gear along.

"Sounds good to me, chief, as long as you think it's safe."

"Roger. We'll make one more orbit, then I'll drop us in. The tail of the aircraft will be hanging off the edge, and I'll have to keep us between lampposts. I want your people to exit through both doors and run away from the aircraft. We'll have to pull out at max power, so watch out for debris."

"Understood." Acheson looked around the darkened troop compartment. "Everyone got that? When we get the word, unstrap your harnesses and hit the door. Run straight out from the helicopter and crouch down. Keep running until the helicopter pulls away."

Everyone acknowledged the instructions. The MH-60 went through another orbit, slowing as it approached the parking garage. The helicopter descended and shuddered as it passed through its own rotorwash.

"Clear left," said the crewman on the left side of the aircraft.

"Clear right, watch the poles," advised his counterpart on the right.

"Everyone out," Zaslow said as he transitioned the helicopter into a stable hover and kept an eye on the long refueling boom that protruded from its nose. "Remember to remove your headsets!"

The two crewmen pulled back inside the aircraft and assisted the team with removing their harnesses and headsets. Acheson followed Cecil as he scrambled for the exit and leaped out, pulling his heavy black duffel bag with him. Acheson joined him, then turned and assisted Sharon as she followed him, with Rick right behind. Crouching against the violent rotorwash that tore at their clothes and bags, deafened by the booming rotors and the wailing engines, they distanced themselves as quickly as possible from the hovering Black Hawk.

"Hoo boy!" Cecil shouted when they were clear. "Ain't done nuthin' like that in a long time!"

Rotors thundering, the helicopter lifted straight up. Once above the lampposts that illuminated the parking lot, it nosed down and accelerated away.

Acheson pulled his radio headset from his pocket and inserted the earpiece in his right ear. He flipped over to the frequency reserved for the Night Stalkers.

"SHADOW, this is Two-Six."

"Two-Six, this is SHADOW, over," Zaslow replied immediately.

"SHADOW, Two-Six. How long can you loiter? Over."

"Two-Six, this is SHADOW. We're good for about two hours plus. Uh, Two-Six, looks like you've got some sort of security team approaching your position in a small white pickup truck with flashing amber lights, over."

"Roger that, SHADOW. Two-Six, out." Acheson looked across the parking lot as he switched frequencies and watched Chiho and Ellenshaw help Claudia get squared away. Julia was straightening out their gear. All wore sidearms hidden beneath their clothes, but their tactical weapons—MP-5s and shotguns—remained in the black duffel bags.

"TOC, this is Two-Six, over."

There was a brief pause before Jerry Licht's voice came back over the headset. "Two-Six, this is TOC, over."

"TOC, Two-Six. What's your pos?" Acheson picked up his duffel bag and trotted toward Chiho's team. Cecil, Sharon, and Rick stayed close behind.

"Two-Six, we're just past the 710 interchange. We're at least twenty-five minutes out, over." Licht was riding in a converted Ford van that served as the team's urban Tactical Operations Center, probably inching down the freeway toward Los Angeles. There were four people in the van, and they'd left ten minutes before the Black Hawk picked up the team. They had a designated holding area at the corner of Marengo and Zonal, across the medical campus from the coroner's building.

"Roger that. We're going to have to move before you get into position, but we'll do our best to keep you informed. Two-Six, out." Acheson looked over his shoulder as a white Chevy S10 pickup truck with flashing amber lights crested the ramp that led to the garage's lower levels.

Acheson and Cecil angled toward the truck. The vehicle stopped and two men stepped out. They wore white uniform shirts and dark slacks, and were armed with pistols. The legend on the truck's driver-side door read USC MEDICAL CENTER SECURITY.

"What's going on?" asked the driver, a paunchy man with a shaved head that was beaded with sweat despite the chill in the air. His nervous eyes darted from Acheson to Cecil and back again. His partner, a lanky Latino with razor stubble and a chronic sneer, didn't seem as nervous as his white companion.

"Homeland Security," Acheson said. "This is federal business. Get back in your vehicle."

"What business is that?" the guard asked suspiciously. His hand danced toward the pistol on his belt. His partner kept the truck between him and the team.

Cecil flashed his ID. "Homeland Security," he emphasized. "And if you don't believe that, you might wanna ask yourself how many people arrive by military helicopter." He nodded toward the sky, and the man turned. Shadow Flight was in the distance, orbiting at 150 feet. "Go back to your bidness, and leave us alone."

"I gotta call this in," the guard said.

"Call whoever you want," Acheson snapped. He marched toward the stairway door, and the others followed.

"Wait!" the guard called after them.

"Get back in your vehicle," Cecil said in his best Samuel L. Jackson voice. "Don't interfere, man. This is way above your head. Call whoever you want to call, then sit in your truck and keep your pal company." He looked across the truck's roof at the Latino. "You boys understand me?"

The Latino held his hands out from his sides, well away from his pistol. "No problem."

The team hurried to ground level. Acheson was first out, shouldering open the steel door as he stepped into a smaller parking lot. Signs marked every parking space there as RESERVED. The coroner's building was nearby. Most of its windows were dark. Acheson checked his watch. It was after 7:00 p.m.

A lanky black kid was on his way out when Acheson made it to the door. Acheson grabbed the handle before the door could close.

"Can I help you?" the kid asked with a frown. Acheson made him to be about twenty-three, maybe an intern or an assistant. As he spoke, the young man glanced back at the rest of the team as they charged toward the door. His frown deepened, and Acheson reckoned it wasn't every day a group of folks packing assault weaponry closed in on his place of work.

"Homeland Security," Acheson said while making no move to show his ID. "You've got some bodies in the cooler that were tapped in Hawthorne. We need to get to them."

"Uh...look, man, you can't just walk in there. You need a security card to get in through the inner door, and believe me, no matter who you're with, they're not just going to let you walk in and go down to the service floor. You need an escort and all of that..." As he spoke, the man tried to hide the photo ID card hanging around his neck. It read PATRICK johnson.

Acheson propped the door open with his right foot and grabbed the man's jacket, pulling him back inside. "You'll do just fine, Patrick."

"Hey!" Patrick shouted, struggling. "What’re you doing?"

Acheson shoved Patrick into the entrance foyer.  "You're going to take us to the bodies. We don't have time to stand around out here holding our dicks in our hands."

"Whoa, man! How do I know you're who you say you are?"

Acheson pulled out his ID, and shoved the Homeland Security photo ID into his face.

"Happy now?" he asked curtly.

"Oh, fuck. Listen, I can't—" Patrick glanced at the hard faces surrounding him, then swiped his ID card through the card reader next to the foyer door. The lock clicked open loudly, and Acheson pushed him through the door. Cecil held it open for the rest of the team.

Patrick looked around, and sighed when he saw no one else in sight. "The bodies're downstairs. Stairs are over there, elevators are over there." He pointed out each.

"We'll take the stairs."

They followed Patrick down the stairwell. When they reached the final landing, Acheson pulled him back from the door. He glanced back at Sharon, who stood behind him with Cecil. Chiho had stopped the rest of the team on the upper landing and leaned against the wall. She'd drawn her suppressed MP-5 and had her machete on her hip. Patrick eyed this with a mix of suspicion and apprehension.

"So what's with all the guns?"

Acheson ignored him. "Sharon?"

"They're awake. That's all I know."

"On this floor?"

Sharon chewed her lower lip. "I think so."

"Man up," Acheson told the team. He dropped his duffel bag and opened it. Patrick's eyes bugged when he saw the evil-looking AA-12 shotgun and the stakes.

"Man, the people down here are already dead!" He backed against the cinderblock wall, eyes wide.

"Relax, Patrick. We're not the ones you need to worry about." Acheson jerked his chin toward the door. "What's the layout in there?"

"Uh... autopsy room's on this side," he said, pointing toward the wall at Acheson's right, "and the door here opens onto a hallway. Bodies are down this way, in the crypt." He jerked a thumb toward the wall behind him. "And there's a couple of offices for the pathologists. Forensics lab is right before the crypt, and maybe a janitor's closet."

"Who else is here?" Cecil asked. He had just pulled the SAW from its big duffel and was in the process of slinging it from his shoulder by its patrol strap.

"Maybe the cleaners. I was working late, getting in some OT."

"Any more locked doors we need to know about?" Acheson rose to his feet and kicked his duffel bag against the wall. Cecil tossed his duffel on top of Acheson's.

"No. Listen, what—"

"You don't want to know." Acheson glanced over his shoulder as Nacho joined him, followed by Rick. The stairway landing was getting crowded. Nacho shouldered his MP-5. His bulky body armor made him look like a football player wearing a black trench coat.

"Fight's on," Acheson said. He yanked open the stairwell door and flung himself into the hallway, keeping to the left. Nacho followed and moved to the right. Rick went next, sliding across the hallway on his knees, MP-5 shouldered and pointed to the left, to where the crypt was supposed to be.

The lit hallway was deserted. Acheson remained in his crouch, panning the barrel of the AA-12 back and forth. At the end of the corridor was a steel door like those on a walk-in refrigerator. It was closed.

"Clear left," Acheson said, broadcasting over his transceiver.

"Clear right," Nacho reported.

"Team in," Acheson ordered. "Robert, you and Claudia take Patrick upstairs and hunker down until you receive an all-clear from one of us."

"Roger that."

"Hey man, you said I could go!" Patrick whined from the stairwell.

"I lied. Now shut up and do what the people with the guns tell you to do."

The rest of the team entered the hallway, splitting off into two elements. Chiho led her element to the right, canvassing the autopsy room and an office. Acheson led his element, composed of Cecil and Nacho, toward the crypt. Acheson and Nacho remained in front while Cecil trailed twenty feet behind. The door to the forensics lab was locked. Acheson sidled up and looked through the mesh-reinforced window in the door. Most of the lights in the room were out, leaving the equipment and workstations shrouded in shadow. Nothing seemed out of place. He pointed toward the crypt door and fell to one knee.

"Forensics lab looks clear. Door's locked, so can't really check it out. Two-Five?"

Both Chiho and Sharon started to answer at the same time. Acheson groaned. No one had thought to assign Sharon a new call-sign before they left. After a brief pause, Chiho's voice filled the uncomfortable void. "Autopsy room is locked, but clear. Offices clear."

"Sharon, you're now Three-Zero. Come forward to my position."

"Roger that, Two-Six." A moment later, Sharon was easing into a crouch beside Acheson, her MP-5 at her hip. She stared at the crypt door.

"Well?" he said.

She nodded. "In there. I think they're still waking."

"Team forward!" Acheson rose to his feet and held back Sharon with one hand. "Not you. Stay at the rear, wait until I call for you."

He didn't wait for her to protest, just continued toward the door. It opened outward, which was good in that nothing could hide behind it when they pulled it open, but bad in that it would make the actual ingress more cumbersome. And blasting it off its hinges with plastic explosives wasn't wise, as the hallway would channel a lot of energy right back at the team. They would have to go in one at a time.

Acheson waved Rick forward. The bigger man hurried up and assumed Acheson's position as he fell back a few steps and readied his stakes. Sweat beaded on his brow, and the lining of his gloves felt damp.

"I'll go in first," he said. "Jules, you up to giving me hand?"

Julia smiled humorlessly and slung her MP-5. "If I must."

"Cecil, you and Nacho provide security. If they get past us, pin them down long enough for Chiho and Rick to finish 'em off. Rick, ready for prime time?"

Rick snorted, eyes glued to the crypt door. "Is it too late to borrow a pair of Cecil's Depends?"

"You'll do fine." Acheson looked up from his work and saw Sharon staring at him. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"I should go in with you, Mark."

Acheson shook his head. "Not a good idea."

Sharon stepped toward him. "Stop the bullshit! I'm still a member of the team, so at least have the decency to let me haul my own weight."

Julia screwed one of the stakes onto a telescoping pike. She glanced at Acheson, looking away before he could meet her gaze. Acheson looked at Chiho. She stared back, her face an emotionless mask.

"Hey man, if the lady says she can do it, let her," Cecil said from behind his SAW. "We ain't got all night!"

Acheson sighed. He didn't like it, but Sharon and Cecil were right.

"Jules, fall back."

Julia handed Sharon her pike as they exchanged places. Sharon swept up the knapsack with the rest of the stakes and slung it over her shoulder. She faced the crypt door.

"I'll go in first," she said. "I'll take out the first one I see, then you come in for the rest."

He nodded, and they advanced toward the door. Acheson hefted his own pike.

"Jules, get on the door," he said.

Julia joined them at the door and grabbed its cold steel handle with both hands. "Ready here."

"Open it," Sharon ordered.

Julia yanked open the door. The lights came on automatically. Sharon entered, moving with purpose, as if she knew exactly where the ghouls were. Acheson hurried after her, careful not to get too close or lag too far behind. He sensed the rest of the team closing ranks behind him, establishing a perimeter and ready to seal it with firepower.

Chill air washed over them, fogging their breath. The crypt was large, much larger than Acheson had anticipated. Ahead stood a wall filled with dozens of steel cubicles. It would take a while to search all of them, and Acheson wondered if they should just sit and wait for the ghouls to come to them.

Sharon pointed at the far end of the crypt. "There," she said. Acheson looked.

The ghoul was small and wiry, its tattooed skin like parchment paper. A Y-shaped incision stood out in stark contrast against the jaundiced flesh, as did the black hair on its head and pubic region. The vamp was completely naked, having shed the body bag it had lain in. It regarded them stupidly with gleaming eyes. It crouched over another corpse; with no other food source available, it had fanged the corpse and was trying to feed on it. When it saw Acheson and Sharon, it tore its fangs free from the lifeless husk it had dragged onto the floor and coiled itself into a crouch.

"Heeeeeeeeeee," it squealed. Whether it was a laugh or an attempt at speech, Acheson couldn't tell.

"Got one in the open," he transmitted. "No signs of any others yet—"

The ghoul shrieked and ran toward them on all fours like a dog, snapping its jaws. It closed on Sharon, and she drew back a step, wielding the pike before her. The ghoul paid no attention to the stake, but it shifted its hellish gaze toward Acheson. A peal of cackling laughter escaped its bloodless lips as it bounded toward him, ignoring Sharon altogether.

Sharon sank the stake into its side. The vamp shrieked and twisted about, its talons tearing into the rubber mats on the floor. The creature recoiled, pulling the stake free as it fell onto its back. Hissing, it backpedaled away from her, but Sharon leaped forward. This time her accuracy was dead-on, and the ghoul shrieked as the stake smashed through its ribcage, tearing open the stitch work that held its breastplate in place. Black ichor boiled out, thick and syrupy, as the ghoul twitched and shuddered. It had all happened in the space of three seconds, and Acheson had barely taken that many steps forward.

A deafening wail sounded as something exploded from one of the cubbyholes behind him. He whirled as a plastic-encased form slammed into him, driving him to the cold floor. He caught a glimpse of a face behind opaque plastic, its mouth yawning open, fangs tearing through the shroud as they descended toward his neck.

Acheson jerked to his right, putting a few more inches between him and the fangs. He couldn't get the stake in position, the angles were all wrong. He powered his left arm between them as the thrashing ghoul tore through the body bag. He grabbed its neck and pushed it away. In life, the ghoul had been a small man, and it didn't weigh more than 130 pounds. It snarled at him, most of its face still hidden behind the opaque plastic that shrouded it, but Acheson sensed a tickle from its hypnotic gaze. He levered it as far away from him as possible, then wedged his right leg between them. Planting his foot on the ghoul's narrow chest, he kicked with all his might. The vampire flew backwards and slammed into the steel cubbies. Without any hesitation, it scrambled toward him again, hands outstretched. Acheson allowed the ghoul to skewer itself on the stake he swung into position. The diminutive vampire shuddered and squealed. The pike's length served to keep them apart as Acheson struggled to his feet and pinned to the floor. The vampire's squeals dwindled to a muted gurgle as black ichor streamed from its mouth. It pawed at the stake for a moment, then went limp.

"Behind you!" Sharon shouted.

Acheson crouched and let go of the pike with his right hand. He pulled his Sig P220 from its holster when he saw the three other ghouls gathered near the door at the other end of the crypt. They were between them and the exit, but not yet in the team's line of sight. From the hallway, they couldn't see everything that was going on.

"Team, you've got three by the door! There's not a lot of cover in here, so if you have to open up, be careful."

"Understood, Two-Six," Chiho said.

The trio of ghouls glared at Acheson and Sharon with hungry eyes. The two nearest the door were hunched over, hands twisted into claws, jaws opening and closing methodically, like fish breathing. The third one, closer to them, was  coiled like a serpent, ready to spring. Sharon stepped forward. She had already mounted another stake on the end of her pike, holding it in one hand. Her pistol was in the other.

"Get set up," she said. "I've got them."

Acheson holstered his pistol and twisted his pike, disconnecting it from the stake embedded in the ghoul. The corpse slid to the floor in a spreading pool of brackish, foul-smelling fluid. As he crouched down and fixed another stake to the pike's canon-mount, he watched the trio of vampires from the corner of his eye. They were staring right at him. Not at both of them—only him.

"They don't seem interested in you," he said.

"I'd noticed. I guess I'm more like them than you."

Acheson rose to his feet. He transferred the pike to his left hand, and grabbed the pistol-grip of his AA-12 with his right. With it hanging from his shoulder by its patrol strap, he swung the barrel around until it pointed at the crouching ghoul.

"I'll blast that guy in front. That ought to distract him enough for us to take out at least one of the others."

Sharon nodded. "Good plan."

Acheson rolled his shoulders for an instant, then fine-tuned his aim. It was tough to sight on the vampire without making eye contact with it, but if he did, that would be it for him.

"On three. One... two..."

The three ghouls suddenly spun around and fled. Acheson fired but missed his target. The three vampires launched themselves from the crypt like bullets from a gun. Cecil's big SAW went off, echoed by the muted clatter of suppressed MP-5s. Cecil swore over the radio net.

"Thanks for the God-damned warning!"

"Two-Six and Three-Zero coming out!" Acheson reported. He made for the door, still clutching his AA-12 by its pistol grip. Sharon was close behind, already breaking down her pike. They stepped out of the refrigerated crypt just as the three ghouls rocketed past the rest of the team without even slowing. Several bullets found their mark, but the vampires continued on—except for one. Acheson dropped his pike and raised his shotgun to his shoulder as it spun around and hissed at him, its back arched like a cat's. Its two companions ran straight to the elevator and tore the doors open.

The AA-12 bucked as Acheson fired past the first ghoul. He caught one of the others with a few pellets of silver-plated double-ought shot, but the ghoul didn't pause as it scuttled up the elevator shaft like a giant cockroach, followed by its companion. The third ghoul had attracted the team's firepower. At least a dozen 5.56 millimeter and 9 millimeter rounds had torn through its pale, desiccated body. Flaps of skin had fallen away, exposing ichor-covered bone. It hissed once more before bolting for the elevator. Chiho ran after it, drawing her machete. She thrust it upward through the elevator doors, but missed her target.

"Upstairs!" Acheson shouted.

CHAPTER 9

Claudia and Patrick turned when they heard the sudden volley of gunfire from below. It sounded distant, more like firecrackers than anything else.

"What's that?" Patrick asked.

"Come over here," Ellenshaw said, leading Claudia by the arm toward a dark waiting room just inside the second security door.

"Man, enough of this," Patrick said. "I'm out of here. You guys want to shoot the place up, that's fine but—"

His words were drowned out by the squeal of tortured metal. Patrick looked back down the hallway just as the elevator doors slid open. Ellenshaw yanked him into the waiting room.

"Quiet!" he said through clenched teeth. He pushed them down onto a thinly cushioned couch and flicked off the safety on his MP-5. As he moved away from them, his leg bumped an end table, knocking some magazines to the floor. He shouldered his weapon.

"This is Two-Six. Ellenshaw, you've got three ghouls heading in your direction!"

No sooner had Acheson's voice faded than the ghouls in question appeared. They hurtled down the hallway, one on all fours, another hunched over like a frightened cat, and the other crawling on the ceiling like some enormous insect. Ellenshaw heard Patrick's sharp intake of breath. Claudia was as silent as death.

The first ghoul slammed into the security door at full speed and bounced off. The second met with the same fate, but the two ghouls worked together and smashed into it as if of one mind. The glass in the center of the door fractured, then shattered as the first ghoul hurled itself through, unmindful of the lacerations left by the glass shards. The two other ghouls followed, snarling and hissing. The three of them attacked the outer door with a vengeance, slamming into it again and again. Ellenshaw swallowed nervously. What if they couldn't get out?

He didn't have to worry. He heard the outer door fail as it tore away from its hinges and bounced across the concrete outside. The ghouls charged out into the night, their feet kicking up shattered glass as they ran.

Patrick moaned. "What the fuck was that?"

Ellenshaw hurried to the doorway and peered around the inner door's frame. The foyer was empty, and the outer door was indeed gone. He stepped into the foyer, glass crunching beneath his boots. Behind him, he heard running footsteps, and he wisely stepped to his left. Acheson thundered past, followed by Rick Wallace and Nacho Delgado. They held their weapons close to their bodies, looking into the night.

"Robert, which way did they go?" Acheson asked.

"I'm sorry, I don't know." Ellenshaw stepped outside, joining the other men. He glanced up and caught a glimpse of something along the roofline of the building. He pointed.

"Up there!"

Acheson reached for the small transmitter on his belt and switched frequencies. "SHADOW, this is Two-Six, over."

Zaslow's voice came back. "Two-Six, this is SHADOW, over."

"SHADOW, Two-Six. I need you to look around with your FLIR. Can you see anyone running along the rooftops? We're looking for three hostiles, over."

"Stand by." In the near distance, Acheson could hear the MH-60's rotor beats. They changed pitch as the aircraft broke its orbit to come around and give its chin-mounted forward-looking infrared scanner a better viewing angle. While Acheson waited, the rest of the team gathered around him.

"Two-Six, this is SHADOW. Roger, we've got three, uh... people running through the parking lot headed toward the hospital. They're tough to track, they aren't showing up well through the FLIR. Over."

"Hospital!" Acheson shouted. He spun to his left and ran down the sidewalk. The others followed.

"Mark! What should I do about this man?"

Acheson glanced back. Ellenshaw stood with his hand on Patrick's arm. "Cut him loose!"

"Two-Six, this is SHADOW. Ah... be advised the three hostiles just entered the hospital, over."

"Which entrance did they use, SHADOW?"

"Ah, Two-Six... this might sound crazy, but they climbed up the side of the building and entered through one of the third floor windows, over."

Despite the tension, Acheson had to grin. There was a macabre humor to Zaslow's attempt to make the inexplicable sound routine.

"Roger that, SHADOW. Resume your orbit, we'll take it from here. Two-Six, out."

"Yo, Mark, what do we do with our guns, man?" Cecil asked as the team ran after Acheson. "We can't just waltz into a hospital with 'em, can we?"

"We're way past that now," Acheson replied. "Let's tag the vamps first, and then deal with the fallout."

Acheson ran up to the glass entry doors. As they slid open he shoved his way past a clutch of medical workers on their way out. One of them complained when Cecil shouldered her aside, but her objections trailed off when she saw the big machinegun he carried.

A rent-a-cop sitting behind a small wooden desk shot to his feet when the armed team stormed inside. He wore a pistol on his right hip, and his hand twitched toward it. Acheson made a beeline toward him.

"Don't," Acheson warned. "We're Homeland Security. There's a major threat inside the hospital, and we're here to take care of it. You need to tell me what's on the third floor."

"Uh..." The security guard looked from Acheson, to Cecil, to Sharon, and back to Acheson. "What threat...?"

Acheson shot a look at Ellenshaw. "Robert, baby sit this man and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. The rest of you, with me."

"Hey, hold on!" the rent-a-cop yelled as the team headed for the stairs. He reached for the telephone, but Ellenshaw gently placed his hand over it.

"Please sit down," he said, making sure the guard saw the MP-5 slung over his shoulder.

"Are you guys for real?" he asked, easing back down into his chair. His voice was so soft that Ellenshaw could barely hear him.

Ellenshaw smiled. "We're very, very real."

###

The hospital was massive, and the third floor turned out to be an active ward for treating patients. The stairwells ran through the center of the hospital, right next to one of the elevator bays. When the team emerged from the stairwell, they had just as much territory to reconnoiter to the right as to the left.

Acheson signaled for them to split up. Chiho took her team to the left, while Acheson led the others to the right. Within moments, they found the vampires' entry point. The room was dark and still, a cool evening breeze wafting through the shattered windows. The tattered drapes lay on the floor, and the single bed had been shoved aside.

"Mark."

Acheson turned. Sharon stood at a vacant nurse's station, looking over the desk. Acheson joined her.

Two female nurses were on the floor behind the counter. Their purple medical scrubs were shredded, and droplets of dark blood stood out against their ivory skin. Their eyes were open but unseeing. The ghouls had fed. Overhead, one of the ceiling tiles had been torn free. Acheson leaped onto the desk and poked the AA-12's barrel into the dark space. He grimaced and shook his head.

"Gone," he said, jumping back to the floor. He pulled his machete from his belt and beheaded the corpses.

"Anyone see a directory?" He asked as he surveyed the nurse's station.

"I know where they're headed," Sharon said in a small voice. She pointed at a sign painted on the wall across from the nurse's station. Acheson read it and sheathed his machete.

"Oh, fuck." He turned and ran back the way they had come.

###

"Maternity! They're headed for maternity!"

Rick Wallace heard the tension in Acheson's voice through his headset earpiece, and he fully understood why. At the moment, he was staring through a pane glass window at a room full of newborns. Most slept; a few stirred in their bassinets. All were various shades of pink, and all were cute as hell. Newborns would attract the vamps like bees to honey. The thought chilled him to the bone.

On the other side of the glass, a maternity nurse stared at him with wide eyes. Two others stood behind him at the nearby nurse's station, gaping at the three armed women and one armed man who had made their way down the hallway as if they were in the middle of a military combat mission.

"Two-Six, this is Two-Five. We're at the maternity section," Chiho said. She turned to the two nurses standing nearby: "You need to get these children out of here. Now."

The first nurse, a woman in her later years, looked at Chiho with hard eyes. "If you harm any of them, you'll be sorry."

Julia flashed the woman her Homeland Security ID. "Do as we tell you—move the kids right..."

Claudia gasped and whirled, looking down the hallway they had just charged up. Rick pivoted, bringing his MP-5 to his shoulder. There was nothing there.

"If anyone's going to do something, now would be a great time to do it," he said.

"Move the children!" Julia snapped at the nurses. She also raised her MP-5 as Chiho grabbed Claudia by the elbow and led her away from the nursery.

The older nurse was unimpressed. "Where would you have us move them to, sweetheart?" She was a round woman, from head to toe, and her demeanor was more like that of a strict schoolmarm than a tender maternity nurse. Rick wondered if she tended to the newborns or merely terrorized them.

One of the overhead hallway lights flickered. Rick zeroed in on it. The light flickered again, and a nearby ceiling tile flexed.

"They're above us!"

As he spoke, the ceiling in the nursery collapsed inward and a small, pallid form descended upon the nurse there like a grotesque four-legged spider. She had barely enough time to scream before the figure drove her to the floor, sending several of the bassinets careening through the room on their caster wheels. The other nurses shrieked. From the corner of his eye, Rick could see the old schoolmarm nurse piss her scrubs as the younger one dashed toward the nursery. Rick drifted to his left and tagged her with his shoulder, knocking her down.

"You go in there, you're dead," he told her. He zeroed his sights on the ghoul in the nursery, but he didn't have a good shot as it hunched over the nurse. Her legs kicked and twitched in an autonomous dance. She'd been fanged.

Ceiling tiles exploded again, this time behind Rick. Two more ghouls dropped into the hall, snarling. The older nurse shrieked as one of them slashed at her face and neck with its fangs. The second one was driven back by a volley of 9mm fire from Julia McGuiness's MP-5.

"I've got this one!" she shouted, advancing toward the ghoul, plastering it with another burst from her weapon.

Chiho leaped toward the vamp clinging to the older woman, her machete in her right hand. "Rick, take care of the one in the nursery! Hurry!"

Rick Wallace hesitated. Operationally, no team member was to confront a vamp one-on-one without a backup. But Chiho and Julia were decisively engaged, and Claudia Nero was technically a noncombatant. His training ran deep, and he knew for certain that going in after the ghoul in the nursery alone was to set foot on an avenue toward death.

At the same time, watching the vamp shamble toward one incubator with its demonic eyes fixed on the infant within tweaked at something inside him, something primal. He couldn't turn his back on the babies inside the nursery.

The ghoul reached into the incubator and picked up the infant. The vamp's black eyes twinkled with the closest thing to glee it could approximate. The child emitted a high-pitched scream.

That was all it took. Rick kicked open the nursery's locked door and stepped inside the warm room. He popped off two rounds into the vamp's skull with unerring accuracy. The vampire grunted and collapsed like a sack of potatoes between two rows of incubators. The infant rolled out of the vampire's hands, still shrieking. The rest of the babies in the room added their voices to the fray, as if sensing the evil that had invaded their serene domain. The infant on the floor flailed its arms and legs weakly, hollering away. Rick kept his attention fixed on the vampire lying supine before him. He fired a three-round burst into its chest as he advanced, and the vampire shuddered. It snarled, raising its hands toward its head. The wounds inflicted by the double 9mm rounds healed so rapidly that Rick could see them closing up. He fired another burst at the creature, and two rounds shattered its right cheekbone as they penetrated the chalky flesh and burrowed deeply into its skull. The third slapped through the vampire's right ear, and black ichor oozed from the impact point. The beast's snarl turned to a choked gurgle, and its hands fell back to the floor. The wounds were healing much more slowly now, thanks to the silver halide that coated each round. Rick fumbled in his knapsack with one hand, trying to retrieve a stake while keeping his MP-5 trained on the vampire.

"Need some help in here!" he shouted.

The vampire stirred and turned its face toward him. Rick averted his gaze and fired at it. Despite standing only a few steps away, two of the rounds missed, disappearing into the floor beside the vampire. The third perforated its thorax, doing minimal damage. Rick hissed through his teeth and took one step back. He grabbed the MP-5 with both hands and fired two more bursts into the vamp's face, then added a third for good measure. The vampire went slack again. Rick allowed his weapon to hang from his shoulder by its patrol strap. Using both hands, he pulled a stake from the knapsack. Outside the nursery, he heard the muffled retorts of Chiho and Julia's MP-5s as they went up against the two vampires in the hallway.

Let's get this over with.

The vampire leapt to its feet with an ululating roar, almost moving faster than Rick's mind could register. It lunged toward him, hands outstretched, fingers spread like talons, mouth agape, fangs bared. Instead of falling back, Rick leaped toward it and slammed the stake into the base of its neck. He followed through with a vicious uppercut from his left hand. Supernatural capabilities couldn't prevent the vampire from being momentarily overwhelmed. It was only slightly more than five feet tall, with a proportionate body mass. Rick, standing at well over six feet and weighing almost twice what the vampire did, was in a much better defensive position. The vampire absorbed all the energy from Rick's punch and it sailed backwards. Its teeth slammed together, and to Rick’s satisfaction it bit off the tip of its black tongue.

"Yeah, baby!" He shouldered the MP-5 and planted his feet. The vamp scrabbled about on the floor, shrieking as it tried to pull the stake from its neck. The din sent up by the infants mingled with the howls of the wounded vampire, threatening to overwhelm Rick's concentration. He shut out everything and focused on his thrashing target.

The ceiling above him gave way and something struck his right shoulder as he fired. The three-round burst missed the vampire entirely, the bullets shattering a cabinet door on the far side of the room. Rick spun as a black-clad figure alighted beside him. His hip bumped an incubator, knocking it askew and further distressing its tiny occupant. The infant the vampire had taken a few moments ago was practically underfoot. But all of this was background noise in Rick's mind. What commanded his attention was the tall, almost stately vampire before him. Even out of the corner of his eye he could discern this one was no mere ghoul. It had long, dark hair swept back from its pale forehead, a slightly crooked nose, and the kind of full, sensuous lips that would have driven girls wild if they weren't on a dead man. Rick continued to spin, bringing his MP-5 to bear. The tall vampire smiled as it reached out and grabbed the weapon. Metal squealed as cold fingers compressed the upper receiver, effectively destroying the sub-machinegun.

"Most unsporting, my friend," the vampire said. Its voice had a subtle accent, suggestive of Italian or Spanish descent.

Rick swung at the vampire's head with all his might. The blow landed square and true, but the vampire only swayed slightly. In response, it seized Rick by the neck and lifted him off the floor.

###

Julia McGuiness fired nonstop at the two vampires, attacking first one, then the other, driving them back. Chiho followed close behind with her pike ready. She glanced behind them, and realized they had traveled almost thirty feet from the nursery. She put a hand on Julia's back.

"Stop! They're separating us from Rick and Claudia—"

Glass exploded as Rick Wallace flew through the nursery window and slammed across the desk at the nurse's station. His momentum carried him onto the floor, taking the computer monitor, keyboard, and dozens of files with him. Farther down the hallway, Claudia shrieked, her hands flying to her face.

"Fall back!" Chiho said.

"Look out!" Julia fired her MP-5 on full automatic. Chiho turned back to the vampires as they rushed forward and slammed into Julia like linebackers sacking a quarterback. Chiho brought her pike up and jabbed at one of the vampires, catching it in the shoulder. It shrieked, but slapped the pike aside as it drove Julia into her. Julia emptied her clip into the vamp's waist at point-blank range, but it didn't slow down. Both vampires crawled over the women and charged down the hallway.

Julia rolled off Chiho and ripped the spent magazine from her weapon. Chiho spun on one knee and fired at the vampires as they charged toward Claudia. The weapon rocked back and forth in the small woman's hands, its butt slapping into her shoulder.

"Claudia, stay down!" she shouted over the MP-5's muted rumble. Claudia cowered in wide-eyed terror as the two ghouls darted past her, staggering as the bullets tore through their bodies.

"Two-Six, Two-Five! Ghouls headed your way!" Chiho said into her headset. She pulled the magazine from her MP-5 and jacked another into place. Julia loped toward the nursery in a crouch, the barrel of her MP-5 leading the way. Chiho was only a few steps behind.

A well-manicured vamp dressed in black from head to toe stepped out of the nursery right in front of Julia. It grimaced when she fired into its chest at a range of four feet. The rounds passed through its body and tore into the savaged window frame that overlooked the nursery. Babies howled as glass tinkled across the floor.

The vamp slapped Julia with an arcing backhand. Julia cried out as she was flung into the wall with enough force to crack the sheetrock, bouncing off it like a doll. She collapsed to the floor face-first and did not move.

Chiho was too late in avoiding the vampire's gaze. Even as she commanded her finger to pull the MP-5's trigger, the vampire's will penetrated her, kicked open the door to her mind, and nudged her away from its controls.

Rest, it told her. Relax... and rest.

Against her will, Chiho's eyes closed, and she sank to the floor.

CHAPTER 10

Sharon ranged ahead of Acheson with great bounding strides. She'd always been able to outrun anyone on the team, besting them all in speed and endurance. But this time there was a peculiar purpose to her dash, and she ran head down, full out, as if she were competing in a field and track event as opposed to closing in on Mankind's worst enemy.

"Sharon!" Acheson called out as she neared the last corner that would bring them in sight of the other team and the maternity ward. "Slow down!"

Sharon only speeded up. As she rounded the corner, she slammed headlong into the first vampire, sending it careering into the opposite wall. The second one leaped over her with a snarling yowl as Sharon tumbled across the tiled floor. She slammed into a plastic waste basket and sent it flying. Her MP-5 tangled in its strap around her, pulled tight against her back. She went for her pistol and raised it toward the vamp she'd collided with. It glared at her and bounded away before she could get off a shot.

Around the corner, all hell broke loose as Acheson, Cecil, and Nacho opened up on the vamps. Sharon backpedaled as she was pelted with bits and pieces of sheetrock, metal studs, and insulation.

"Two-Six, what do want me to do?" she shouted into her headset microphone.

"Get to the other team!" Acheson responded. "We'll take care of these things and be there as quick as we can!"

Sharon holstered her pistol and straightened out her MP-5 as she got to her feet. "Roger that," she said.

Down the corridor, she saw a man in black standing over Claudia Nero. Beyond her, Chiho lay curled up in a ball on the floor. Farther down the hall, Julia McGuiness was sprawled face down on the floor. The man hovering over Claudia was not Rick Wallace.

It was a master-class vampire.

The vampire nodded to her and waited, hands clasped behind its back. Sharon approached slowly, eyes low.

"Three-Zero to Two-Six—how's it going back there?" she asked.

"Three-Zero, Two-Six. Still engaged. What's the SITREP from your side, over?"

"Team's down," Sharon said. "I'm about to go head-to-head with a master-class vampire, over."

"Three-Zero, do not engage, I say again, do not engage! Wait for us to—"

Sharon pulled off her headset and dropped it to the floor. Firming her grip on her MP-5, she walked toward the vampire that towered over Claudia. Claudia was on her hands and knees, her weapon lying on the floor before her. She trembled like a frightened child. The vampire waited for Sharon, as a subtle smile tugged at its lifeless lips.

More vampires dropped out of the battered ceiling in the nursery. One had been a high-society soccer mom, still wearing her low-rise jeans and Banana Republic T-shirt. Another could have been a bum from the Santa Monica Pier area, for even in death, his skin had the burnt, lived-in look of the homeless. They paid her no mind as they picked up the bawling infants and tucked them under their arms as if they were loaves of bread.

"I am Rodrigo," the vampire said. "I do hope you don't intend to waste time shooting. It does very little good, though the bullets can cause considerable pain."

"Sorry to hear that," Sharon said before she fired a burst into the vampire's thigh. It groaned as the bullets tore through its waxy flesh and shattered the femur beneath. It slammed a hand against the wall and steadied itself.

"Have some more?" Sharon emptied the clip into the vampire's chest.

In the moment it took to heal, Rodrigo glared at her with a fiery gaze that chilled Sharon to the bone as his influence wrapped itself around her mind like a powerful anaconda.

"Do not do that again," he hissed. Sharon automatically dropped the empty MP-5 to the floor.

God... he took me over so quickly!

Rodrigo stepped toward her, fully healed now. He fingered the holes in his black trousers and frowned.

"A shame," he said. "Armani. Very expensive."

"It's not like you paid for them with your own money." Sharon couldn't use her MP-5 against Rodrigo, that was true; but she could still use her tongue.

Rodrigo reached out and snatched a hold of her neck and stared into her eyes. The sounds of gunfire receded. All that she was aware of was the vampire's cold, inhuman gaze as he seemed to peer directly to the core of her being.

"You've not progressed very far... you should be on the threshold of turning, yet you're not. How is this?"

"Treatments," Sharon whispered against her will. There was no denying anything.

"'Treatments'? What kind of 'treatments'?"

"Medical treatments... to prevent me from becoming one of you." Sharon spat out the last word as if it were something foul-tasting.

The vampire grinned, but his eyes held no mirth. "You would rather be one of them?" Rodrigo nodded toward Claudia, cowering on the floor at their feet. He jerked Sharon around in a half-circle and slammed her against the desk, forcing her to look over the edge. Rick Wallace was sprawled face down on the floor, bleeding badly from multiple lacerations. His left arm was oddly bent between the elbow and wrist. "You see? Even the biggest and strongest are nothing compared to us! They're our food!"

Rodrigo spun her around to face him. She'd been told the stare of a master vampire was a terrible thing to behold. She'd accepted that at face value, but now she knew the horrible truth. One could deny a master vampire nothing once it had you under its spell.

"You will serve your purpose, whether you wish it or not," Rodrigo said. "The Master has already decided your destiny. You will be one of us. You are one of us. There will be no more delay."

And with that, Rodrigo's glare intensified, became almost explosive. Sharon gasped as she felt something inside her awaken. For an instant, she felt as if her body cavity were filled with insects, darting about amongst her internal organs, through her veins, into her very cells. Blind terror, colored with sudden agony, caused her to scream. She twisted against Rodrigo's grasp, and he released her. She tumbled to the floor and writhed at his feet, wailing.

"The pain is necessary, and I apologize for it," he said. "But your ridiculous science can't prevent you from becoming a god."

Sharon's shrieks stopped as she passed out. Rodrigo knelt and placed a hand on her forehead. His fingers gently traced the lines of her face.

"Soon," he whispered, as if to a beloved child. "Soon. Rest now."

He whirled upon Claudia, and she shrank against the wall with a cry. He seized her chin and forced her to look at him. Her eyes were wide, crazy with fear. Rodrigo could have made that terror go away if he wished, but he allowed it to linger, using it to his advantage.

"If you ever want to see your lover again, bitch, you'll do as you're told, yes? You realize that you and your friends are nothing compared to us, yes?" When she didn't answer, he seized a handful of her dark hair and tugged on it savagely. "Yes?"

"Yes! Yes, I know that..." Whatever else she had to say dissolved into incoherent sobs. Rodrigo knew from his Master that this one was as sensitive to the currents of the metaphysical realm as a true vampire, but wasn't strong enough to stand against it for long. Just being close to the essential evil Rodrigo carried could drive her mad with fear. He rather enjoyed watching her suffer in this way.

Rodrigo fixed his gaze on her wild doe-eyes, calming her just enough to ensure she could memorize a telephone number. He forced her to repeat it twice, using his power to help burn it into her mind. Satisfied, he released her and rose to his feet. He marched to where Chiho and Julia lay. He snatched up Chiho's limp form as if she were a large doll.

"No!" Claudia cried. "Don't you hurt her!"

"Then do as you were told," Rodrigo said. "Do that, and the two of you will be together forever."

He saw the nursery was empty now, all the infants having been taken back through the ceiling. He felt the newlings as they crawled through the building, each holding an infant under one arm as they did his bidding. And outside, hiding in the darkness, Anthony used his own powers to urge them on. The newlings did not disobey, so great were the powers of two master vampires. Otherwise, there would be nothing to prevent them from feeding on the infants, the sweetest of meats.

But there was a chance the newborns could be harmed, and that risk came from other humans. Outside, police sirens wailed and helicopter blades thumped. Extending his senses, Rodrigo felt a net of humans closing in on the area. And he felt a vague thrill when one of the newlings fighting the humans Acheson and Ellenshaw suddenly fell in combat. The second was only moments from returning to the dead. No matter. There were many more waiting to take their place...

A gunshot rang out, and Rodrigo snarled as a bullet passed through his neck, almost causing him to lose his grip on Chiho. He whirled to face his attacker, expecting it to be the woman's lover—perhaps Claudia wasn't as weak as he had thought. He was surprised to find it was the man he'd hurled through the window minutes ago. He had crawled around the desk, his injured arm across his chest, while his good hand held a pistol. Rodrigo frowned. Perhaps he had underestimated some of these cattle after all.

As Rodrigo looked on, the man's pistol drooped toward the floor and his eyes rolled back into his head as he passed out.

Rodrigo felt the second newling flicker and drop off his preternatural radar. It was time to depart, and in such a way that Anthony and the other newlings could escape with their precious cargo.

As Acheson led the humans came around the hallway corner, Rodrigo faced them, showing them Chiho's limp body in his arms.

"Take care you don't hurt your friend. She still lives as one of you." With that, he then turned and bounded down the hallway, leaping over the McGuiness woman as she began to stir.

Surprisingly, gunfire rang out. Rodrigo hunched over as two bullets flew past him while a third struck him center mass, exiting his chest right above Chiho's body. More bullets slapped at the floor, nipping at his legs as he ran. The humans were firing on him, even though he held one of their own!

But in no time he had reached the end of the hallway. Rodrigo leaped into the air, curled his body around Chiho's, and smashed through the window and into the night.

###

The first LAPD squad car had braked to a halt at the hospital's main entrance when the vampire crashed onto its hood, crumpling it like aluminum foil and shattering the cruiser's engine mounts. Rodrigo knelt and absorbed the impact as the car bottomed out on its suspension. He glared at the two terrified police officers inside before running off into the night.

"Two-Six, this is SHADOW, over."

Acheson ran to the window the vampire had leaped through. He leaned out and shook his head at the sight of the gathering LAPD cruisers.

" SHADOW, this is Two-Six, go."

"Two-Six, SHADOW... we've got what seems to be one individual heading down the street on foot, and he seems to be carrying one of your team. Heading northwest, toward two..."

Acheson looked to his right and saw the vampire carrying Chiho vault over two police cruisers as if they were low-lying hurdles. The two squad cars screeched to a halt.

"... ah, right over two LAPD patrol cruisers, over." From the Black Hawk helicopter orbiting overhead, Zaslow maintained a professional tone, even though he must have felt he was in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

" SHADOW, Two-Six. Keep him in sight for as long as you can! We're on our way down!"

"Roger that, Two-Six."

###

Rodrigo sprinted down the street. Helicopters clattered overhead, and sirens wailed as more black-and-whites surged into the area. Suddenly he was bathed in a pool of light as one of the aircraft shined a powerful searchlight on him. He hissed in annoyance, squinting against the glare. Footsteps fell behind him as a clutch of police officers pursued him on foot. They gave up when it became apparent that for every step they took, Rodrigo took five.

A motorcycle officer screeched to a halt in Rodrigo's path. Rodrigo laughed and overran the policeman's position before he could dismount. He slammed his shoulder into the cop's helmeted head with brutal force, driving both man and machine to the ground.

He approached a manhole in the middle of the street and set the Hara woman on the ground beside it. The metal cover was screwed into the roadway by a giant bolt. Rodrigo smashed his fist into the CITY OF LOS ANGELES legend again and again, until the cover bowed inward and the bolt holding it in place snapped like a firecracker. Rodrigo wrenched the cover from its resting place just as the first police cruiser pulled up behind him. Two more pulled around the first, boxing in Rodrigo. Doors opened, and men leaped out of the cars.

"Police! Freeze!" The patrolman closest to Rodrigo aimed his Glock pistol at him.

Another one stepped around the fender of the cruiser, pistol drawn and at the ready. "Turn around and put your hands on your head! Do it now!"

"Or you will do what, exactly?" Rodrigo said, almost rolling his eyes. He tossed the manhole cover aside as if it were a toy.

"I'll drop you, asshole!" the second cop shouted. He wore sergeant's stripes on his sleeve and a waistline that was well into its middle-age expansion. And he was frightened. One didn't need the heightened senses of the Undead to divine that the man's pulse rate was through the roof. He struck Rodrigo as one of those men who adopted a hardcore façade at the station house, but when it came to dealing with the more physical aspects of police work, he would prefer to steer clear of the action.

"Do it!" the sergeant roared.

Rodrigo sighed and turned his gaze to the first patrolman. The man shuddered slightly when he met Rodrigo's eyes, then relaxed as an enraptured expression spread across his face.

"Shoot him," Rodrigo said, nodding toward the older cop. "And then shoot the man behind you."

The patrolman immediately turned and pointed his weapon at the patrol sergeant. The older cop's eyes bugged out of his head.

"Hey, what the fu—"

He was cut off in mid-sentence by a single pistol shot. The patrolman spun and fired at the policeman behind him. He didn't have time to make a sound as the nine millimeter round punctured his skull and he crumpled to the ground.

The patrolman turned back to Rodrigo as the other cops began to panic. They alternately pointed their weapons at their fellow officer, then Rodrigo, then back again.

"Larry, what the fuck is wrong with you?" one of them shouted. "Drop your weapon! Drop it now!"

"Shoot them all, Larry," Rodrigo said.

As the gunfire began, he snatched up the still form of Chiho Hara and dropped through the manhole, disappearing from sight.

###

"Two-Six, this is SHADOW, over."

Acheson, Cecil, and Nacho were sprinting down the stairs when the Army pilot's voice came over the team's headsets. Acheson stopped on the landing and allowed Cecil and Nacho to slip past him.

" SHADOW, go for Two-Six, over." Acheson dropped in behind Nacho and stumbled down the stairs. He grabbed the handrail and steadied himself.

"Two-Six, SHADOW. This is going bad real fast. We've got multiple police officers down. Looks like they shot themselves or something. Target is gone. He escaped down a manhole. Over."

Acheson's heart lurched in his chest. Chiho! " SHADOW, what about Two-Five? The target had Two-Five—what happened to her? Over."

"Two-Six, SHADOW. Can't say for sure, but it looks like Five's gone with the target. Listen, the local airspace is getting crowded, over."

"SHADOW, Two-Six. You do whatever you need to do, over." The three men hit the last landing, slammed open the stairwell door, and charged into the corridor beyond.

"Freeze!"

"Drop your weapons, drop your weapons!"

"On the ground right now, you fucking assholes—hit the deck!"

"Police! Drop your weapons! Drop 'em drop 'em drop 'em!"

No fewer than eight police officers waited in the corridor outside, all screaming at the same time. Every weapon they had was pointed at the team. Beyond them, Acheson saw three other cops covering Ellenshaw, who was on his knees as a fourth officer placed him in handcuffs.

"Homeland Security! We're Homeland Security!" Cecil shouted back. He lowered the barrel of his SAW but didn't release it. Nacho assumed a crouch, his MP-5 shouldered but held low. His face was set in a hard mask. Acheson could tell that if push came to shove, he was ready to rock and roll right through the police.

"I don't care, put your fucking weapons down. Last chance!" shouted an older cop with gray hair at his temples. He looked more like a movie star than a street cop. The shotgun he leveled at Cecil's head was the real deal, however.

Cecil appeared not to care. "You're interferin' with a federal operation! We've got ID, everything's cleared, now get the hell out of our way!"

"Secure your weapons," Acheson said. He leaned his AA-12 against the wall and slowly unfastened the tactical carry right that held his MP-5 to his thigh. "Let's take it easy!" he said to the cops.

"Do it do it do it!" one of the cops shouted.

"Monotonous motherfucker," Cecil said as he shrugged off the SAW. He placed it on the ground and unbuckled the rest of his belts. Nacho did the same.

"TOC, this is Two-Six. Come in." Acheson spoke into his headset as he removed his weapons.

"Two-Six, TOC. Over," Licht replied.

"TOC, Two-Six. I only have time to say this once. Two-Five has been taken, along with several infants from the hospital maternity ward. Two-Eight is down and severely injured. Maybe six ghouls have been staked, but at least one master is in the area. Activate FREEFALL, and send a FLASH to Washington. At this time, we're being taken into custody by local law enforcement. Good copy on that? Over." FREEFALL was the code name for the event where the Containment Team was unreachable, the TOC would relocate to safer ground and await further direction. The relocation point was not known to the team prior to initiation, ensuring that if it were compromised, the TOC couldn't be attacked.

There was a brief pause before Licht came back. "Two-Six, TOC copies all. We're sending the FLASH now and forwarding tape transcripts as well. TOC is initiating FREEFALL, over."

Acheson made a show of removing his knapsack. He dropped it on the floor, then dumped a couple of grenades out of his pocket. They rolled about on the linoleum tile.

"Jesus Christ!" one of the cops said.

"Relax, girls, they're still safed," Nacho said. Cecil laughed. None of the cops thought it was very funny, and they kept their distance.

"Roger that, TOC. Break. Two-Seven, Three-Zero, kick it back, over."

Julia's voice came back. "Two-Six, Two-Seven, over."

"Two-Seven, is Three-Zero ambulatory?" When they'd left the maternity floor, Sharon was in an extreme fugue state. Whatever had happened to her left her semi-conscious, at best.

"Roger that, Two-Six. Back with us now, but Two-Eight is a mess."

"Understood, Two-Seven. You and Three-Zero to get clear. Leave Two-Eight where he is. We'll send medical attention for him ASAP, but I need you and Three-Zero to get out. Over."

"Roger that. We're breaking station. Out."

"All elements, this is Two-Six. Containment Team Six is going off-net. Two-Six, out." Acheson shut down his transceiver and removed his headset. He pulled the holster containing his Sig P220 and set it on the floor. Having at last shed all of his gear, he raised his hands over his head.

Once they were disarmed, the cops rushed them, slammed them to the floor and pinned them down. Cecil grunted when his face hit the tile, and Acheson caught a glimpse of blood on the big man's lower lip as the older cop with the shotgun practically kneeled on Cecil's head. The cop grinned savagely.

"Cuff 'em," the older cop said. "And get leg irons on these bastards. They don't look like Homeland, they look like a bunch of low-rent terrorists."

CHAPTER 11

A few minutes before midnight, the newlings that slinked about the hillside mansion became suddenly aggressive. It was an unnerving display, and whenever they swept their lifeless yet rage-filled eyes over him, Tremaine felt a surge of fear. Usually, Tremaine and the other servants had the protection of the masters, and the newlings were ignored. But now, just scant minutes before midnight, the boundaries of protection seemed strained, ready to snap. The other human servants went about their business as quickly as possible, avoiding the newlings wherever they could, asking for assistance from higher members where needed. Even when confronted by master-class vampires, the newlings were slow to retreat, reluctant to allow the humans to escape their hateful gaze.

It's all because of that damned mirror, Tremaine thought.

Hours earlier, after night had fallen and the vampires roused themselves from their dead sleep, the black mirror in the mansion's great room emitted a lasting basso thrum. Tremaine had been the first to notice it, and his search to find the sound's source led him to the mirror. The other human servants soon followed, drawn to it like moths to flame. But the black glass reflected nothing. Tremaine had no desire to come in contact with it. Just unpacking it had made him feel ill. But with this new turn, he liked it even less.

Even more unnerving, every now and then the black glass would ripple, as if a pebble had been skipped across the surface of a pond. It was both unsettling and queerly hypnotic. Tremaine felt that if he gazed into the wood-framed darkness long enough, he might try to walk right through it.

As for what might lay on the other side, he had no desire to know.

It was after the mirror began its strange, droning thrum that the newlings began to act more irrational than usual. There was no doubt the mirror had an effect on them as well. Perhaps not the same as it had on the human servants, but something about it clearly tickled their dead brains. The resulting outbursts of frenzied rage could be quelled only by the master vampires. Despite this, the newlings still shuffled about, grumpy and discontent, eyeing with hunger and fury the humans they'd been forbidden from hunting.

It got worse when Rodrigo and Anthony returned to the mansion.

The newlings hissed and shrieked as the two masters led their raiding party into the mansion. Tremaine could see why. Rodrigo and his entourage—semi-trained newlings he had spent nights bringing under his specific control—carried with them human infants. At least a dozen small babies of every color, white, brown, black, yellow. Caucasian, Hispanic, African, Asian, and everything in between. Newborns were an aphrodisiac to most vampires, much less mindless newlings, who lived only to feed. Even the Master's own consort, Helena, gazed at them with lustful eyes, growling in her throat, fangs bared. She bore down on one shuffling newling that carried two children in its stiff arms. A froth of cold saliva glistened on her lips.

Stahl placed his imposing form between Helena and the newling. She glared up at him, bestial noises rising from her throat. Tremaine pursed his lips as he continued with his work, arranging a mass of candelabras as ordered by the Master. He had always suspected Helena would be more trouble than she was worth. The talents she'd wielded as a human had grown under the Master's tutelage, but they made her weak, at times insufferable. Tremaine half-hoped Stahl would send her back to the grave. But that was not to be. Helena backed down like an angry cat, grudgingly, bit by bit.

The rest of the higher-order vampires filed into the mansion's great room. With an air of pomp, each took a single infant from the twitching newlings, which in turn were banished to the basement. Resentful, the newlings retreated, hissing and spitting, even fighting with each other, their yowls echoing throughout the house. Even after the doors had been shut behind them, Tremaine could hear their shrieks rising through the thick white marble floor. The upper vampires paid the ruckus no mind. Tremaine watched as the infants were placed amidst the spiraling symbols that had been drawn on the cold floor. Arranged in a circle, their heads pointed directly at the mirror.

The thrumming sensation deepened. The rippling effect Tremaine observed earlier on the mirror's surface quickened, like water nearing a vigorous boil. The air in the great room turned oppressive, and Tremaine felt fear worm its way through his gut. He looked at the babies arrayed about the mirror and saw they were glassy-eyed, complacent. How they could remain calm during such turmoil was beyond him, and he could only reason that the master vampires had paralyzed them. After all, if they could tame the ferocity of the newlings with a look, then soothing away the fears of infants would be nothing.

At last, Osric marched into the room, dressed in an immaculate black suit. His ivory skin glowed in the candlelight, and he appeared radiant, more powerful than ever. But as he stepped toward the mirror, Tremaine noted even his formidable power seemed diminished, paltry. The mirror's very presence dwarfed the most powerful being he had ever known. It did nothing to settle Tremaine's nerves.

Osric swept his gaze over Tremaine. The tide of near-panic that threatened to overwhelm him receded, and a warm calm draped itself around him like a cloak. Still... calmed though he was, he remained to be reassured.

The rest of the vampires formed a wedge with Osric at its tip. Osric faced the mirror, and knelt before the mirror reverently. The rest of the vampires followed suit. Osric kowtowed to the mirror, his high forehead touching the cold marble floor. After a time, he rose and faced the mirror.

"Agathon moirra had'gatha," he said in what Tremaine knew to be the High Tongue of the vampire clans, a language older than Osric himself. "Agathon! Had'gatha norra tsok!"

The thrumming ceased. The mirror's black glass pulsed once, then stilled.

Below, the newlings ceased their shrieking.

Silence returned to the mansion overlooking the city. Osric took his time, then with his voice pitched low continued his orations. The atmosphere in the mansion changed again, and the air grew heavy with anticipation. Tremaine's courage mounted. Perhaps things weren't going to be so horrible after all.

Then one of the infants let out a hitching whine. Tremaine looked down at the baby and saw that its face was no longer placid. A shadow of fear crossed it, revealed in the flickering candlelight. The child squirmed beneath its small blanket, as if trying to roll over on its back and crawl away. It was far too young to accomplish such actions—as a newborn, all it could do was lie on its back and accept whatever circumstances befell it. The baby filled its lungs to capacity and began to wail in earnest. Tremaine frowned. He'd never been one to admire children, especially burdensome infants. But as the rest of the newborns began to echo the cries of the first, even he felt a stirring of regret in his breast.

The mirror growled.

Tremaine's eyes snapped back to the dark mirror, and his breath caught in his throat. He saw nothing that could have generated such a noise. Even the vampires themselves were limited by the constraints of vocal cords that at one time had been all too human, and the noise Tremaine had heard could only have been released by some sort of beast. But then the low, rumbling growl cut through the air again, and the mirror's black glass trembled in unison. His mouth went dry and his heart began to race. Something was coming.

The infants continued to wail, their faces purpling in the candlelight. It was alarming to witness, even for one as detached from the human condition as Tremaine. Something about the infants' plight stirred something inside him, something primitive, something so fundamentally human that it was impossible to ignore.

What an interesting time to experience species preservation. Indeed, it was ironic. While he knew little about the ceremony conducted by Osric, he knew it would bear fruit that boded ill for his kind. But if he'd been worried about that in the first place, he wouldn't be where he was now, only steps away from grandeur.

The whole mansion trembled as the thing in the mirror growled again. This time, Tremaine saw some of the vampires glance toward Osric, their black eyes troubled and fearful. Tremaine was no longer able to dismiss the near-terror he felt, and it threatened to overwhelm him.

The babies rose from the floor, swaying as if in the embrace of a gentle breeze. Several of them emptied the contents of their bladders, and their urine showered onto the floor in a vague splattering of droplets as their cries intensified. It was difficult for Tremaine to endure the display, but he knew this was part of the price of immortality.

The infants drifted toward the mirror as Osric continued his orations. They moved slowly at first, then their flight picked up speed. All of them struck the mirror's surface in unison, and they passed right through the dark glass as if it were water. Tremaine moaned in his throat when he saw the children still visible inside the mirror, their plump bodies rotting away before his eyes as they screamed and writhed in agony. Then something huge and gray swallowed them up whole, like a hungry shark. Tremaine couldn't tell what it was, for its outline was indistinct, its movements too swift. Whatever it was snarled in pleasure before it hurtled back into the mirror's dark depths, though not before Tremaine caught a glimpse of blazing red eyes and a mouth filled with tusks.

The mansion grew silent, and Tremaine tore his gaze away from the mirror. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his shirt was soaked at the armpits. He wiped his hand across his forehead, and noticed the other human servants behind him were sprawled across the floor, either unconscious or sobbing. They had witnessed the same thing he had but had paid a far higher psychological price. His frown turned to a wan smile. Perhaps this would show the Master that he was in fact worthy of immortality, and that he had chosen his servant well.

Osric stood straight before the mirror and gazed into it. The rest of the vampires bowed their heads silently. Osric reached out and touched the mirror's black surface. It was solid now, and his hand flattened against it. The tall vampire's handsome face was split by a fanged grin.

"The Old One is pleased with us," he whispered.

###

Several hundred miles off the coast of California, clouds gathered over the Pacific. They were dark, sullen things that flashed with pent-up energy. Thunder echoed across the water as the clouds coalesced, spinning in a clockwise fashion until they merged into a single formation. Within minutes, a hurricane had formed.

Beneath the formation, a portion of the Pacific also began to spin, rotating faster and faster, until a gigantic waterspout emerged. Almost a mile across at its base, the waterspout accelerated skyward several thousand feet until it came into contact with the clouds, where it shed its moisture. The clouds, already dark with wetness, soon became black with it. Lightning flared, and the formation began drifting eastward at a speed of seven miles per hour. All the while, its rotation continued to intensify, its speed increasing.

Thirty minutes later, the formation would become the fastest hurricane in recorded history.

CHAPTER 12

Nightmares clawed at the edges of her consciousness but fled into deep shadow when she confronted them. Darkness was her ally, her friend, her confidant. Light and all it revealed was to be feared, for Light was the killer, the destroyer, the follower and protector of Man. Only the embrace of Father Darkness could protect her, keep her safe as the Family formed a protective shield between her and those who would do her harm...

No!

Sharon's eyes snapped open and she found herself back in the tank. Dressed in surgical garb, Andrew Kerr and his assistants surrounded her, their faces hidden behind masks and hoods. A bright light shining in her face half-blinded her, but when she tried to raise her hands to shield her eyes, she couldn't. She was strapped to the bed.

"Relax, Sharon," Kerr said. His voice was distant, foreign, almost alien to her ears. "The restraints are for your safety. You have to relax, so we can take care of you."

"What's going on?" she asked, and she could hear the panic in it. She struggled against the straps with all her strength. "What are you doing to me?"

Kerr grabbed her shoulders and forced her to look at him. "Sharon! Your infection count is increasing, and the more you struggle, the worse it's going to get!" He bent closer to her, his eyes boring into hers. "You must calm down. Stop fighting us. Let us help you."

"Help me?" Her heart continued to pound, and her lungs felt as if they were on fire. "What's happening to me?"

"You're having a panic attack," Kerr said. "I need you to relax."

"I'm trying," she replied.

"We need to get you back on the IV. Try not to react to the needle, all right? You know what it is, and you know that I'm trying to help you, yes?"

"I know," Sharon said through clenched teeth.

"All right, here it comes..."

The alcohol swab was like ice against her feverish flesh, the stab of the needle like a thrust from a hot poker. Sharon whimpered like a child and felt ashamed. She was a former Marine, after all—needles were nothing.

Oh God, help me—

Why bother a distant, uncaring god, my darling, when I am so near?

The voice was small and far off. Sharon wasn't even certain she hadn't imagined it.

Darling, can you hear me? Feel me?

"Who the hell is that?" she muttered.

"Who are you talking about?" She felt Kerr put a gloved hand on her forehead.

Open yourself to me, Sharon. You're mine, for I have claimed you.

Renewed fear surged through her, the most brutal fear she'd ever experienced.

"It's Osric," she said, her voice a strangled whisper. "It's Osric, and I can hear him in my head."

###

"What happened up there, Claudia?"

Claudia Nero looked at Julia as she pushed a cup of coffee into her hand. Julia's green eyes were hard and flinty, reflecting the cold core of professionalism that had managed to spirit her and Sharon away from the hospital and back to the Plant. Despite everything, Claudia had developed a grudging respect for Julia McGuiness. While she'd always known the woman's sultry voice, casual poise, and manicured looks were a cover designed to mask her true skills from the outside world, Claudia had never really seen just how accomplished she was until tonight. She'd led them past roving police patrols and had avoided detection even by police helicopters... and she'd done it without any help from her or Sharon.

But her emotional foundation was one of hardened cynicism, and Julia would recognize any attempt to mislead her. She had to be exhausted, of course—they all were, having been up for more than two days, in most cases without so much as a catnap—but Claudia had no illusions regarding Julia's prowess. She was the team's intelligence officer, and interrogation was an operational art in which she was well versed.

"You were there," Claudia said. She looked down into the ceramic mug Julia handed her. The coffee was dark and featureless, marred only by her vague reflection.

"After I was taken down, what happened then?"

They were in the Plant's conference room, and Julia had lowered the shades on the plate glass windows. Claudia couldn't see out, and no one could see in.

"Are you recording this?" she asked.

"Of course." Julia's emotional signature didn't flicker at all the way it might have if the question were a sensitive one. "Video and audio. It's procedure, and we'll need to have records of everything that happens from here on out."

"It doesn't bother me," Claudia said. She brought the cup closer to her face and sniffed it. After a pause, she sipped it. It was bitter, and not to her liking. She would have preferred tea.

"Where's Chiho?"

"I'm hoping you can tell me. The Army guys lost sight of her when the vamp went underground. That's why I need to know what happened after I was taken out, Claudia."

"I... fell apart up there." Claudia sipped more of the coffee, holding the mug in both hands. It was hot, and that was good. She felt like she couldn't get warm enough. She'd heard it was an expected psychological response from being in close proximity to the vampires—they gave off a negative psychic energy that people like her were susceptible to.

Claudia looked up from the coffee mug and across the table at Julia. She was sitting ramrod straight in her chair, her face beginning to bruise up from where the vampire had slapped her. Claudia reasoned that Julia was lucky to be alive. She'd taken one hell of a hit, and Claudia had seen how the wall cracked when she'd been hurled into it. If she'd needed any further proof that Julia McGuiness was made of strong stuff, there it was.

"After you were knocked out, the vampire that hit you did something to Chiho. I don't know what—it made her sleep. And then more vampires came in from the ceiling—ghouls. They were controlled, not wild and full of rage like they're supposed to act. I think the vamp that took you guys out was a master, and he was in charge of the ghouls. Whenever one would start to get out of hand, he'd just look at it and it would get back to business."

Julia nodded, and wrote a note on the pad before her. "Go on."

"They took the babies," Claudia leaned back in her chair and gazed at the drop ceiling overhead. "I thought they'd feed on them, but they just grabbed them and jumped back into the ceiling. They were still doing that when Sharon ran up."

Julia wrote some more. "And what did Sharon do?"

"She shot the master vamp. They talked—I don't remember what they said. And then Sharon started screaming and fell to the ground."

"What did the vamp do to her?"

"Nothing. Just looked at her."

"It never touched her?"

"No."

"All right. Then what?"

"The master vamp grabbed Chiho. Rick shot it, but it got away. It went out the window when the others came around the corner."

"It didn't say anything to you?" Julia asked. She looked up from her pad and stared at Claudia.

Claudia pressed her hands flat against the conference room table and concentrated for a few moments before looking at Julia.

"I can't remember," she said.

"Think," Julia pressed.

Claudia fidgeted. After a moment, she rose from the chair and slowly walked to the other end of the table, wringing her hands. The vampire had indeed spoken to her, passed on something very vital, something that would ensure Chiho's survival. But what? As hard as she fought to remember, it fled from her, burrowing so far into the depths of her mind that it could not be invoked by the chemical process known as memory.

"I can't remember." She turned and faced Julia, who still sat at the far end of the table. "I know we talked, but now—I can't remember!"

"They can manipulate the human mind in ways we don't understand," Julia said. "Like hypnosis, but more refined, and more lasting. Maybe even permanent." With that, Julia gathered up her pad and pen.

"Is that it?" Claudia asked.

Julia got up and looked at her. "I want you to stay here, Claudia. Don't talk to anyone, don't do anything until I get back. Do you understand?"

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure yet. But you know something, and we need to figure out what that is." Julia walked to the conference room door and pulled it open. She looked back over her shoulder.

"Stay here, Claud. Don't try and leave."

"I won't," Claudia promised. The door closed, and Claudia sat in her chair and pulled the coffee mug toward her. It was much cooler now, and what little warmth it emanated did nothing to heat her hands.

A chilling thought surfaced in her mind. Julia McGuiness was single-minded, and Mark Acheson was even more so. If they thought they knew where Chiho was, how far would they go to get that nugget of information? Might her own teammates turn against her? Claudia examined the premise as dispassionately as she could. On the surface, it sounded ridiculous. Although she didn't necessarily like all the individuals she worked with, they were all generally good people. But she understood the stakes were now unusually high. Not only had Containment Team 6 been compromised, the vampires were up to something big. Wasn't that the most important thing? Discovering what the vamps were up to, where they were, and killing them before they could carry out whatever dark plan they had in mind?

They might torture me.

Feeling colder than ever, Claudia leaned back in her chair and hugged herself. The fear she had felt for Chiho was being replaced by fear for herself... from her own teammates.

###

Like a deep sea diver slowly heading to the ocean surface, Chiho Hara drifted toward consciousness. As her faculties coalesced and she became increasingly aware of her surroundings, a small segment of her mind relished the warm blackness of the fugue state she'd been in for who knew how long. This part of her, more animal than human, feared what might await her on the other side of awareness. It fought to drag her back into the foggy nothingness, but it lost out to her innate desire to be aware. Had it a voice, this small portion of her psyche would have screamed in mortal terror.

Even fully conscious, Chiho kept her eyes closed and remained motionless. She was on what felt like a mattress, spread-eagled on her back. The air was chilly as it flowed lazily over her, and she realized that her clothing was gone. She wondered what reason the vampires had for that, then wondered further why she was still alive.

Information.

The coming hours would not be pleasant.

She focused her mind on the room that lay on the other side of her closed eyelids. She listened for any sign that she was not alone. A susurration of clothing across skin, the vague whisper of an inhaled breath, the creak of a floorboard, or perhaps the murmur of bare feet gliding across carpet. She heard none of those things, and was not surprised. After all, a vampire needed to ingest air only when it wished to speak, and it could stand motionless for hours at a time while waiting to ambush their prey. Vampires could have been clustered around her in a circle five deep, and she would have no idea.

But smell was another matter. All vampires gave off a particular musty odor. From some, the scent was almost undetectable, while from others it could be as ripe as a decomposing rat. She could smell one of the former. She was not alone, and Chiho had to struggle to control her breathing and her heart rate. She'd heard that vampires could actually hear, maybe even see, the blood racing through their quarry—

"You can't play possum with us, Chiho."

Chiho's heart suddenly raced against her will. She recognized the voice. It belonged to Helena Rubenstein. The bed creaked slightly and the faint musty smell intensified as Helena sat down on the bed next to her. Chiho clenched her teeth together as ice-cold fingertips skated down her belly and over the sweep of her bare hip. She gasped involuntarily when she felt twin needle points graze her almost hairless pubic mound.

"Hmm... do I smell Acheson in here somewhere?" Helena giggled. "I really never understood what the two of you see in each other, Chiho. Really, your body is almost as hard as his!"

The fingertips glided up the center of her belly, leisurely tracing a path between her breasts, up her neck, to the right side of her jaw. Chiho steeled herself against what she knew she would feel next: fangs sinking into an artery.

Instead, she felt a cold, wet worm crawl across her lips in sickening undulations: Helena's Undead tongue. The scent was rancid. Chiho wrenched her head away from it and almost vomited. She tried to roll over but found her wrists and ankles were bound to the bed frame. There was no escape for her. Helena laughed with an almost manic glee as Chiho frantically rubbed her lips against the flesh of her shoulder.

"Enough of this, Helena." A large hand snatched Chiho's jaw suddenly, a hand as cold as marble and strong enough to shatter bone with ease. Chiho gasped at the power of the grip.

"You know me, Miss Hara?" the new voice asked. It was a hearty baritone, lightly accented. "Even though we've never met face to face, I think you have some inkling as to who I am, yes?"

Chiho kept her eyes closed. "I know of you, Osric," she said, her voice small.

"Then you know of my power. You know I'm old enough to have seen legends born and die of old age. When your people were still trying to learn the ways of steel, I'd already lived two lifetimes. You know these things?"

"I've heard of them."

"Then open your eyes... or you'll feel my power firsthand, and it will not be pleasant."

Chiho released a quivering sigh and did as she was told.

Osric leaned over her, his pale skin gleaming in the wan light of a single nightstand lamp. His eyes were luminous, entrancing, and, at the moment, not completely threatening. Chiho avoided looking at them directly. She examined his angular cheekbones, the firm set of his heavy jaw, the sweep of his regal forehead. His dark hair was combed back from his face, the darkness split by an explosion of gray at his widow's peak. Beneath the strands of hair, Chiho saw something that resembled a faint scar.

Osric smiled thinly and released her. He straightened and touched the gray hair with his fingertips. His nails were well-tended.

"A gift from a group of Franciscan monks in Italy several hundred years ago," he told her. "One of them tried to cleave open my skull with a sword of silver. It almost worked."

Chiho turned away from him. Helena crouched on the opposite side of the bed, looking nothing like the woman Chiho had once known. The calm serenity she'd carried with her in life was gone now, swept aside by the ravages of something worse than death. Helena grinned, revealing her fangs. Murderous things danced in her eyes. Chiho faced the ceiling.

Osric made a disapproving noise and walked to the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back."Nothing to say? No declarations, no threats, no pleas?"

"Do you intend to allow me to live?" Chiho asked.

"An interesting question." Osric seemed to consider that for a long moment. "Will I allow you to live? As what? A pet? An oddity? As livestock, to birth more food for us?" The tall vampire chuckled and returned to the side of the bed, gazing down at Chiho with those horrible/beautiful eyes. Chiho kept her gaze rooted on the ceiling.

Osric reached down and stroked the sweep of Chiho's cheekbone with one cold, lifeless finger. "I assure you that you'll... continue. By this time tomorrow, you'll be well on your way to becoming one of us. Lifeless by your present standards, but immortal, forever immune to the passage of time."

Chiho squeezed her eyes shut. She fought the urge to weep.

Helena touched one of her hands. "There, there, dear Chiho," she cooed, the sound of her voice as welcome as a mouthful of ashes. "Don't be afraid... it's wonderful, really! The things we can see, the things we can do!"

Gods save me, Chiho implored. She felt hot tears seep from beneath her eyelids and was ashamed at the display of weakness. But the final truth was too much for her to bear: She would walk the earth as one of the Undead, feeding on those she had struggled to protect for so long.

"It's not her time yet, Helena. We'll leave her," Osric said. "For now."

"As you wish, my Master," Helena said sweetly. She touched Chiho's hand one last time, and then the two vampires left the room, closing the door behind them.

Chiho wept. There was nothing else she could do.

CHAPTER 13

It took over an hour for the LAPD to release the team, even though several calls had been made from Washington instructing them to do just that. The cops were totally out of their depth, and when they began discovering the decapitated corpses in the hospital, several of them wanted to hold Acheson and the others until they could properly explain themselves. It wasn't until the district chief of the FBI and the L.A. County district attorney arrived that the LAPD relented. Outgunned, they had no choice.

Jerry Licht picked up Acheson and the others in a van the team used as a general transport vehicle. It took longer than usual to get back to the Plant, not by virtue of the traffic—at this hour, most of Los Angeles was asleep—but because of the circuitous surveillance detection measures Licht took to ensure they weren't being tailed. By the time they arrived, dawn was just over an hour away.

Acheson tracked down Julia McGuiness. She was in her office, going over unprocessed data that had been pulled from the various traps set up in the communication nets of other federal and local law enforcement agencies. She didn't look as fatigued as she doubtless felt, Acheson observed. In fact, she looked as if she was fresh from a restful night's sleep. He didn't know how she did it.

She smiled when she saw him. "Glad you're back with us."

Acheson shrugged. "The LAPD feels differently. You're my new XO, Jules."

She nodded somberly. "Understood."

"Any leads on Chiho's whereabouts?" Acheson asked.

"No. Claudia wasn't able to give us much help. There was a master vamp there, Mark. It did something to her."

"Any idea what?"

"Not yet. I have her sequestered in the conference room for the moment. We should keep her out of the operational loop until we can figure out what's going on between her and the vamps." Julia drummed her fingers on the desk for a moment. "It's obvious the dreams she was complaining about earlier were influenced by Osric. He's had his mental hooks in her for a while. No telling how mature the process was, but it's likely he was able to develop it enough to establish the relationship between her and Chiho."

And between Chiho and myself? Acheson wondered. He figured it would be a mistake to assume Osric would fixate on him personally. Simply taking out their leader wouldn't be sufficient to shut down Containment Team 6. But now both the chain of command and operational manpower were threatened.

"He's fucked us up royally," Acheson said.

Julia tapped the reports in front of her. "I was going through transcripts of intercepted LAPD communications hoping to find something that might lead us to Chiho. The police are still looking. They have the utilities people opening up manholes, hoping to find the vamp that got away. But there's a lot more to it. Check this out."

Julia handed Acheson a folder. Acheson opened it and scanned the pages inside quickly. He looked up at her, his brow furrowed.

"They took infants?"

Julia nodded. "From three different hospitals. There must've been twenty-five to thirty vamps out there. So far, the death count stands at eight, mostly hospital staff and one cop who was at one of the hospitals waiting to transport an injured prisoner. This was a coordinated attack against the hospitals. Like you said, we just walked into it."

Acheson closed the file and rubbed his chin. "I can't believe this was a coincidence. Not after they took Chiho. That was a planned move, not something ad hoc."

"Then how did they get inside our decision cycle? I've done a physical security review, and as far as I can tell, we haven't been compromised."

"Sharon," Acheson said with a sigh.

"Maybe. We've known about the psychic bond between vamps and fanged humans. But I don't think any of us knew it could be so strong, so soon. After all, Sharon hadn't been showing many signs of Turning."

"How is she now?"

Julia dropped her eyes to the desktop and rolled her pen between her fingertips. "She's going to Turn. Whatever happened in the hospital, they were able to do something to her. Kerr's working against it, but he told me was the viral replication is aggressive. She may Turn as early as tomorrow night."

Acheson slumped in his chair. He rubbed his eyes, more to prevent Julia from seeing the emotion on his face than anything else.

Damn it, Sharon. I'm so sorry.

"The children will be used as part of a ritual."

Acheson straightened up. Ellenshaw stood in the office doorway, one hand in the pocket of his gray utility trousers, the other on the doorframe. He glanced over at Julia for an instant before turning back to Acheson with neutral eyes.

"A ritual of invocation, if not outright evocation," Ellenshaw continued. "I suspect Osric has a strong connection with the underworld, that part of the vampire mythos that's so unknown to us. I'd say Osric is acting as an agent now, for one of the underworld masters."

"Invocation or evocation," Acheson repeated. "What's the difference?"

"Invocation is more like a plea for help," Julia answered. "Evocation is... well, a ceremony to conjure something forth."

Acheson leaned back in his chair. "Robert, you actually believe that Osric is going to dial 911 on the occult hotline and get a boost from Satan?"

"I have no idea. I'm merely explaining why I think he took the children. Infants make notoriously bad additions to a clan. It seems they can never be trained to a standard above that of an animal. In all my years, I've never come across a turned infant. After feeding, the vamps almost always pop off the head and dispose of it."

"Okay." Acheson looked at Ellenshaw again. "Are there really forces in the underworld that Osric could call upon?"

Ellenshaw considered this for a moment and shrugged. "No one knows. We're dealing with vampires, so it's possible. While Andrew Kerr believes vampirism has its roots in virology, I happen to think it's born from pure evil. And if there's an evil strong enough to animate a corpse that has had the blood drained from it and turn it into something that's mostly invulnerable to our weapons, something that uses us as its primary food source, then yes, I believe there are things even worse than a master vampire. Not be here in the physical world, but they're there, Mark. Below the surface, out of sight, but definitely there."

Acheson looked at Julia.

"I agree with Robert," she said. "The game's gotten a lot bigger in the past six hours."

Acheson rubbed his temples. "Outstanding."

"Is there any trace of Chiho?" Ellenshaw asked.

Julia shook her head. Acheson stared at the floor.

"That's... incredibly unfortunate," Ellenshaw said. "Do we have anything to go on? Anything at all?"

"We're working on it, Robert," Acheson said.

Ellenshaw sighed. "Mark, I'm sorry to be so pedantic, but you should contact Washington as soon as you can."

"I've already sent the director all the information we have," Julia said. "He is waiting to hear from you, though."

Acheson rose to his feet. "I need to talk with Sharon first." He turned to leave, but Ellenshaw raised a hand.

"What you need to do is report to Fiedler. Let me talk with Sharon."

Acheson blinked. "You?"

Ellenshaw nodded. "I'm not as emotionally vulnerable as you are. I think I can have a more productive conversation with her at the moment."

Acheson's eyes narrowed. "Ellenshaw, I don't need you to come in here and—"

"Yes, you do!" Ellenshaw said, his voice clipped and strong. "It was bad tactics to take Sharon along in the first place! Now you've lost Hara, and another one of your team is combat ineffective. How far do you think you can get, winging it like this? Get a hold of yourself, Mark. Your people need you to be a leader right now, not a man who can't see beyond his own emotional crisis!"

Acheson stepped forward, hands balled into fists at his sides. Ellenshaw faced him squarely. Even though Acheson towered over him and could pulverize him with a single blow, the older man didn't back down. That alone forced Acheson to rein in his anger, enabling him to lock away the pain of losing both Sharon and Chiho.  Ellenshaw was absolutely right.

With a sigh, Acheson relaxed. "I'll brief Fiedler. If you can interview Sharon and see if you can get anything regarding Chiho's whereabouts or the location of the vamps, that would be great."

Ellenshaw nodded. "Of course."

He stepped aside, and Acheson stalked past, heading toward his office. Ellenshaw watched him for a moment, then looked back at Julia. She stared at him for several seconds before shrugging her shoulders.

"He'll come through, Robert. He won't give up."

Unlike you, was the unspoken rebuke. Ellenshaw knew it was true. He had given up in Arizona, when Helena was taken and the rest of the TOC team had been killed. The implied reproach reminded him that, despite his past service, he was an outsider now.

"I know he will," Ellenshaw agreed quietly. He spun on one heel and headed for the quarantine area.

###

After the night's feedings, Osric escorted Helena to her sleeping place. Though dawn was but half an hour away he was still full of energy and vigor. By counterpoint, the rest of the vampires—even the masters—were growing weary, running down. And most of the newlings had already collapsed. Osric wasn't physically present to know all of this, nor did he need to be. He knew the whereabouts of each member of his Family as if he were standing right next to them, sensed their condition as keenly as if it were his own. As he lowered Helena into her resting place, he felt the force that kept her animate during darkness ebb from her like a waning tide. If he so desired, Osric could have parted with a miniscule amount of his power to keep her awake and alert for hours, even after the vile Sun had risen. But he allowed her to return to the dead and sealed the casket lid over her, entombing her in the darkness she needed as much as she once did oxygen.

Afterward, he found himself on the mansion's balcony. The mountain air was still cold, and it stirred through the canyons, as if it too feared the coming dawn that was faintly visible to the east. Far below, the great city of Los Angeles lay spread out before him, and Osric regarded it like a raptor scanning the landscape for its quarry, his eyes sharp and hungry. Even though he had fed twice tonight—first on the dregs that trickled from the veins of the old man Schwimmer and then on a fifteen-year-old girl one of his minions had captured for him—a cold hunger resonated through his being. The power the Ancient One had granted him during the night's ceremony came with an appetite that could no longer be satisfied by mere blood alone. In a way even his fellow vampires could not sense, Osric had bound himself to the Ancient One. Although he ruled over the vampire Family, he was now a slave to the Lord of All Shadows and those who belonged to His clan. Osric had resigned himself to being a mere agent, an instrument of greater evil.

Or pure beauty, he thought to himself. When one basks in the power of the Ancients, even the darkest blackness holds rewards so lovely that few can comprehend them.

Stahl stepped out of the mansion and into what was left of the night. Osric smiled at his lieutenant. Stahl cast his gaze toward the purple smear on the horizon, and it amused Osric to see a vampire as mighty as this one still feared the rising sun.

"Worry no longer, Stahl. The humans get one last sunrise before their days come to an end. It's the least we can do, eh? Shoulder the burden of one parting inconvenience before our time arrives forever?"

Stahl looked at Osric with eyes that hadn't seen much emotion even when they were human. "I have the night's report, my master."

Stahl advised him in his usual terse way that all the hunters had returned safely, either to the mansion or to the huge warehouse full of coffins in El Segundo. The Family promised to grow by another 140 members within the next few days. Another twenty-six newlings had been born, and all had been collected without incident. The Family now stood at almost 200 strong, a veritable army and likely the largest clan outside the ancestral strongholds of Europe. It was all music to Osric's ears. Though the Family could have been ten times larger had he wished it, for the moment, stealth was still more important than size. But even a being as old as Osric still found patience the hardest of virtues to cultivate. Especially now, when all he had worked for was so near...

Osric dismissed Stahl, who hurriedly retreated into the mansion and made for the safety of his casket. Osric lingered, inhaling the scents as the air changed with the wakening of humanity. He could sense the teeming millions below, climbing toward wakefulness as the sun mounted the eastern horizon, infusing the sky there with pastels of purples and reds. But in the west, out over the ocean, darkness held fast. In fact, it swept toward the shoreline at hurricane speeds.

"Master?"

Tremaine stood at the threshold of the balcony door, looking out at Osric with fatigued, haunted eyes. Osric was disappointed. He'd hoped that Tremaine was made of stronger stuff, but the ritual he had bore witness to had affected him deeply. He hadn't a soul of blackness after all, only the appetites of a common, sybaritic deviant. Osric felt in some small way betrayed, though all of the signs had been there. It had been Osric's failing to look.

"Tremaine. You should rest," the tall vampire said.

"I will, Master. But the dawn—"

"The coming of day no longer concerns me."

Tremaine glanced at the eastern horizon, still worried. "Nevertheless... should you chance it now? In another day or two, you'll have everything you've planned for, yes?"

Osric turned and regarded the advent of dawn. In minutes, the Sun would crest the hills to the east, bringing bright sunshine to the city, the mountains, the valleys, the great sea to the west. Its probing rays would force shadow to cede its reign. Despite everything that had transpired in the past several hours, a small fear of the Sun still lingered in his mind. No matter how powerful he grew, no matter how mighty he became with the assistance of the Great Old Ones, direct sunlight could still kill him. His oldest foe would continue to hunt for him, from rise to set, and his powers as a daywalker protected him only while blanketed in shadow.

"You're to take care of the woman Rodrigo brought to us tonight. She's dangerous, so do not take your eyes off her for one instant."

Tremaine bowed his head. "As you wish, my Master."

Osric pushed past him and into the house. Fatigue tugged at the edges of his consciousness now, like a pack of wolves skulking about the fringes of a camp fire. But as he opened the cellar door, he turned back to Tremaine. He had followed his master, as was his duty.

"Tremaine, this... companion of yours. Does..." He paused, trying to determine the best pronoun for one at such gender crossroads as Tremaine's lover. "... She know what goes on here?"

Tremaine shook his head. "My Master, she knows nothing of you or the rest of the Family." He blinked quickly, and a slight sheen of sweat broke out across his brow. Osric smiled.

"You didn't think I knew of her?" he asked.

"I..." Tremaine struggled with the words for a moment. "I hadn't thought you cared to know how I spent the daylight hours, my Master."

Osric laughed and placed a cold hand on Tremaine's shoulder. "Bring her to us tonight, Tremaine. The city of Los Angeles will meet its end. Best she watches it by your side, yes?"

"Thank you, my Master!"

Osric acknowledged Tremaine's appreciation with a curt nod. He disappeared into the cellar, and Tremaine closed the door just as the first bright rays of sunshine crested the mountaintops and fell across the mansion.

CHAPTER 14

"I understand you've had a very interesting night, Mark." Erskine Fiedler was nothing if not a master of understatement. "I've been in contact with liaisons in various other agencies. You've caused quite a stir out there. I'm hoping you can take the time to brief me on it." There was little warmth in Fiedler's voice. Acheson glanced at the clock and saw it was after six in the morning, which made it nine o'clock in Washington.

Acheson leaned back in his office chair and gazed at the drop-down ceiling overhead. The fluorescent lights hummed in the quiet. He cradled the phone against his shoulder and rubbed his temples with both hands.

"Yes, sir." Acheson gave Fiedler the Cliff's Notes version of all that had transpired in the past several hours, beginning with the raid and ending with the team's release by the Los Angeles Police Department. He omitted nothing while keeping the report as concise as possible. It was what they in the military called a "pulse" and conveyed only the bare essentials, devoid of embellishment.

"Is the team still mission capable, Mark?"

"Yes. If we can find the lair, we can take it out. But we can't get into a decisive engagement—we need to isolate them and wipe them out all at once."

"They're inside a heavily populated urban environment. The collateral damage—"

"Director, this is more than just a vampire clan taking refuge in a large city. They're after more than just food now."

"Agreed. But we haven't been successful at penetrating Osric's decision cycle. We don't even know where his damned Family is."

"We're trying, director."

Fiedler was silent for a moment, then said, "This is interesting."

"What's that?"

"Do you have a television or a computer near you?"

Acheson reached for the keyboard on his desktop and logged into his workstation. "I'm online right now."

"Go to CNN. There's something of interest occurring out in the Pacific."

"The Pacific?" Acheson opened a web browser and typed in the address for CNN's web page. A moment later, the screen filled with the site's leading story: MASSIVE HURRICANE HEADING FOR SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA. The story's lead-in read, City of Los Angeles most probable target.

"What the hell is this?"

"The Navy has a carrier group in the vicinity," Fiedler said. "I've asked our DoD liaison to get me the details on that. I need to put you on hold for a moment." The phone went silent, and Acheson read the article carefully while waiting for Fiedler to return. At just after midnight Pacific Time, the USGS had detected a small earthquake registering 3.3 on the Richter scale in the Pacific, several hundred miles from the California coastline. The temblor had taken place at least a mile beneath the sea bed itself. An hour later, the storm formed in the same vicinity. The article explained that most hurricanes came to life when there was a marked difference between the temperature of the air that formed them and the temperature of the ocean that fed them. Could an earthquake be tied in to that? And might whatever Osric be playing at be a factor as well?

Vampires and weather control? That's a new one...

"Back with you, Mark. Check your e-mail, I've just sent you something you might find interesting."

Acheson logged into his e-mail and double-clicked on the attachment Fiedler had sent. He leaned forward and studied the image that filled his screen. The black-and-white picture was grainy, apparently taken through a night vision imaging system. He could make out rough seas, and what looked like the vacant deck of an aircraft carrier extending into the gloom. White-topped waves surrounded the vessel. On the horizon, something dark and serpentine wound its way skyward until it disappeared into a mass of turbulent clouds. At the bottom of the photo, GPS location data and the legend USS Ronald Reagan had been stamped into the photo, along with the date and time. The picture had been taken only an hour ago.

"What am I looking at?"

"I'm told it's a water spout," Fiedler said. "And a large one, almost 200 feet across at its base. There is apparently an undersea volcano erupting, and it's generating the water spout. It's pumping thousands of gallons of warm seawater into the cloud cover, and that's created the storm."

A surge of anxiety left a pit in Acheson's stomach. There was no rational connection between what was happening in Los Angeles and the formation of the hurricane in the Pacific, but he found it impossible to ignore.

"I spoke with Robert before I called," Acheson said. "We discussed the kidnapped infants I told you about. He seems to feel they were probably taken for use in some type of ritual."

"Sacrifices?"

"We don't know. But Ellenshaw seems to think they would be used in some sort of invocation, or evocation. This is outside my usual scope, but if he's right, then it might have something to do with what we're seeing here."

Fiedler said nothing for a long time.

"Director?" Acheson prompted.

"The Navy reports that illumination levels have fallen dramatically due to the cloud cover," Fiedler said. "No one has provided any specifics, but if it's true, then the vamps could use this to their advantage. To effectively turn day into night."

The pit in Acheson's stomach yawned into a chasm. "Holy shit."

"Yes. Holy shit indeed."

###

"I can't have you disturbing her now. She's had a terrible setback, and we need to get it under control." Andrew Kerr had adopted an almost petulant tone that Ellenshaw might have found humorous under different circumstances. At this moment however, he found it difficult to contain his anger at the portly researcher's sudden obstreperousness.

"Sharon is going to Turn." Ellenshaw held up Sharon's medical charts. "Here's the proof. You've done your best, but she's beyond our help."

"Giving up is not an option!" Kerr's face flushed crimson.

"But giving her a quick and merciful death before she can become one of them most certainly is."

"You have got to be kidding me." Kerr looked at Ellenshaw with angry eyes. "You're telling me it's time to give up?"

"What I'm telling you is that we have very little time left to get whatever information she can give us on Osric. Once she Turns, she's of no value to us. She is a strategic asset that we must make use of."

Kerr glared at Ellenshaw for several seconds, then turned and looked through the tank's thick Plexiglas wall. Sharon lay on a hospital bed, actively monitored by machines and personnel alike.

"I can't believe it's come to this," Kerr said softly.

"I don't like it either," Ellenshaw said. "But we have to play the hand we're dealt."

"I'm not upset that I'm losing," Kerr said. "I'm upset because I like Sharon. We were never close, but I do like her."

Ellenshaw smiled. While Andrew Kerr was a brilliant scientist, he was not renowned for his warmth. Ellenshaw knew such an admission was hard for him. He put a hand on Kerr's arm. Kerr looked back at him with eyes that brimmed with unspoken emotion.

"I have to do this," Ellenshaw told him. "It's either me or Acheson, and I think it's best if it's me."

Kerr nodded. With a heavy sigh, he reached for the keypad beside the airlock door. He punched in the access code, and the door cycled open.

"Will I need a gown or mask?" Ellenshaw asked.

Kerr shook his head. "You can't contract the virus from casual contact."

"Actually, I was asking on account of Sharon."

"Catching a cold is the least of her worries now."

Ellenshaw nodded and stepped through the airlock. Kerr closed it behind him, and electric motors whirred as locks moved into place. Ellenshaw's ears popped as the air pressure inside the airlock increased minutely, and then the inner airlock door clicked open. Ellenshaw pushed through it, and it closed automatically behind him. On the other side, the nurse tending to Sharon watched him from behind her surgical mask.

"Is she sedated?" Ellenshaw asked.

"Yes. Less than half a milligram of Midazolam, just enough to keep her calm. But she's not very lucid."

"Understood. Thanks."

The nurse slipped out. Ellenshaw stood over Sharon's bedside and looked down at her. Her eyes moved restlessly behind closed lids, and her hands twitched slightly. Her skin was pale. He placed his palm on her forehead. Her skin was cool and clammy. Whether it was from the sedative or the virus, he couldn't tell.

Sharon's eyes opened slowly. Ellenshaw removed his hand and smiled as warmly as he could. She stared up at him for a moment, then swallowed with great effort.

"Professor." Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Yes. Are you comfortable?"

"Groggy," Sharon said.

"You've been given a light sedative."

"Nothing light about this." Her words came haltingly, as if she had to concentrate on them. Sharon seemed to drift off. Ellenshaw was about to rouse her when her eyes snapped open. She turned her head toward him and made an effort to focus on him.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

Ellenshaw pulled a stool close and perched on it. He took one of her hands in his own. Her return grip was surprisingly strong.

Ellenshaw said, "You feel the vampires, right? Can you feel them during the day?"

Sharon shook her head. "No. They disappear. Sleep."

"Even Osric?"

Sharon shook her head again. "Always sense him."

"Even during the day?"

"Uh-huh. Not as strong. But still there."

"And he can sense you as well?"

"Think so."

"Can you tell us where they are?"

Sharon shook her head.

Ellenshaw frowned with disappointment, even though he had known it wouldn't be that easy. He patted Sharon's hand.

"All right," he said. "Maybe you can tell us more about Osric himself. He's here in the Los Angeles area, yes?"

Sharon nodded. "Of course."

"How close to us is he?"

"Not far. Miles. Ten. Twenty. When at the hospital... seemed closer."

Ellenshaw leaned closer. "What is he like, Sharon?"

Sharon was silent for a long moment. She stared up at the ceiling, and Ellenshaw thought she had faded out. But she focused her gaze on him again.

"Arrogant... but bored. Lived so long... needs challenges. Wants to lead... all vampires."

"All vampires... You mean he wants to rule all vampires? Here in the US?"

"World," Sharon replied. "Everywhere."

"I see. And why did he come to Los Angeles?"

"Challenge," Sharon responded. "From team. Sun.

Everything. City so big... so many people. Also needs people for something... don't know what."

"A ritual?" Ellenshaw pressed.

Sharon's eyes rolled toward the ceiling again. Ellenshaw cursed the sedative.

"Don't know," Sharon whispered. "But he needs to see it."

"What does Osric need to see?"

"Los..." Her eyes fluttered closed as she slipped into unconsciousness. Ellenshaw sat upright on the stool, irritated. He would have to speak to Kerr about taking her off the sedative. There was little time left.

He thought about what she had said before going under. Los Angeles? Lost? What did Osric need to see?

CHAPTER 15

With aching slowness the minutes turned into hours for Claudia Nero. It was hard for her to sit and wait when she knew something was happening. She couldn't put her finger on it, but whatever it was, it tweaked her senses like a lighthouse beam slashed through a dark night. Her particular psionic talents—empathy, the ability to read emotions, and psychometry, in which she could divine the past history of an object or event—were operating with an intensity she'd never before felt. They were no longer wild. She could control them, switch them on and off at will, but even in the "off" mode, they twitched and stirred. Her psychometric talent was the easiest to manage, since it depended on her coming into contact with something that had absorbed enough psychic energy to leave a residue, and other than the conference room table (two of Kerr's assistants had made violent love on it almost a week ago), there was nothing else to tweak it. But her empathic skills were clicking on and off, activated by something as simple as someone walking past the closed door. Claudia reached out with that sense, pushing it out before her like some giant hand. The hand's psychic fingertips brushed against the emotional signatures of everyone in the Plant: Acheson, as he wrestled with copious amounts of grief and regret; Julia, who kept her feelings bottled up behind a thick facade of discipline; Cecil, trying to reach a part of his mind where he could always find peace, only to discover it eluded him; Nacho, edging toward sleep as he patted the head of a large chocolate Labrador retriever; Kerr, struggling with his own anxieties, brought on by Ellenshaw, who he suddenly resented; Ellenshaw himself, growing fatigued and irritated with Kerr in kind; and Sharon, who was now barely a glimmer on Claudia's new-and-improved empathic radar, slipping in and out of drug-induced fugue states. She captured all of these impressions in an instant, along with impressions from everyone else in the Plant, from the lab technicians processing biological specimens taken from Sharon to the intel analysts chipping away at the amassed electronic intelligence collected overnight. She extended her empathic power's reach even farther. The physical world slid away from her as she floated about, connected with the great hand that had become her universe and provided all the sensory input she needed.

In the distance, at the very edge of her newfound ability, she sensed something vague yet achingly familiar. Like a snowflake lying in a field of fresh snow, one shape among millions, but one Claudia knew intimately. The sudden discovery caused her heart to race, and the abrupt adrenaline surge almost cost her the tenuous grip she had on the distant signature. She forced herself to concentrate on her connection to the indistinct pulse. She let her power brush against it.

Chiho.

Claudia reigned in her excitement over the sudden discovery and tried to draw it closer, but it was like clutching at smoke. She couldn't read the specifics of Chiho's situation. She was alive, that much was certain. But was she alive as a true human or, like Sharon, lying at the doorway to a different kind of existence? Still her heart leapt. Chiho was alive!

Suddenly the connection wavered and faded. Claudia despaired, and she seized onto it with everything she had. It was no use. The signature dwindled until she could perceive only the merest glimmer of it at the far edges of her perception.

"Claudia?"

The voice came to her as if from a great distance. As if separated from her by a world of dreams, something shook her, something distant and unimportant. Claudia felt as if she were still floating, but this time downward, returning to earth.

She was back in the conference room. Julia and Kerr were on either side of her. Kerr held Claudia's left wrist in her hand, measuring her pulse, while Julia stared into her eyes.

"Claud? Can you hear me?" Julia asked.

"Yeah. Yeah..." Claudia felt dizzy for a moment before everything snapped into place, and the vertigo departed.

Julia frowned. "You all right?"

Claudia nodded, even though a terrible lassitude enveloped her. Sweat covered her body, and her heart hammered in her chest. She was surprised at how exhausted she felt.

Julia looked over her head at Kerr. "Andrew?"

"She's had an episode," Kerr responded. "She's been Seeing, but it must've lasted for quite some time."

"I controlled it," Claudia whispered. "I made it happen."

Julia and Kerr exchanged glances again. Kerr ponderously rose to his feet and looked down at her, cupping her head in his hands. He stared into her eyes.

"Pupillary dilation is fine... her eyes are normally reactive now. You said you could control it, Claudia?"

"Yeah."

"Well. Don't do it again. Whatever you did, it's taken quite a physiological toll."

"I could feel Chiho," Claudia told him. "Just barely. She's alive."

"Really." Kerr's tone was skeptical.

"You're upset with Ellenshaw," Claudia told him. "And he's pissed with you. The two of you just had an altercation. Am I right?"

Kerr exchanged another look with Julia. "Yes," he said, but did not elaborate.

"I could feel everyone in the Plant," she continued. "Everyone. I could feel what they were feeling, and what's more, I actually got some imagery from their feelings. Nacho's with a brown dog, a Lab, somewhere nearby. Am I right?"

Julia nodded. "He had his dogs brought in forty minutes ago. You've never seen the dog compound he has east of here, have you, Claud?"

Claudia shook her head. "I'm allergic to animal dander." She tapped the conference room table and looked at Kerr. "Yi-Ting and Terry Hwang are having an affair, doctor. They got it on right here on this table last week. Go ask, but be discreet—they're married, only not to each other."

Kerr looked embarrassed. "I don't think we need that kind of detail, Claudia."

Julia asked, "You can really feel Chiho?"

Claudia nodded.

"Is she...?"

"Alive? Yes. Not like Sharon."

"What do you mean?" Kerr asked.

Claudia looked at him. "Sharon's more than half-dead already. She's going to Turn, and whatever you've done won't stop it."

Kerr sighed and looked at Julia. "Do we continue?"

"Continue with what?" Claudia demanded.

Julia met her gaze, and the hard shell of discipline surrounding her did not waver. "The vamps did something to you in the hospital, Claudia. We need to know what it was. You can't or won't recall, but you've been fundamentally changed."

"Not because of anything the vamps did to me," Claudia countered. "Something else. Some sort of... power. And it's growing, all over the city."

"Which is why we're here," Julia continued. "We need to know what was done to you, Claudia, and if possible, why. We have to be... aggressive about it."

"I've already told you everything I can."

"I know. But you can't tell us what you don't consciously know." As she spoke, Kerr opened his doctor's bag, which sat beside him on the table. He pulled out a leather case and unzipped it. Inside were two syringes and several needles, still in their sterile wrappers. Kerr reached back into the bag and produced a bottle of clear liquid. He tore open one of the syringes and fill it with the liquid.

"What's that?" Claudia asked nervously.

"A very light sedative that will make you more responsive to questions," Kerr replied. He placed the bottle of liquid on the tabletop, then tapped the side of the syringe. Despite his cool facade, Claudia saw he didn't like doing this.

Claudia looked at Julia, who hovered by her right shoulder. Unlike Kerr, Julia was very good at masking her emotions, but she couldn't control everything. She was stressed. She didn't like this either.

"You can't be doing this," Claudia said.

"It won't be harmful," Kerr said as he pulled antiseptic swabs from his bag. "There will be no long-lasting effects. The sedative is processed by the human body very quickly and should be inert within two hours."

"Relax," Julia said. She put a hand on Claudia's shoulder, and Claudia jerked away from her, pushing back in her chair.

"You can't be doing this!" she said.

Julia grabbed her shoulder again, this time firmly. The grip communicated to Claudia that she was in control. Her fingertips expertly exploited the muscles there, and Claudia felt a slight twinge of pain. Julia's expression was neutral, but her emotional signature said it all: she was ready to go much farther if necessary.

Claudia was terrified.

"Mark's authorized this." Julia's voice was tight and controlled.

"But I told you everything I know!" Claudia wailed. Kerr stepped around the table, syringe in one hand, and alcohol swab in another. He had slipped on latex gloves.

"We know," Julia said. "We don't think you're in control, Claud. The vamps did something to you, like they did something to Sharon, and we need to find out what that is."

"Sharon was fanged, I wasn't!"

"Claudia." Kerr's voice was calm and businesslike, and he met her gaze directly for the first time since coming into the room. "What I'm about to do is not harmful. If it was, I wouldn't be doing it. Trust us to take care of you right now."

Claudia turned to Julia. "You're doing this because it's what Acheson wants, right?"

"No one wants this, but this is how it has to be."

"I guess I'm fucked no matter what," Claudia said. "And here I was, thinking I was part of a team."

Julia softened a bit. "You are part of a team. But they have Chiho. We need to get to her back while she's alive."

Claudia sighed through clenched teeth. She didn't like this one bit, but she knew she'd been manipulated somehow during the raid on the hospital. She could remember almost everything... except for that window of time between when Sharon fell to the floor screaming and Acheson and the others were on the scene. It couldn't have been more than two or three minutes... but she'd been allowed to live for a reason. As much as she feared the interrogation Julia and Kerr were proposing, she was deathly frightened of doing something that might compromise Chiho.

Even if she loves Acheson, I still love her.

She relaxed to the best of her ability and settled into the chair. "Let's get this over with," she said, as she rolled up her right sleeve.

###

"She needs to be taken off the sedatives."

Acheson sighed and rubbed his eyes. He looked across his small desk at Ellenshaw. The older academician's poise resembled that of a tense feline that had been backed into a corner by a formidable predator.

"Talk to Kerr, Robert. If he thinks there's a chance of keeping Sharon from Turning—"

"He can't," Ellenshaw said.

Acheson leaned back in his chair. It creaked beneath his weight. He crossed his arms and glared at Ellenshaw.

"You don't know that."

"Correct. But Kerr does, and he's admitted it to me." Ellenshaw leaned toward him, putting his elbows on the desktop. His expression was intense. Acheson couldn't recall a time when the older man seemed as animated. "We need her, and we need her straight, not doped up. She's barely lucid now."

"Funny, you were the one criticizing my decision to utilize her last night."

"It would have been more prudent to leave her here, where the vamps couldn't get to her again. But maybe she can be of even greater value now that they've... altered her." Ellenshaw grimaced. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be insensitive."

"Yeah. Whatever." Acheson stared holes through Ellenshaw's head for a few moments, then looked up at the ceiling. His analytical side advised him that Ellenshaw was right and they should allow Sharon to emerge from the drug-fogged stupor she was in. Her developing senses would sharpen as the link between her and Osric continued to mature, possibly enabling her to act as a type of bloodhound. But for how long? What if the link between Sharon and Osric only served to hasten her Turning? Acheson knew that Sharon would want to treasure the remains of her fading humanity for as long as possible...

Or was that his selfishness talking? Was it Acheson who wanted to savor what was left of her? If I wanted to share her last moments, then why am I in here instead of with her in the quarantine area?

The answer was simple. Because you're chickenshit, Acheson.

"Mark?"

Acheson roused himself and looked back at Ellenshaw. He was tired, almost numbingly so. He would have to break down and take some stimulants if he was going to stay operational.

"Mark," Ellenshaw said again.

"What the fuck do you want, Ellenshaw?" Acheson said loudly. He knew his voice traveled far beyond the walls of the small office, and he regretted his outburst immediately.

"Sorry," he muttered.

Ellenshaw ignored the apology. "What I want is for you to make a decision. We're not getting any do-overs. Either get her off the sedatives and let her help us, or walk into the next fight with one arm tied behind your back. You need to wake up and realize we're close to losing, and that storm is going to be here in a few hours. It's going to be their cover, slowing down all the authorities long enough for them to do whatever the hell it is they're planning."

"I don't need you to tell me what I already know!"

"Apparently you do," Ellenshaw shot back. "How much handholding will you need to get through this, Mark? Chiho's gone, and Sharon's going—"

"Are you going to sit there and tell me you've moved past what happened to Helena?" Acheson asked with a sneer. "Let me tell you something, old man... when it comes time for Sharon to turn, I'll be the one making sure she doesn't go all the way. I'll take her out while she's still at least a little bit human. You think you can take out Helena, even now?"

Ellenshaw looked away. When he spoke, his voice shook slightly. "I don't know. I thought it's what I came back for... to try and give her some peace. But I honestly don't know if I'll be able to."

The pain in Ellenshaw's voice resonated with Acheson. He managed to get himself under control. "I'll speak to Kerr. Sharon will do whatever she has to in order for us to get to Osric, but she's still going to end up in the same place. I just want it to be as peaceful for her as possible."

Ellenshaw nodded. "I understand." Then, after a moment: "She does have a say in this. She can refuse, if she thinks it's going to cost too much."

Acheson snorted and shook his head. "She's a fighter. If there's even a remote chance she can gouge Osric in the eye before it's over, she'll do it."

Ellenshaw nodded again and fell silent. Acheson looked past him as Julia appeared in the doorway. She was haggard and drawn. Behind her, Andrew Kerr loomed.

"I'm sorry, Mark. We got nothing from her." Julia leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and crossed her arms. She looked down at the floor. Behind her, Kerr leaned against the white cinderblock wall, his hands clasped behind him, his head also bowed.

"Claudia wouldn't cooperate?" Acheson asked.

"Whatever they did to her, they buried it deep," Kerr said from the hallway. "She wants to know what it is herself, but they covered it very well. The only way we'll know what they did is to wait for it to be triggered."

"Is there any chance that nothing was done to her?" Ellenshaw looked at the three of them, one at a time. "You realize it would be just like Osric to toy with us like this. To turn us against each other—"

"She's changed," Julia said. "It seems here power is off the hook. Something's been done to her."

"Then keep her out of the cycle," Acheson said. "Leave her locked up in the conference room, or wherever she can be monitored and controlled."

Julia nodded.

"Andrew?"

Kerr looked up from the floor at Acheson. "Yes?"

"Take Sharon off the sedatives. We're going to need her after nightfall, when they start waking up."

Kerr looked at the tiled floor again. "I presume there's no use trying to talk you out of that."

Acheson shook his head. "How long until the drugs clear her system?"

Kerr straightened and pushed his hands into his pockets. "Three to four hours. I was liberal with the dosage. I thought it might help postpone the inevitable."

"Get her off it. And start handing out some uppers—we're all starting to crash."

Kerr nodded again. He pushed away from the wall, just as a wiry intelligence analyst stormed up. Kerr didn't notice him, and the smaller man fairly bounced off Kerr's bulk. The analyst was carrying several sheets of paper, and they exploded into the air as he pinwheeled his arms, trying to maintain his balance.

"Sorry," Kerr said, steadying the man before he crashed to the floor. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, fine," the man said. He sank to his knees and gathered up the papers.

"What's up, Drew?" Julia asked.

The analyst jumped back to his feet and shoved the pages at her. "Read this," he directed. "The first two paragraphs, that's all you'll need."

Julia did as he asked, her expression growing animated.

"Holy shit," she muttered.

Acheson walked around his desk as Ellenshaw and Kerr closed on her. Julia shoved one sheet of paper at Acheson. "Just read the headline," she told him.

Acheson took the page. The headline read LOCAL COFFIN MAKER SELLS BUSINESS; AREA WORKERS LAID OFF

"They have a coffin factory," Julia said, her voice brimming with excitement. She passed the rest of the papers to Acheson. "That's why there haven't been many bodies turning up—they've been hiding them in a coffin factory!"

CHAPTER 16

"Army's gone," Jerry Licht reported. "They have orders to bug out before the storm rolls in." He nodded toward the flat screen television hanging from the wall nearby. It was tuned to KNBC, and the weather was on constantly. Los Angeles was headed for a beating, and hadn't much time to prepare.

Acheson bowed his head. What remained of the team had gathered in the conference room after Claudia was transferred to one of the vacant offices under the care of a nurse. She was still loopy from the drugs Kerr had administered, but she wasn't a danger to the team or herself at this point. And they needed the conference room.

Fiedler's voice came from the overhead speakers. "I can't prevail on their commanding officer to leave the Black Hawk in place, Mark. If he feels the storm puts his aircrew or helicopter at risk, I can't talk him out of it. I even went to the commanding general at Army Special Operations Command, and he said the same thing. It's the Night Stalkers' call."

"And the FAA's grounded all other air traffic, other than medical and law enforcement," Acheson said. "We need to get to El Segundo as quickly as possible, director. With the traffic, there's no way we can get there before the storm hits."

"I've asked the LAPD and the National Guard if they can assist," Fiedler advised him. "I've even asked the fire department. There are simply no aviation assets available. I'm still trying, but..." Fiedler's voice trailed away, leaving only the hiss of the open line connecting the conference room to his office in Virginia.

Acheson straightened up. "Then we'll do it the old fashioned way. We'll go to the manufacturing site, and if we can verify it's being used to warehouse vamps, we'll torch the place."

"We'll have the area under satellite surveillance soon," Fiedler said. "The Air Force is retasking a satellite that has radar imaging capability. I'm told it can see through the clouds without any problems."

"That'll help, director. Thanks."

"Is there anything else from your end?"

"Nothing," Acheson said.

"Very well." Fiedler paused for a moment, then added, "I wish there was more I could do from here. I'll keep working it, but this storm has tied my hands. I've got everyone from LAPD to FEMA asking questions about us and what we do, and the White House is getting antsy about that. As such, it's been 'suggested' we keep as low a profile as possible."

"None of that's gonna keep us alive for very long," Cecil said under his breath. He sat at the far end of the table with his feet up, and he had the misfortune to be sitting next to one of the conference room's teleconference microphones.

"I understand your sentiment, Mr. Hayes," Fiedler said, as unflappable as always. "All I can do is wish you the best of luck."

Cecil scowled and began to reply, but Acheson waved him to silence.

"Director, we need to get going. I'll update you from the road."

"Understood, Mark. Godspeed." The connection went dead.

Acheson looked at the assemblage. They were all there, or at least those who were left: from the containment team, Cecil Hayes, Julia McGuiness, and Nacho Delgado; from the TOC team, Jerry Licht, Andy Cosmatos, Will Fenster, and Danielle Kirkpatrick. And, of course, Robert Ellenshaw. Not much of a fighting force.

"You heard the man, folks. The city's battening down for the hurricane, and when that hits, the possibility of us getting any outside help goes to zero. We've got to be at the top of our game if we're going to get through this, so we're going to have to work twice as hard. Questions?"

No one had anything. Acheson looked at the TOC commander, Jerry Licht. "Jerry, you have the overwatch and rally points programmed into your GPS systems?"

Licht nodded.

"Then get going. Best of luck."

Licht nodded again and led his team out of the conference room. All of them were armed, with weapons as well as the knowledge of what had happened to their predecessors the last time the team had engaged Osric. No one was taking any chances, but Acheson thought the entire TOC team looked a little scared. Good. Fear would help keep them alive.

"Robert, go with them." Acheson nodded toward the door the TOC team had just disappeared through.

Ellenshaw frowned. "Mark, you need every gun you can get!"

"Go with the TOC team, please."

"Mark—"

Acheson looked at Ellenshaw with dull, exhausted eyes. "For God's sakes, Robert, this isn't personal. If we get taken out, someone else is going to have to pick up the pieces. The TOC team doesn't have that experience. If our tickets get punched, you'll be the only game in town."

Ellenshaw checked his protest. He nodded his assent and walked to the door, then paused at the threshold. Great emotion played across his face.

"Best of luck to you all," he whispered, then he stepped out of the room.

"How touching," Cecil said.

"Let's saddle up," Acheson told them. "It's going to take us hours to get to El Segundo."

CHAPTER 17

The evacuation traffic was murderous. All lanes of the I-10 East and I-5 North were clogged; the 405, the worst highway in Los Angeles even on a good day, was loaded up in both directions. Sig alerts ruled the day, especially since the advancing system had made air and sea travel difficult. Soon, the rail system would have to be shut down. There would be no way for passenger or cargo trains to operate in 100 mile per hour winds.

It was the people who intended to wait out the storm who posed the greatest threat. They stayed to the surface roads and shunned the interstates, speeding this way and that to get last minute supplies. They were the most frantic: running through traffic lights, double- and triple-parking along the streets, physically fighting for access to supermarkets. This group was the biggest problem for Acheson and his two teams, who had no choice but to stick to the surface roads because the I-10 was reserved for outgoing traffic. Cecil's hulking Excursion led the way; Acheson followed in his black Crown Vic. Both vehicles straddled the yellow line and forced opposing traffic to yield. When it didn't, Cecil shouldered the traffic aside with the huge SUV's reinforced bumpers. Any arguments that might have ensued were silenced when the team members flashed their automatic weapons. In fact, Nacho had to use his MP-5 once when the gang-bangers driving a Camaro tried to give pursuit. Eight rounds into the Camaro's grille, and the driver and his passengers bailed out and ran.

"Very low profile," Acheson said as he drove. One of Nacho's dogs panted in his ear.

"Whatever works." Nacho admonished the three dogs in the back seat to sit. The chocolate Labrador leaned forward again, panting into Acheson's ear. Nacho pulled on the dog's harness and chided him. The dog whined, then hunkered down on the floor behind the front seats.

"They're spooked," Nacho said. "I've never seen them like this. They're shaking all over."

"Must be my driving," Acheson said.

Nacho shook his head. The western horizon was darkening now as thick clouds rolled in. He safed the MP-5 and leaned back in the seat.

"Don't be so self-centered, man. Your driving ain't nothin' to write home about, but it's definitely second fiddle to what we got comin' up."

Acheson glanced up as a cloud crossed over the sun and obscured its light for a few moments before passing on. He wondered if this would be the last time he would ever see it, feel its warmth, drink in its vitality.

He put aside his dread and concentrated on punching through the thick traffic ahead. Beside him, Nacho talked soothingly to the dogs in the back seat.

###

—down by the water—

—casket factory—

—El Segundo—

—never really been there—

—All of them?—

Disjointed snippets of conversation penetrated the hazy fog surrounding Claudia as she rolled in and out of consciousness. They made no sense to her. At the moment, nothing did. The pall that continued to alternately lift and then descend left her disoriented. Gradually, the effects of the drug Kerr had administered faded. She came to realize she had been listening to a whispered conversation between two of Kerr's nurses.

Claudia opened her eyes and found she was lying on a cot in a small office. The nurses stood just outside the doorway, talking softly. Now that she was awake, Claudia was chagrined to discover that she could no longer really hear the conversation. It didn't matter; she reached out with her empathic fingers and immediately felt the nurses' distress. They were nervous. Claudia tried to push herself to her elbows, but a sudden squall of dizziness forced her back. She settled for raising her hands to her face.

"She's awake," one of the nurses observed. Claudia heard them step inside the office, and one bent over her.

"Claudia? How do you feel?"

Claudia tried to recall the woman's name. Karen? Catherine? She was a young, fresh-faced UC graduate who had worked at the Plant for several months, but Claudia couldn't remember her name. She rubbed her eyes.

"Like shit."

The nurse listened to her heart through her stethoscope, and took her blood pressure. She was quick and efficient, but Claudia read the worry that pulsed from her as if it were linked to her own heartbeat.

"You'll be feeling better in no time," she told Claudia. "Your body's already metabolized most of the sedative, so you should be a hundred percent soon."

Claudia grunted and looked around the small office. Her cot had been set beside the desk, and the two pieces of furniture took up nearly the entire room. There were no windows save those that overlooked the hallway, and the lights had been turned off. Claudia presumed the semi-darkness was intended to smooth the transition from drugged state to sober. All it did was increase her sense of dread. Is it nighttime already?

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Just a little after four," the other nurse said. She was a short, hippy Hispanic woman with a face that was not aging well. Claudia recalled her name as Miranda.

"Where am I?"

"In an office in the Plant," Miranda said. "Doctor Kerr wanted to put you someplace where you could recover peacefully. You'll need to lie here and let your system process the drug a little longer, but you'll be fine. No sudden moves or anything, okay?"

"Okay," Claudia agreed. Not that she was ready for sitting up, much less anything that might be defined as "sudden."

The younger nurse finished up. Velcro snapped and crackled as she removed the blood pressure cuff from Claudia's arm. She smiled at Claudia brightly.

"We need to go now," she said cheerily. "You just lie back and relax. Doctor Kerr will see you in a few minutes, all right?"

Claudia nodded. The nurse smiled at her again and rose to her feet. She had been crouching beside the cot next to the desk, and the tiny space available had precluded the rather larger Miranda from getting any closer than the doorway.

"Then you rest now," the younger nurse said. She joined Miranda in the hallway, and the older woman closed the door behind her with a loud metallic click. Claudia knew she'd been locked in.

El Segundo.

Slowly, lethargically, she pushed herself into a sitting position. Her knees bumped against the side of the cheap desk, and the room swam around her. For a perilous instant, she feared she would spray the entire office with vertigo-induced vomit. But her stomach settled as soon as she regained her balance. Claudia rubbed her face and squeezed her eyes shut.

Damn, this sucks.

It took a few minutes for her to feel strong enough to pull herself off the cot and into the office chair. On her first attempt, she almost wound up hitting the floor ass-first. On the second, she managed to make it into the chair without too much trouble. She reached for the telephone and pressed 9 and was rewarded with an outside line.

A small part of her marveled at the oversight. Her teammates must have been running ragged to allow her access to the outside world when she was in custody. That she was able to get dial tone was amazing.

An even smaller part of her consciousness wondered why she was engaged in such activity. Claudia thought upon that for a moment, examining her actions in a harsh, critical light. Who was she going to call?

And then a mental breaker tripped, and Claudia couldn't dial the numbers fast enough.

###

With a grunt, Tremaine emptied himself into Hoa and collapsed, his thick, hairy frame half-covering her slender figure. He gasped for breath, awash with sweat despite the cool breeze that whistled through the bedroom window. The light outside was tepid, and through the open window he saw the billowing grayness of the approaching storm. The Pacific shoreline was being whipped into froth. Hoa's apartment was only a few blocks from the Redondo Beach State Park, and nothing but a few palm trees blocked his view of the troubled waters.

Hoa pushed against him. Tremaine realized that she was practically suffocating beneath his weight, and he rolled off her with a guffaw.

"Sorry, darling," he said, kissing her face.

She pouted her full lips in irritation. "You should be more careful, baby," she said. Her voice was a pleasing feminine soprano, not the stereotypical forced falsetto one might have expected. She took her transformation seriously, and she worked hard at ensuring an outward appearance that could deceive anyone.

His hand reached between her legs and stroked the flaccid flesh there. Well, at least until they got a glimpse of this...

Hoa smiled tartly and pushed his hand away. "No more," she said. "You exhaust me today, baby."

Tremaine checked the clock on the bedstand. "Just as well, darling. Go shower and fix yourself, all right?"

Hoa pouted again and brushed one artfully manicured hand through her long black hair. "You don't think I beautiful already, baby?"

Tremaine patted her hand. "Of course, darling. But my employer... well, he's European, you know." He winked at her, and she giggled, covering her mouth with one hand.

"Okay, baby. I try and hurry."

Tremaine smiled, tickled by her idiosyncratic English, and kissed her again. "Off you go, then." He watched after her as she sauntered toward the ensuite bathroom, hips swaying. He settled back against the pillows. Outside, the wind picked up, and the curtains fluffed and billowed. He rolled off the bed and closed the windows, noting the streets below were deserted. It was an odd sight. Even in the wee hours of the morning, the beaches of Southern California were people magnets, for the shoreline called to them with a queer type of siren's song they could not resist. But today, the street and the beach beyond were as devoid of life as the surface of the Moon. Tremaine watched the heavy, gunmetal-gray clouds that had formed in a thick layer overhead. They roiled and seethed with energy and discontent, like some huge, irate viper, ready to strike at the first opportunity. He knew the closing storm was an instrument of his Master's power, an elemental extension of himself. Still, it made him nervous. Could even his Master control something as powerful and random as a hurricane?

The thought that it was something else other than his Master in control was keen on his mind. After the ritual he had witnessed, Tremaine had come to the conclusion that his Master was allied with forces far stronger than himself. What slice of their dark kingdom they had offered for his services remained unknown, but Tremaine knew his Master's appetites, and reasoned it was to be a sizeable exchange.

But still... uneasiness stalked about inside Tremaine's breast like a hungry jungle cat. What if this changed things? What if Osric had no intention of rewarding Tremaine with the gift he had worked so hard to earn?

Nonsense! He had served the Master faithfully for over half his life. A mere pittance to a vampire as old as Osric, but still a formidable amount, given the efficiency with which he had gone through his previous human supplicants. Tremaine had known many of them, and those that hadn't met their ends executing the Master's will had all been disposed of.

The first droplets of wind-blown rain struck the window. He considered those who had come before him and where they had wound up—in the cold earth, their heads separated from their bodies, preventing them from living as the Undead.

That fate will not be mine, he told himself.

His cell phone chirped, breaking his worried reverie. The phone lay on the small bureau against a nearby wall. He picked it up and looked at the display.

The caller ID read UNKNOWN.

From the bathroom, he heard Hoa open the shower stall and close the door behind her. The shower started. Tremaine brought the phone to his ear and pressed the green ACCEPT button.

"Yes."

"They're going to a casket factory in El Segundo," a woman said. Her voice danced along the fine line between restraint and shrieking madness.

"This is Claudia Nero?"

"Yes."

"When did they leave?"

"I don't know."

"How many of them are there?"

There was a pause, and Tremaine pictured the Nero woman struggling with herself. But there was no way she could overrule the compulsion planted in her. Mere humans were helpless when under the direction of a master vampire.

"Four or five combatants. Three to four in support."

"And the Thompson woman? Is she with them?"

"I don't know. She was isolated the last I saw of her."

"Is there anything else?" Tremaine asked.

"No. When will Chiho be released?"

"You're to go to her of your own free will," Tremaine told her. "Any attempt at duplicity on your part will end her life. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"You will go of your own free will?" Tremaine asked again, as Osric had instructed him to do. "The decision must be yours. You are not under any compulsion to go other than it is your will."

"It's my will," Claudia said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Tremaine gave her the address Osric had decided on, a few blocks from the Schwimmer mansion. He advised her to remain at the meeting place until he arrived, after nightfall. After Claudia repeated the address he had given her, Tremaine disconnected and dialed another number.

They're getting closer to discovering where we are. And on the heels of that thought: The Master was foolish to toy with them like this.

"Hello," a man answered tersely.

"They're coming for you," Tremaine said.

A pause. "When?"

"I have no idea, but I would treat it as if they were only minutes away. Get the masters out, and whomever else you can, and return to the mansion." Tremaine paused for a moment. "Leave some men behind with weapons. They might not expect that."

CHAPTER 18

The converted Ford van that served as the urban area TOC was parked in a lot four blocks from the casket factory. As the engine cooled in a series of ticks and pings, the TOC crew lolled about behind their communication consoles. Jerry Licht, seated in the front passenger seat, had a pair of binoculars trained on the Schwimmer casket factory. The complex sat behind a high chain link fence topped with razor wire. It appeared to be deserted; only a few lights gleamed in the swelling gloom as the storm rolled overhead. Licht reported this to Acheson's team, still a good fifteen minutes out. Thirty-mile-an-hour winds buffeted the four-wheel-drive van, rocking it on its heavy-duty suspension. Sitting in the vehicle's windowless rear, Robert Ellenshaw felt slightly seasick. He knew it was only going to get worse.

And when the rain started coming down in a sudden wind-driven sheet, it did get worse—much worse. Licht and Fenster swore and rolled up the van's open front windows. They weren't quick enough to prevent getting a fair soaking.

"Well, this sucks," Fenster mumbled.

Licht shrugged and wiped off the binoculars with a paper towel. "You can always jump out and take a shower. I've got a bar of Irish Spring in my kit."

"We need to get closer," Ellenshaw said, ignoring Licht's forced levity.

"No offense, but we're not the guys who get close to these things."

Ellenshaw pulled himself out of his seat and crab-walked toward the clamshell doors on the van's right side. "Yes, but we're still not one hundred percent certain this is our target. We need to vet it and ensure it's worth our time. So far, we haven't done that."

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" said Cosmatos. He was a swarthy man with a ruddy complexion and dark hair cut short into a flattop. He reached out and grabbed Ellenshaw's wrist when Ellenshaw reached for the door handle.

"Doing what needs to be done." Ellenshaw tore his hand out of Cosmatos's grasp and pushed open the door. He stepped out into the wet, windy remains of the day and slammed the door shut behind him. He tucked his MP-5 beneath his jacket, but it made little difference; in a matter of seconds, he was almost completely soaking wet.

"Get back in here!" Licht shouted as he opened the van's passenger door.

"I'm not going to attract any attention to myself," Ellenshaw said, "but I am going to move in a little closer and try to verify that what we're looking for is actually here. It's only common sense—we don't have the resources to mess around. You might want to use those fancy encrypted radios and find out if the Air Force has retasked that radar satellite. We need that data."

"They'll tell us when the sat's ready, not the other way around!"

"Call Fiedler direct, tell him I'm the one who wants to know. Now stop making a scene. There's no one on the streets, and the two of us yelling back and forth is going to look damned odd." With that, Ellenshaw sprinted toward the street and mounted the opposing sidewalk. By sticking close to the brick-face office building across the street, he was able to shield himself from the wind and rain somewhat. Keeping to a crouch, he hurried down the sidewalk, advancing toward the factory. It was a two-story affair, not imposing by manufacturing standards, but it had what seemed to be a million windows. Ellenshaw could have been under observation by a hundred people and not known it. But as the leading edge of the storm swept past overhead, the bands of heavy rainfall and wind would help mask his presence.

Two blocks from the factory, at the perimeter of one of its parking lots, Ellenshaw crouched behind a blue mailbox. He removed an observation scope from an inner pocket. The lens caps flipped up, forming little weather guards that were next to useless in the wind-driven rain. He peered through the scope and panned across the dark windows. Through the few he could see into, there was nothing to be seen other than ceiling tiles, the lights, and a potted plant or two.

"Ellenshaw, this is Two-Six, over." He could barely hear Acheson's voice through the radio headset's earpiece. With his left hand, he reached down to the radio unit on his belt and pressed the TRANSMIT button.

"Go ahead, Two-Six."

"This is Two-Six. I understand you've moved closer to the AO. What do you see? Over."

So Acheson isn't going to tear me a new asshole. Ellenshaw continued scanning the factory complex through the scope. A brief flash of movement near a darkened ground-level doorway caught his attention. He zeroed in on it.

"Stand by, Two-Six."

At first, he could make out nothing. Although the scope had night vision capability, the ambient light was still too high for that function to be useful. Ellenshaw leaned his left shoulder against the wet mailbox. The doorway was recessed into the building a good eight to ten feet. Whatever had caught his attention was concealed by deep shadow. What was it?

Unbidden, Ellenshaw recalled what had happened in the Arizona desert, when the waning sunlight there was much more powerful than what the clouds permitted now. It was unsettling, knowing that he might be staring down at a master-class vampire. Maybe Osric himself. What would happen to him if he were to meet the eyes of a master vamp through a magnification device like the one he held against his right eye? Would the vamp be able to exert its will over him, or would the distance mute the effect?

Two Doberman pinschers emerged from the gloom, their pointed snouts held high as they tested the air. Their lips pulled back in twin snarls, exposing impressive sets of teeth. Another dog—a crazy-looking wire-haired terrier—joined them. The three dogs sampled the stormy air.

"Two-Six, we've got dogs here. Two Dobermans and what looks like a terrier. They're exhibiting signs of derangement consistent with infestation sites, over."

"Roger that. You've found enough to keep us on this target. Pull back, over."

"Understood—Two-Six, stand by!" Ellenshaw had been ready to put the scope away and head back for the van when the dogs parted. A tall man with long, greasy-looking dark hair and a matching beard stepped out into the stormy day. He looked foul-tempered, but his eyes were sharp and probing. He examined the parking lot for a long moment. Ellenshaw wondered if he was a vamp, but then he saw the pistol at the man's hip. Vampires had no use for guns, marking the man as a human servant to one of the master vamps.

"Ellenshaw, come in," Acheson insisted, his voice small and tinny in his ear.

"Two-Six, I have more activity at the factory. Looks like a human servant—correction, three servants now, two men and one woman, all armed, have just joined the dogs, over."

"Can they see you? Over."

Ellenshaw thought about it. He was several hundred feet away and crouching behind a mailbox in heavy rainfall. If he stood up, they could likely see him. If he stayed put, it was anyone's guess.

"I believe I'm all right for now, Two-Six," he said. "Okay, the two men have gone back inside. The woman is moving down the parking lot, away from my position. One of the Dobermans is following her. She's getting into a delivery truck... looks like one of those Volvo box trucks. Two-Six, you copy so far? Over."

"Two-Six copies. Keep doing what you're doing, over."

"Roger, stand by." Ellenshaw watched as the woman climbed into the cab of the delivery truck. She started it up, switched on the headlights, and pulled it around toward the street. She backed the truck up to a loading dock. Just before the truck blocked his view, Ellenshaw saw the loading dock door rise. The bearded man in leather stood in the center of the dark maw, and barely visible in the tepid light behind him was a dark coffin with metal handles.

Ellenshaw reported all of this. "If that satellite is available, it should be used to track this truck. They're using it to move some of the vamps. We've found them, but it looks like they're getting ready to bug out!"

"Roger that. Break—TOC, Two-Six. Give me an update on that satellite retask, over." Ellenshaw kept the loading dock under observation. He couldn't see much, but every now and then the truck moved on its suspension. He presumed it was being loaded.

It must be the masters they're moving out. If they've been aggressive during their feedings, there could be hundreds of lower-caste vamps in there. No way they can evacuate all of them...

Licht's voice came over the headset. "Two-Six, TOC. Satellite is still being moved around by the Air Force. It won't be able to provide coverage for another six minutes."

"TOC, Two-Six. Roger that. Break—Ellenshaw, return to the TOC and advise once you're there, over."

"Two-Six, we can't abandon the AO!"

"Ellenshaw, do it now!" There was no mistaking that the discussion was over. Ellenshaw clenched his teeth. Refusing to comply was out of the question. He memorized the truck's license plate number and sprinted through the rain-swept gloom to the waiting van. It felt good to move away from the warehouse. After all, dusk was not very far away.

###

Sharon had emerged from under the sedative's gauzy veil an hour ago, but she remained on the hospital bed in the tank, eyes closed. She didn't know why, but she didn't want Kerr's staff to know that she had shrugged off the drug's effects. She knew she had recovered much earlier than expected. And she knew why: the RMA virus was cleaning up her system, tweaking things here and there, readying her body for the transition from living to Undead. A thrill of fear ran through her, a hopeless kind of dread akin to what someone might feel upon being notified she had terminal cancer. Not that a lasting death was what lay in store for her. The reality she faced was one in which her soul would never rest until it had been hunted down and killed.

Mark promised he'd kill me before it happened.

But she knew that Acheson wasn't on the premises. While still under the influence of the drugs they had been pumping into her, Acheson had entered the quarantine area. As if in a dream, she had felt him take one of her hands in his and brush his lips against her forehead.

I love you, Sharon. Just not enough to be there when you needed me, he had said. But we're going to get them. And then he had left, leaving her with the single medical staffer who kept a nervous watch over her.

Sharon wondered now if she would ever see him again... through eyes that were still living, that is. She knew that despite what he had told her, what he had promised her, he could never kill her while she was still human. The only way to keep from Turning was if she killed herself and prayed the team would do whatever was necessary to ensure the deed was done: stake her through the heart, cut off her head, and incinerate body and head separately.

In the back of her mind, an unexpected fear surfaced: What if they don't kill me, but keep me for research purposes? Would they do that to me?

It was an unsettling notion. Though she felt Andrew Kerr's personal convictions would deter him from resorting to such a thing, what about the Group's masters in Washington? The people who did the real field work were just tools Erskine Fiedler pushed around wherever they were needed. Kerr and his researchers were the same. Bureaucrats like Fiedler oftentimes took a more expedient view when it came to problem resolution.

Even more threatening than all of this was the malevolent energy Sharon sensed. She felt something brewing on the horizon, something that marshaled great power, power that promised nothing but destruction. At first, she had confused it with Osric, but with her faculties back under her control, she knew the ancient vampire was just a small piece of the mosaic. He might be smug enough to consider himself the architect of what was coming, but vanity had always been his weakness—Sharon could see that clearly now. Despite the wisdom accumulated over an existence that spanned several lifetimes, Osric was petty and arrogant, largely no different in death than he had been in life. He and his clan were responsible for many things, all of them dreadful, but what would soon be born in Los Angeles was hardly his doing alone. Osric was a pawn, a mere slave to sinister masters.

Sharon was powerless to do anything about this. It would be up to Acheson and the others to unravel the plan Osric had put in motion and defuse it before it reached critical mass. She could offer them no assistance; she just didn't have the time. The Turning was near. The Turning was unstoppable.

The only thing Sharon longed for now was revenge, and vengeance for what had been done to her family. And the only way that could be satisfied was if she confronted Osric himself and snuffed him from existence.

It was as simple as that.

The medic attending to her took her vitals. She knew the attendant was female from the perfume she wore and the lightness of her touch, but Sharon didn't move. The less responsive she was to external stimuli, the longer they would think she was still incapacitated, and therefore not a threat. She dared not even open her eyes into tiny slits to visually reconnoiter the room for fear of being observed. There were cameras in the room, but the fact that a living person was in the quarantine area with her meant that it wasn't locked down.

And she had watched as the medics entered and left the ward over the previous days. They had made a major mistake: they hadn't changed the combination on the locking systems. It was the same one that had been in used for some time. Clearly, they had never anticipated Sharon might actually Turn, so they had been treating her as a patient, not as a subject.

Fabric whispered over skin as the medic returned to her seat. Paper rustled as pages of a magazine were listlessly turned. A chair creaked, and Sharon had the mental image of the medic leaning back and stretching out, getting ready for another boring fifteen minutes before it was time to take the next round of vitals.

Sharon opened her eyes, squinting against the bright fluorescent lights overhead. She looked to her left and saw Allison Stewart, Kerr's lead physician, sitting in a vinyl chair thumbing through a copy of People magazine. To her credit, Allison wasn't completely oblivious. She sensed the change in her patient's condition, and she looked up from her magazine as Sharon rolled off the bed.

"Sharon!" she said, shocked. "How... how are you feeling?"

Sharon ripped off the cardiograph pads attached to her chest beneath her T-shirt. She kept her eyes on Allison as she tore away the adhesive-mounted pads with quick, economical motions. Peeling them away would have hurt less, but Sharon luxuriated in one of the last vestiges of her waning humanity: the ability to feel pain.

"I'm fine," Sharon said. "Don't get up and don't press the call button. If you do, I'll break your collarbones."

Allison gawked at her for an instant, watching as Sharon attacked the IV line that was taped to her right arm. She then cut her eyes over to the wall-mounted call switch, only two feet from her.

"Don't," Sharon warned as she ripped the IV needle free.

Allison hesitated, then lunged for the button. Sharon seized her wrist and bent Allison's hand down with enough strength to make her cry out.

"Sharon...! You're hurting me!"

"Sorry," Sharon said before backhanding her across the face. Allison flew back into her chair and bounced out of it, collapsing to the floor.

Sharon was at the door in a flash. She entered the code, and the airlock cycled open. Looking through the Plexiglas walls, she saw the camera monitoring station was in a cube directly across from the outer airlock door. She could see a young male technician talking with Yi-Ting, the lead researcher and facility administrator. As the inner airlock door locked shut behind her, Sharon entered the code into the outer door keypad just as Yi-Ting looked over and saw her. Her eyes grew wide behind her narrow spectacles, and her mouth formed a small O as she sucked in a startled breath. Sensing that something was wrong, the male technician shot a look over his shoulder, read the situation for what it was, and frantically began pounding away at his keyboard.

The outer airlock door cycled before he could activate the emergency locks, and Sharon tugged it open with all her might. She heard the magnets fire in a rapid series of clicks, but the door was too far away to be captured by the growing magnetic field. Sharon leaped out of the tank and into the Plant itself.

The male technician leaped to his feet and faced Sharon. He was a solid sort, built like a USC linebacker, but his eyes were furtive and anxious as he looked from Yi-Ting to Sharon and back again. He reached for the phone on his desk.

A red fire extinguisher was mounted to a nearby support pillar. Sharon ripped it from its retainer clip, and hurled it at the man without a second thought. He cried out as the red cylinder stuck him in the shoulder with impressive force. The impact hurled him into Yi-Ting, and both of them collapsed to the floor in a heap. Sharon pinned the man on top of Yi-Ting. She went through his pockets and found his car keys.

"Christ, you broke my shoulder!" The man's face was a mask of pain.

She grabbed him by the neck and shook him violently. He gasped while Yi-Ting shrieked like a little girl beneath him.

"Which car is yours?"

"Accord," the man gasped. "Green, two door—"

Sharon released him and ran as if demons were chasing her.

###

Claudia was just about to use the office chair to shatter the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the hallway outside when running footsteps caused her to rethink things. She plopped back down on the cot and affected a woozy look, pretending to be under the effect of the drug. When Sharon Thompson hurtled past, she bolted upright.

"Sharon!" she shouted. "Sharon, get me out of here!"

For a moment, Claudia thought that Sharon either hadn't heard her or wasn't about to stop. To her surprise, Sharon appeared at the window and gazed at Claudia with narrowed eyes.

"Where's the rest of the team?" Sharon asked.

"Some warehouse in El Segundo," Claudia answered. "I need to get out of here—can you help?"

Sharon tried the locked door, then shrugged. "Guess not," she said, and turned to run off.

"I know where Osric is!" Claudia shouted.

Sharon looked back at her. "Tell me."

"Get me out of here and we'll go together. That's the deal."

Sharon stared at Claudia for a moment longer, then ran off.

"Sharon!" Claudia cried.

Sharon reappeared, holding a large potted plant. Claudia barely had time to step out of the way before Sharon hurled the pot through the window. It exploded like thunder and shards of glass ricocheted through the office like shrapnel. None hit Claudia.

Sharon stepped inside and grabbed Claudia's arm. Her grip was strong, without a hint of gentleness. Her demeanor mirrored her touch.

"Let's go," Sharon said. "I'm a little bit pressed for time right now."

###

Danny Licht met Ellenshaw at the passenger side of the van and waved him into the front seat. "You're riding shotgun," he said before he pulled open the clamshell door and hurled himself inside. Ellenshaw opened the passenger door and climbed into the high van, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Ellenshaw's with us now, Two-Six," Licht said into his headset. He listened for a moment, then nodded. "Roger that, Two-Six."

Ellenshaw's radio crackled. "Two-Six for Ellenshaw."

Ellenshaw wiped the rainwater from his eyes. "Ellenshaw, go ahead, Two-Six."

"Robert, the rest of the team is on tactical three, so this is just between us on my end. First: never disobey an order from me again. I say, you do. Clear?"

"Absolutely," Ellenshaw said.

"You're going to follow that truck you reported," Acheson continued. "Follow it to wherever it goes. We'll try and have the satellite pick you up when we're done at the warehouse. We're still five to ten out, but I want the TOC team to break station and follow that truck. Do you understand?"

"Understood," Ellenshaw said.

"You're the only one in that van that's ever seen a vamp up close and personal. I want you to take care of those people, because they're going to depend on you to stay on top of what's going on. Copy that?"

"I copy that," Ellenshaw said. He looked over at Fenster, sitting in the driver's seat. "Move us toward the parking lot entrance. Keep the headlights off, and use the emergency brake to stop, so they can’t see our tail lights."

Fenster sighed and turned on the ignition and dropped the van into gear.

"You're in charge, Robert," Acheson continued. "We'll contact you when we're done with the warehouse. I'm pretty certain we're going to be a bit too busy to exchange updates, but if something happens, reach Washington directly."

Ellenshaw looked out the passenger window. He waved for Fenster to stop, and the van braked to a halt. Without the windshield wipers going, it would be tough to see when the box truck left the warehouse parking lot, but Ellenshaw was counting on them using their headlights. The gleam would give him enough to go on.

"I'll get it done," he said.

"I'm rolling off now. Good luck. Two-Six out."

"Have you been taught mobile surveillance methods?" Ellenshaw asked Fenster.

"Of course," Fenster said. "We all have."

"Congratulations. Now prove it. They're leaving." Ellenshaw pointed out the window. The box truck pulled out of the warehouse's gate, its headlamps cutting a weak swath through the growing murk. "Follow those tail lights like they're crack and you're an addict."

"Nice analogy."

"Remember, no headlights," Ellenshaw warned him. "And try not to get too close."

"No headlights in this crap, and don't get too close," Fenster repeated. He flipped on the windshield wipers and accelerated the van toward the parking lot exit. "Damn, we ought to just stay here and lose them early. What should I do when it gets full-on dark, professor?"

Ellenshaw reached into a pouch at his side and pulled out a pair of AN/PVS-7 night vision goggles. He put them on the padded engine cowling separating their seats.

"I hope when it gets full-on dark, you'll tell me you're NVG qualified," Ellenshaw said. "Because if you're not, we'll have to drive by Braille."

CHAPTER 19

They advanced upon the warehouse in two two-man elements, carrying all their gear with them, including the bulky fuel-air explosives. Acheson knew the building had a sophisticated fire suppression system, but it was of no concern. The FAEs would transform the entire warehouse into an inferno.

Unknowingly retracing Ellenshaw's route, Acheson and Nacho approached from the south, hurrying past the parking lot the TOC van had vacated only minutes earlier. The rain came down in great sheets, riding curtains of wind that ripped at their clothes and gear. The three leashed dogs Nacho led flattened their ears against the onslaught and ran with their bellies low to the ground. While the day rapidly darkened, the effect was more from the thickening cloud cover than the setting sun. According to Acheson's watch, it had not slipped behind the horizon yet. But the murky shadows provided enough cover to reasonably mask their movements.

"Parking lot gate's open," Nacho muttered over the radio. "Ellenshaw's truck is gone. Wonder how many they got out?"

Cecil and Julia approached them from the opposite end of the building. Julia was in the lead, hunched over beneath the weight of her gear and the forty-pound FAE she carried on her back; Cecil hung back, ready with the SAW. Most of the windows overlooked the parking lot; very few of them looked out onto the street itself. Acheson kept his eyes on the building, his AA-12 cradled in his hands.

"Everyone cross over," he broadcast, and the four members of Containment Group 6 sprinted across the street. They flattened against the warehouse. Nacho and Cecil assumed security positions. Julia stepped closer to Acheson.

"What's the op?" she asked, having to raise her voice above the noise made by the rain and wind. "Send in the dogs first, or—"

"We don't have the time." Acheson pointed at his watch. It was almost 5:00 p.m. "But if they've bracketed the doors and windows, we'll get our butts waxed if we try and use them. They didn't pull everything out of here, and Ellenshaw reported those servants had guns." He tapped the wall they leaned against. "We'll go in through here. You got your shaped charges?"

Julia nodded. She turned and Acheson reached into her backpack, which was pressed against her beneath the bulk of the FAE. Acheson found the four blocks of C-4 and he placed the gray-colored bricks on the face of the building, molding them into place. After plugging a blasting cap into each chunk of explosive, he connected them together with detonation cord. This he terminated into the remote receiver that he placed on the ground.

Using hand signals, he backed the others off. When they were twenty meters away from the blast site, Acheson flipped a shielded switch on the black detonator in his right hand. The detonator was now armed.

"I'll go in first," he said over the radio. "Jules, you come in after me and orient to my right. Cecil, you'll take the center, and Nacho, you're last with the dogs. You'll have to handle them yourself. If they can't get inside on their own power, you'll have to figure it out. We won't be able to help."

"Gotcha," Nacho said.

"Any last words?" Acheson asked.

"Let's light 'em up, man," Cecil said.

"Blasting in three... two... one!" Acheson thumbed the red switch on the detonator, and the four bricks of explosive went off instantly. The force of the explosion traveled at almost 18,000 miles an hour as it ripped through the warehouse's wood-accented brick façade and the sturdier cinderblock and steel beams inside. Interior sheetrock, cheap gypsum, and compressed cardboard were added to the mix of shrapnel that stormed through the warehouse's interior.

Before the thunderclap of noise had faded, Acheson pushed through the jagged five-foot-wide hole in the warehouse wall. He landed on his feet and moved to his left. Julia McGuiness hauled herself in behind him. Acheson covered her entrance with the AA-12. She crossed to the right of the hole and knelt to the floor as she shouldered her MP-5 as Cecil clambered through the hole.

The warehouse smelled like a crypt. Loaded on pallets that sat on tall metal shelves so they were accessible by forklift, hundreds if not thousands of coffins filled the warehouse. Some of them were open, their lids exposing vacant cushioned interiors.

But more than half were closed.

"Holy shit," Cecil muttered after he pulled himself into the building. He looked around, and his index finger left the SAW's trigger guard and rested on the trigger itself.

"There's an army in here," Julia said.

Acheson glanced at his watch. Sweat mixed with the rainwater on his face. The acrid smoke from the explosives made his eyes water and his throat burn.

"Let's get it over with." He advanced down the aisle, keeping to the left. The AA-12's stock was held tight against his shoulder, the barrel lowered. Julia paced him on the right, MP-5 at the ready. Cecil trailed them as Nacho helped his dogs into the warehouse. One of them whined.

They came to an intersection with a wider passageway big enough for two forklifts to pass each other. Acheson glanced back and saw that Delgado and his dogs were in the warehouse now. The dogs were frightened. They bared their teeth, hackles raised.

"Stick together," Acheson told the team. "We can't split up and keep each other covered, so we'll plant the FAEs in each corner, next to a load-bearing structure. We'll hook right once we step out into the bigger aisle. I'll cross over and secure the left. Jules, you keep to the right, and Cecil, you guard the rear. Nacho, come up in the center."

The team members gave their affirmatives, and Acheson stepped out into the intersection. When he turned his head to the left and scanned for any threats lurking among the rows of shelves, something snapped like a firecracker as it zipped past his ear. It was followed simultaneously by a loud report—gunfire.

Acheson hadn't been involved in a gunfight since leaving the U.S. Army, but his training had not been forgotten. He darted across the wide aisle and fired his AA-12 in the general direction of the incoming rounds, laying down suppressive fire. A second round slashed past his face from another direction. Acheson spun and dropped the AA-12 to the concrete floor as he ripped his Sig P220 from its holster. Atop a row of coffins two aisles away, a big man with a full beard crouched, holding an AR-15. He had a clear view of the broad aisle Acheson had just crossed, and he grinned as he adjusted his aim. His teeth were bright against his dark beard.

Acheson fired twice before the other man could pull the trigger. Two .45 caliber rounds shattered the man's teeth as they penetrated his mouth, sinus cavities, and the base of his skull in an evenly spaced grouping that would have made a Delta Force commando proud. The bearded man disappeared as his corpse toppled over and crashed to the floor.

Acheson threw himself headlong down the aisle behind him as two more bullets left craters in the concrete floor at his feet. Across the passageway, Julia backed against the coffin at the end of the row, placed her right heel against the bottom of the shelving unit and twisted at the waist. Exposing only the top portion of her body, she fired on down the passageway, raking the shelves and coffins with full automatic fire. Her attack worked as planned, provoking a shadowy figure into movement. She zeroed in on it, thumbed her weapon's fire selector to SEMI, and put three rounds through its center. The woman screamed as she fell forward into the passageway. She landed on the concrete floor head-first and collapsed into a heap of tangled limbs.

"Shooter down!" Julia reported.

"Another shooter down by me," Acheson said. He holstered his P220 and tore a flash-bang grenade from his belt. He pulled the pin and hurled it down the passageway where Julia's shooter sprawled. It bounced down the concrete floor a few times, then went off in a thunderous explosion and a brief flash of light.

Acheson grabbed his shotgun and advanced down the passageway at a run. Julia mirrored him, pacing him on the opposite side as Cecil lit up the area with his SAW, hosing the tops of the rows of caskets to the team's rear. There was no movement in that area, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Acheson and Julia passed the two dead shooters. The one Acheson had hit with his pistol laid in a spreading pool of scarlet in one of the aisles, while Julia's target was out in the open. As Acheson stepped past the body, he caught a blur of movement from the corner of his eye. He turned just as the Doberman slammed into him, driving him to the concrete floor. Acheson cursed as the dog's powerful jaws clamped onto his left sleeve. Snarling, the dog shook its head violently from side to side. Acheson released his AA-12 and punched it in the throat with all his might. The blow didn't faze it. Acheson seized one of its forelegs and twisted it viciously. Tendons and ligaments popped. The dog yelped and released its hold. Acheson slammed the dog against the shelving unit with his left hand and pinned it in place. As it struggled, snarling, he blasted it to pieces with a single shot from his shotgun.

More rounds zipped past him, but this time they came from Julia's suppressed weapon. The second Doberman crashed to the floor beside him, jaws open, tongue lolling in death. A few feet away, the third dog, a gray-haired terrier, yelped. Julia popped a single round through its furry face. The smaller dog fell silent.

"Nacho, let your dogs loose!" Acheson shouted.

"They're off," Nacho reported. As Acheson clambered to his feet, Nacho's three dogs zipped past him and surged into the semi-dark warehouse, their growls barely audible above the ruckus caused by the storm outside. They veered to the left and disappeared down another aisle. A gunshot rang out, and a man shouted. The shout turned into a scream as the dogs barked and snarled in earnest. There came the sounds of a struggle, and Acheson and Julia hurried toward it.

"Cecil, watch the back door!" Acheson ordered.

"On it."

Acheson and Julia eased around the corner. One of the dogs lay dead in a pool of its own blood while the other two savagely tore into a small man with flame red hair and alabaster skin. The dogs whipped him back and forth across the concrete floor, shredding his shirt. A small revolver lay on the floor ten feet from him.

"Do we want him alive?" Nacho asked. He stood off Acheson's right shoulder, MP-5 focused on the would-be gunman.

"Yes," Acheson told him.

"Cut, cut, cut, cut!" Nacho shouted, hurrying toward the dogs. "Rex, cut! Baron, cut!"

The chocolate Labrador and husky Rottweiler retreated three feet but continued to snarl at the small man as he curled up into a ball. He was bleeding badly from lacerations in both of his arms as he beheld the dogs with fearful eyes.

"Get 'em off me!" he shrieked. "Get 'em off me, you muthafuckers!"

Acheson and the others advanced. "How many more are left?" Acheson snapped.

"I'm the last one," the small man sobbed. His voice was high and nasal, and the accent spoke of New Jersey.

"Which master do you serve?" Acheson demanded.

The man shook his head. Acheson nodded to Nacho.

"Action!" Nacho shouted.

The dogs piled back into the man, tearing at him with their teeth. He shrieked as the two animals worked him over in an orgy of single-minded violence.

"Tell us, or they'll eat you alive!" Acheson said.

The man screamed. Fabric ripped as one of the dogs tore away a leg of his jeans, leaving deep gashes in his thigh and calf. He kicked at the dogs, screaming like a woman.

"They'll go for your balls next, man," Nacho said.

"Get 'em off me! Please!"

Acheson nodded, and Nacho called off the dogs. They backed away obediently, but stayed within three feet of him. Snarling. Teeth exposed.

"Who do you serve?" Acheson repeated.

The man struggled to his knees with slow, jerky movements, his eyes on the two dogs. His breath wheezed in and out of his mouth, and a large rip in his right cheek leaked blood. Acheson could see the man's teeth through the gash.

"Who do you serve? Tell us, or the dogs finish you!"

"Fuck you!" the man shouted, and he lunged between the dogs, reaching for the revolver. The dogs fell on him instantly, and he shrieked.

"Want me to call 'em off?" Nacho asked.

Acheson watched the man wrestle with the two dogs for a moment. It was easy to do—surrounded by all the horrors sleeping in their caskets, looking on as a man was torn to ribbons by two dogs was nothing.

He shook his head. "Let's get on with our job."

After two minutes, the man stopped screaming.

###

The Ford van trundled through the rain-swept gloom as fast as conditions would allow. Even though darkness swelled, Ellenshaw refused to allow Fenster to switch on the van's impressive array of floodlights. But the brewing night had not yet arrived, and the gray skies overhead were still too bright to use night vision goggles. Fenster leaned forward, both hands on the steering wheel, staring through the windshield as the wipers slapped back and forth. In the distance ahead, the taillights of the box truck were visible through the haze of mist it kicked up as it sped through the dying day, weaving around any slower traffic it came upon. Which wasn't much. The side streets were empty now.

Licht crouched between the two front seats. "He's got to have made us. There's no one else out here."

"Stay with them," Ellenshaw said to Fenster.

Fenster slowed the van as it approached an intersection. The traffic signals flashed red and yellow. The van had red; the cross street had the yellow. The truck had already pulled through the intersection without even tapping the brakes.

"Maybe they're just driving around to keep us tied up?" Fenster asked as he accelerated through the intersection.

"Possibly," Ellenshaw said.

"And you think they have master vamps in that thing?" Licht jerked his chin toward the truck as it continued to haul ass. "Can we go up against a master and win? I mean, that's what they might do, right? Wait until the thing wakes up, and then attack us?"

"If that happens, we won't stand a chance," Ellenshaw said.

Licht let out his breath in a rush. "Professor, you've got some people skills."

Ellenshaw smiled thinly. The truck ahead was a shimmering phantasm in the misty gloom. Rain crackled against the windshield as the wind forced the van to sway.

In the back, Danielle Kirkpatrick spoke for the first time. "The satellite's in place and it's tracking the truck."

Ellenshaw half-turned his head. "Get that confirmed, please," he ordered, before Licht could say anything.

"They just told me," Kirkpatrick responded, a little bitchy.

"Trust, but verify," Ellenshaw said. "If we fall back and it turns out the sat's been tracking the wrong vehicle, our official condition will be 'fucked.'"

"Whatever." Kirkpatrick's quarrelsome reply was barely audible above the storm's ruckus. As she turned back to the radios, Ellenshaw faced forward again.

Ahead, the Volvo box truck shot beneath the I-405 overpass.

"Stay sharp," he warned Fenster. "If they want to drop someone off to ambush us, here would be the place."

"Thanks for the tip," Fenster moaned.

Ellenshaw firmed his grip on his MP-5 and clicked off the safety. He held its stock in his left hand, ready to shoot through the passenger door if necessary. The van passed into darkness for an instant as it sped beneath the overpass, then out into dim daylight on the other side. There was no incident.

"They confirm the satellite's tracking us," Kirkpatrick said from the back. "And I compared the GPS coordinates they handed back to me. They've got it dead on."

"Advise them we'd like to break off and run a parallel course to the truck," Ellenshaw said.

"Permission granted," Kirkpatrick announced a moment later. "I've got a real-time link from the satellite. If the bad guys try anything, we'll see it."

"Turn right at the next street," Ellenshaw told Fenster. Fenster took the van into a right turn. Its knobbed tires splashed through a deep puddle, and water drummed along the vehicle's rocker panels, filling the passenger area with sound.

"Can I use the lights now?" Fenster asked. There was a begging quality to his voice.

"Not just yet. Turn left here," Ellenshaw directed. Fenster made a little noise in his throat and did as he was told, accelerating into the gloom. Ellenshaw heard Kirkpatrick and Cosmatos speaking to people over their respective radios, and after a moment, Cosmatos called for Licht to join him. Ellenshaw kept his eyes rooted to the rain-swept street before him. They passed through a residential area of small tract houses built in the 1930s. Ellenshaw got the impression it was a Latin neighborhood, given the architecture of the homes and the well-manicured lawns facing the street. But the streetlamps hadn't come on, nor were there lights visible in any of the houses the van swept past. The traffic signals at the next intersection were dark. Power to the community was out.

Licht hunkered down between the two seats again. "Professor? We just got word from the Plant that Sharon Thompson is gone. So is Claudia Nero. They stole a car and left the premises."

Ellenshaw looked back, frowning. "Any injuries?"

"Some rattled nerves and busted bones."

Ellenshaw faced front again. "I'd expected Sharon to want to face the vamps, but had thought she'd do it alone."

"Why would she take Nero?" Licht asked.

Ellenshaw shrugged. "Is she a dependable psychic?"

Licht snorted. "Claudia's a flake most of the time. I wouldn't know if she was a dependable psychic any more than I'd know who her favorite pastry chef was."

Ellenshaw shook his head. "It doesn't matter. They're on their own. Sharon's on her way to meet Osric. She probably hopes to kill him."

"Is that possible?" Licht wondered.

Ellenshaw shot him a tight smile. "Never underestimate a woman like Sharon Thompson. When things are at their worst, she'll be at her very best."

CHAPTER 20

Acheson set the last fuel-air explosive canister near a thick I-beam, then wiped the sweat from his face and checked his work. The weapon was wired up perfectly.

Nacho's voice came over his headset. "Charges ready."

"Roger that." Acheson rose to his feet. Julia stood guard behind him, MP-5 at port arms. She looked nervous, and for good reason: the sun was doing more than just flirting with the horizon. In the warehouse, they could already hear queer little noises over the raging storm outside. Hungry things were waking up.

"Let's go," Acheson said. Julia needed no further prompting. She shouldered her weapon and made for the team's entry point.

"Two-Six, I got an idea," Cecil said over the radio. "Found me a gas main. Gimme ten seconds, and I can wire a secondary charge to blast it open. Might give the FAEs a little more punch."

Acheson followed Julia down one of the darkened aisles. Even though every fluorescent lamp gleamed in the overhead, the warehouse seemed oppressively dark. On either side of him loomed stacks of caskets. As for how many were full, he had no idea.

"Where is it?" Acheson asked.

"Across from where we came in. I'm already wiring it up with some C4, man. Had some preconfigured, but I need to get a remote det in place."

Acheson considered it. The warehouse was vast, and there was a remote chance four fuel-air explosives might not be enough to do the job. Cecil's history as an Army Special Forces demolitions expert ensured the fireworks would be awe-inspiring.

"Nach, you with him?"

"Roger, but the dogs are getting hinky. These things are waking up," Nacho replied.

Julia glanced back at Acheson. Her wide green eyes bordered on panic. Acheson didn't blame her a bit. With so many stirring Undead about, he felt the same way.

"Cecil, you've got sixty seconds. If you can't get a remote detonator squared away, just use a timer," Acheson said.

"Sixty seconds, hoo-ah."

Acheson followed Julia as she pressed on through the gloom. Outside, wind and rain tugged at the structure, making it creak and groan. Acheson's heart pounded in his chest. He couldn't remember ever having been so frightened.

He heard the small moan of metal hinges opening.

To his left, the first casket lid was pushed upward by a pale hand. It was only feet from him, almost level with his chest. The hand belonged to what had once been a child.

Acheson threw the lid open and peered inside. A small shape lay there, resting on satin cushions. Feral silver-and-black eyes glittered in the wan light. It opened its mouth and bared its fangs.

Before it wakened any further Acheson slammed a stake through its chest.

Julia looked back as the small ghoul thrashed and died in a pool of ichor. He slammed the coffin shut and hurried after her as she resumed leading him back to the entry point. Barely audible above the raging storm outside, more coffin lids swung open. Vampires hauled themselves out of their tombs, their movements slow and lethargic. Acheson saw some of them now, emerging into the nascent evening.

"Team, time's up!"

"On our way," Cecil reported. An instant later, his M249 roared and something hit the concrete floor, hissing. Nacho's dogs bayed wildly.

The lights went out.

"Fuck!" Acheson snarled. His NVGs were in their carrying case on his hip, and he tore it open with one hand, the AA-12 balanced in the other. "Go NVGs!"

"Already got 'em on," Nacho replied over the net. "We're at the rally point now. Dogs're freakin' out, mano. We gotta blow this place."

Acheson slipped on his NVGs and powered them up. He heard something scuttle toward him from behind, hissing. He spun and pulled the AA-12 against his shoulder. The emergency lights snapped on, bathing the warehouse in a tepid glow that was scarcely brighter than twilight. Three vampires crouched on the floor less than fifteen feet away, mouths agape, fangs bared. One leaped onto the shelving unit to Acheson's right and clung to it.

Acheson fired on full automatic as the creature lunged toward him. Six 12-gauge rounds tore through it, flaying open waxy skin and decimating bone. The vampire fell to the floor and thrashed about, howling like a wounded cat. Acheson continued firing, slashing more double-aught buck through the other vampires, driving them back. They too fell to the floor and writhed as the silver-coated shot held off their healing capability, giving Acheson a few precious seconds to fall back. A casket to his left popped open, and a vampire with a maze of frizzy gray hair sat up, its nostrils flaring as its unholy eyes fixed on him. Acheson fired three rounds into it, and it dropped back into the coffin. The lid slammed closed.

Cecil and Nacho were there suddenly, firing into the racks of coffins.

"Let's get the hell outta here, man!" Cecil shouted. "You got the detonator—go, man, go!"

A coffin next to Acheson sprung open, and an ashen, claw-like hand reached for him. Its talons raked across his shoulder. Acheson dropped back a foot, twisted, and fired into its snarling face. The vamp's head exploded into a cloud of black gore and white-tipped bone and teeth.

Another vampire leaped toward him from one of the top shelves. It missed him by a scant foot, but caught itself and reversed its course, coming back at him. The angle was bad, and Acheson couldn't bring his shotgun to bear in time. He needn't have worried as both Cecil and Nacho opened up on it at the same time, and it was driven to the floor as a dozen silver-jacketed rounds slashed through it. The vampire clawed at itself, convulsing in pain.

Nacho grabbed Acheson by the collar and hauled him through the hole in the wall. A vamp already lay across its ragged threshold, a stake rising from its chest. Julia stood off to one side, adding suppression fire from her MP-5. She paused long enough for Nacho and Acheson to get clear, then leaned back inside, squeezing off controlled bursts. Nacho's dogs bounded past her and ran off into the stormy night.

"Get across the street, and fucking blow this place up!" Nacho shouted to Acheson.

"Get Cecil out of there!"

"I'm comin'!" Cecil shouted over the radio net, his voice barely audible over the thundering SAW and the raging storm. "Get ready to hit the red button, would ya?"

"Come on!" Nacho tugged at Acheson's arm.

Acheson snarled in frustration and ran across the street. He was soaked by the pounding rain, and the raging wind left him almost deaf and blind despite the radio and night vision goggles. He sensed rather than heard Nacho moving right behind him. The street was a shallow river of fast moving water, and he stumbled across it. At last, he reached the sidewalk on the other side of the street and turned back to the warehouse. Julia was halfway across the street, hunched against the rain. Cecil stood just outside the hole they had blasted, still hosing everything inside with his machinegun.

"Cecil, fall back now!" Acheson shouted.

Cecil backed away from the hole, still firing in tight bursts. "Don't wait for me!" he hollered back over the radio net. "Dump the ceiling on this place, man!"

As he spoke, a pale-faced vampire tried to leap through the hole and into the street, but Cecil's bursts threw it back. Acheson saw dozens of vampires struggling about inside the structure, rushing toward the hole in a wave. They were within seconds of bursting out into the night.

"Fire in the hole!" he shouted as Julia slid to a halt beside him and Nacho. "Get down, Cecil!" He mashed his thumb down on the firing button.

Cecil threw himself into the street face first. Behind him, vampires swarmed out of the hole, their unholy screeching almost lost in the din of the swirling maelstrom that had the City of Angels surrounded.

Behind them, orange light flared.

The warehouse's ceiling rose several feet into the wet sky. An instant later, great gouts of brilliant flame rocketed through the hole in the wall, spraying several vampires into the night. They screamed and writhed as the flame consumed them like a hungry demon, reducing their bodies to blackened corpses within a matter of seconds. Cecil pressed his face into the wet street as the tongues of flame roared over him. The shockwave knocked Acheson and the others sprawling, and Acheson blacked out as he was thrown into the wall of the building behind him.

He regained consciousness moments later. Car alarms shrieked, and a powerful wave of extreme heat chased away the chill of the storm. The warehouse collapsed into itself, and a great basso whoomp! cut through the night as the gas main Cecil had exposed went up, adding more fire and fury to the fray. Smoldering debris rained down from the sky: a twisted girder, pieces of smoking wood, blackened concrete, the half-melted remains of a computer monitor, and crispy pieces of what had once been human flesh.

Nacho's dogs bayed and ran in circles around them. Acheson pushed himself to his knees. He was, by and large, unhurt. Julia lay half on top of Nacho, which was where the blast's shockwave had left her. Acheson found his AA-12 and used it as a crutch to help himself to his feet. The rain continued to fall, and the wind tore at the flaming wreckage of the warehouse. The fire seemed to roar in response, challenging the storm with bellowing gusts of flame. For now, the fire was winning the battle. It had enough fodder to sustain it.

Acheson stumbled toward Julia and Nacho as they stirred. He helped separate them, checking them for injuries. Julia had a small nick in her right ear. Acheson wouldn't have noticed it if her hair hadn't been plastered to her head by the rain. Nacho had a nasty cut on his temple, and it was leaking blood.

"Nach, you all right?"

Nacho nodded and said something Acheson couldn't hear over the din of the storm. As he clambered to his feet, Nacho gestured to the street, and Acheson saw his lips form a word: Cecil.

Acheson turned and saw Cecil lying face down in the street. Water streamed past him, as if he were a boulder in a river. His uniform was smoldering, if not from the blast, then from the intense heat radiating from the flaming wreckage. Acheson ran to him and grabbed one of the shoulder straps on Cecil's armor. He dragged him away from the conflagration, kicking pieces of debris out of his way. Julia reached them moments later and grabbed the other shoulder strap. Together they pulled Cecil onto the sidewalk and into a nearby doorway.

"Cecil!" Acheson dropped to his knees and put his fingers on the big man's neck. He could feel the pulse of blood through his carotids. "Cecil, you with me, man?"

Cecil stirred, and Acheson patted his cheeks. The big man's eyes fluttered open; one of them was beginning to swell. He reached up and touched it gingerly.

"Damn," he muttered. "Think anyone'll notice a brother with a shiner?"

Nacho and Julia were on their guns, standing nearby. Nacho looked at Cecil quickly, then searched the rain-swept street for targets.

"You all right, gorilla?" he asked.

Cecil slowly pushed himself up on his elbows. "What the fuck do you think? I almost got blowed up, man!"

CHAPTER 21

The car climbed higher into the hills, its tires spinning in the muddy water that cascaded down the winding street. Before long some of the waterlogged hillsides would give away, and the multimillion-dollar homes perched on them would be deposited somewhere near the Hollywood Bowl. Claudia leaned forward in her seat, staring through the windshield as Sharon drove. They had started off with Claudia behind the wheel, but whatever changes Sharon was undergoing had left her with uncanny night vision. Where the car's high beams could barely cut a swath through the night, Sharon said she could see everything clearly. When Claudia had almost driven the stolen Honda into a rushing torrent of black water that would have swept them away, Sharon insisted she drive. Claudia happily agreed.

Ahead lay a mansion in Los Feliz that was backed by Griffith Park. The GPS unit in the Accord was operational, so getting to where Claudia needed to be wasn't going to be a problem—provided one of the mountainsides didn't let go.

"Looks like parts of the city have lost power," Sharon said.

Claudia looked and saw that the great galaxy of Los Angeles was dark in patches. She wondered if the darkness would spread. The vamps would love that...

Suddenly her breath caught in her throat. She reached out and grabbed the handhold built into the passenger door, her knuckles turning white with exertion. A small scream escaped her lips as she stiffened in her seat, every muscle locked up as if she were in the throes of a seizure. She was vaguely aware the same thing was happening to Sharon. The cool emotional vibe she had been emanating melted like candle wax in a blast furnace. The car skidded to a halt.

Claudia mewled again as something red hot snapped across her empathic senses like a fiery cat-o-nine-tails. Something momentous had happened, something strong enough to generate a monumental burst of emotional energy. The energy felt filthy to her, primal, disgusting, and tainted.

It was gone in an instant, leaving her heart pounding and her head spinning. Her stomach heaved. She threw open the passenger door and hurled a great rush of hot vomit into the night. Within seconds, she was soaked by the driving rain. Claudia retched again and again, until there was nothing left in her stomach but a dull, insistent pain. With a trembling hand, she wiped her mouth, leaned back, and slammed the door shut.

"You felt it, too?" Sharon asked. Her tone was conversational, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

"What was it?" Claudia asked.

"Vampires," Sharon said. "Vampires dying. A lot of vampires."

Claudia struggled to catch her breath. "What do you mean?"

Sharon shrugged in the darkness and accelerated up the grade. The pale light from the dashboard barely illuminated her face, so Claudia couldn't judge her expression. But she could feel the conflicting emotions inside Sharon as if they were her own.

"The team must've killed them. Hundreds of them."

"How... how can you know that?" Claudia whispered.

"Take the right turn in one hundred feet," the navigation system advised. Sharon took her foot off the accelerator and brought the Honda to a halt. She put it in PARK and turned to face Claudia.

"You have to go on alone," she said. "They can't see us together. I'll follow you. Don't worry, I won't be far away."

That's not very comforting, Claudia thought. Sharon smiled as if she could read her thoughts.

"Don't worry—I haven't turned yet. See?" She grinned, exposing human teeth in the tepid light.

"What will you do?" Claudia asked.

Sharon shook her head. "You don't need to know. You just find Chiho and get her the hell out of there." She pulled the stolen cell phone from one of the cargo pockets on her trousers and switched it on.

"I'll call Mark as soon as I know where you've been taken. All right?"

Claudia nodded. She swallowed, her throat still burning from the stomach acid.

"Will you be all right?" she asked. "They'll know you're here, Sharon. They can sense you if you can sense them."

Sharon nodded. "But there's not a lot they can do to me if they catch me" She smiled humorlessly. "And I'm not about to let them catch me, Claud."

"Okay." It was all Claudia could say.

"Take care of yourself," Sharon said. She unfastened her seat belt and reached for the door handle. Claudia embraced her suddenly, and Sharon stiffened in surprise. The embrace was strong and heartfelt.

"I don't think I'll see you again," Claudia said, "so I just want to thank you."

Sharon hugged her back with one arm. "Take care of yourself," she repeated, then threw open the driver's door. She stepped into the black night and slammed the door shut behind her. Claudia watched her cross in front of the Honda. Their eyes met for one last time, and Claudia saw that Sharon still looked human—despite the ferocity of the weather outside, she was just as human as she'd ever been, and Claudia felt guilt for ever having doubted that.

Sharon disappeared into the thickets on the side of the road. In an instant, she was gone.

Claudia clambered over the Honda's center console and slipped behind the steering wheel. She fastened her safety belt, put the vehicle in gear, and headed up the hill for her rendezvous.

###

The death of the newlings slammed into Osric like a tsunami. He snarled and tore at the lid of his casket with his talons as if it were a mortal enemy, ripping apart the silk headliner. He yelled in rage and pain and grief, for he knew that his clan, his Family, had been ripped asunder.

He threw open the casket lid with enough strength to shear it from its hinges. He leaped out of the coffin and roared like an enraged lion, sending the newlings and higher vampires scampering away from the white-hot eye of his rage. Even Helena cowered before his fury, hiding behind Stahl like a frightened child. Stahl stood as still as a statue, but eyes downcast. Only Rodrigo held his ground, gazing at Osric with a vacant expression.

"How dare they!" Osric shouted. He spun around and faced each and every vampire in the darkened cellar. The lesser ones retreated, mewling pathetically. Even Stahl stepped backwards, knocking Helena to the cold cement floor.

"How dare they!" Osric thundered again.

"Lord, it was to be expected." Rodrigo's voice was low, reasonable, a tiny island of calm that refused to be overrun by the storm of Osric's rage. "They are our enemies. They know to strike at us when we are weak. This tactic is not new."

Osric snarled and fell to his knees. He slammed his fists into the concrete floor, leaving spidery cracks in the cement. He struck again, this time pulverizing the concrete, sending clouds of dust into the air. He clenched his fists with such force that his talons sliced open his palms and black ichor dripped onto the cracked flooring.

"The fault is mine... the responsibility is mine," he whispered after a time. He pushed himself to his feet and turned to look at Rodrigo. "A result of my arrogance, wouldn't you say?" Osric asked the youthful-looking Spaniard.

Rodrigo's silent stare was all the answer he needed.

Osric examined his palms. The wounds he had inflicted on himself had vanished, leaving no trace of their existence.

"Not all is lost, my Lord," Rodrigo said. "Tremaine was warned by the Nero woman, and he was able to get word to the servants at the warehouse. Veronika and Sven are safe. And you have all those who remain here." Rodrigo motioned to the small horde of vampires that cowered in the darkness. "The Family still lives."

"This?" Osric snorted. "This is scarcely a pack, Rodrigo."

Rodrigo bowed his head. "As you wish, my Lord."

Osric felt the cold rage emanating from Rodrigo, the same rage he himself felt at the decimation of the great clan. Hundreds murdered... by pathetic mortals!

But there was something else coloring Rodrigo's anger. The Spaniard's fury was directed at him. This revelation almost brought a smile to Osric's dead lips—Rodrigo had buried his hot temper under layers of discipline developed over the centuries, but at his core, he would always be rebellious. Osric almost envied him for it.

"No matter. What is done is done. There are greater things to attend to this night. Tell me more news, Rodrigo."

"Your servant Tremaine arranged to bring the Nero woman here, in accordance with your plans. Also, I sense the woman named Sharon Thompson is very close to Turning—and she is drawing near to us, as well."

"She turns only because of your intercession, dear Rodrigo," Osric said. "Apparently the mortals working for Acheson and Ellenshaw have come up with a process that might very well arrest the Turning process one day." He smiled and ran a hand through his dark hair. "A shame they won't be able to perfect it." He frowned suddenly. "And speaking of our old friend Ellenshaw, where has he been, I wonder?"

"Perhaps leading the attack against our clan to the south?"

Osric's frown deepened. "Perhaps. Perhaps."

"It is obvious where the rest of the enemy is," Rodrigo said. "My Lord, even though the storm you summoned rages at full strength, I wonder if it might be best for us if we were to relocate?"

Osric considered this for a long moment, then shook his head. "No. We have much work to do before the Ancient Ones can step across into this world, and that must occur on this night. Despite the setbacks, all is starting to come together. Sharon and the Nero woman draw near. The storm provides us with cover, and shields us from the damned sunlight. I admit there is some risk, but it must be withstood."

Rodrigo said nothing, but Osric sensed his displeasure. He placed a hand on Rodrigo's shoulder.

"After tonight, the Family shall be yours, Rodrigo. Take Sharon and the Hara woman as your personal concubines. Either alone would make an exceptional follower, but together they will assist you in ensuring your new clan survives forever."

"And what of Claudia Nero?" Rodrigo asked. "Will she also walk the Earth as one of our kind?"

Osric shook his head slowly. "She serves another purpose. Stahl!"

"Yes, my Lord," the tall, expressionless vampire said, his gaze directed to the concrete floor.

"Ensure the grounds are guarded. While I do not think the mortals will find us here, Rodrigo has a point. I have been complacent. See to our security."

"Yes, my Lord," Stahl repeated. He barked commands to the newlings and lesser vampires, and they crept out of their hiding places. None of them looked in Osric's direction.

"Not you, darling Helena," Osric said when she followed Stahl up the stairs. "Stay with me for a time, won't you?"

Helena turned to him, her pale face an expressionless mask. Osric drifted over to her and touched her cold cheek.

"Not to worry," he cooed. "I won't harm you. Not now, not ever."

CHAPTER 22

"According to the sat data, that truck's heading for the hills," Cosmatos reported.

The truck left the freeway at Hollywood Boulevard. Fenster kept the van several hundred yards behind the larger vehicle. Cars and trucks littered the rain-swept freeway, as the vehicles had either been in accidents or merely abandoned by their drivers.

"Hollywood Boulevard," Fenster said. "It would figure these things would be hanging out in Hollyweird. They'd stand out less than the damned tweakers."

"Find the address of the warehouse owner," Ellenshaw said as Fenster eased the blue van down the exit ramp. "That Schwimmer fellow."

"Why do you want to know that?" Cosmatos asked.

"Just do it, please," Ellenshaw said as he stared into the night through his NVGs.

"Sure thing," Cosmatos said, though the tone of his voice indicated he wasn't very happy about it. Licht heard that as well, and he drifted to the back of the van. Ellenshaw smiled when he heard him give Cosmatos an ass-chewing, albeit a whispered one.

Occasionally, Ellenshaw lost sight of the truck. This was unnerving, but there was no other way. Even through the darkness of night and the gloom of the hurricane, if the drivers of the truck saw the Ford van in their rearview mirrors, it would doubtless arouse suspicion.

"They're looking into the residential information you wanted," Cosmatos said after a moment.

"Thanks," Ellenshaw said as Licht moved back into position between the two front seats.

"What's up with the house?" Licht asked.

"They're obviously not all together," Ellenshaw said. "And Osric is far too pretentious to stay in something as common as a warehouse. When I was speaking to Sharon Thompson earlier, she mentioned Osric was in Los Angeles because he needed the challenge... and to see something. I'm thinking he wants to watch from the hills as L.A. goes down."

"And you're thinking the guy who owned the casket business has a home in the hills, and that Osric's all for the jetliner views?"

"He's not particularly complex," Ellenshaw said. "He's old Romanian royalty. He appreciates the finer things, even if they're no longer as useful to him now as they were when he was still human. He's ambitious, but doesn't like to go without the trappings of a successful man. As old as he is, he still hasn't learned that you can't take it all with you."

"The address is 2173 West Live Oak, in Los Feliz," Cosmatos reported from the back. "A gated estate on a full acre that overlooks the city and the Pacific. European style mansion that was built in 1942. Owner is Noam Schwimmer."

Ellenshaw nodded. "A European mansion? I see that Osric still has a hankering for the old country. Give whomever you spoke with my thanks—that's a mother lode of information. We need to get that to Acheson's team as soon as possible."

"They already know," Cosmatos said. "They're the ones who called in the address."

Ellenshaw frowned. "How did they beat us there?"

"They didn't," Cosmatos said. "But Sharon did. She called Acheson direct. The team's on their way there now."

"What else?"

"That's everything," Cosmatos said. "Seems like the data's still fragmented."

"The residence is owned by Schwimmer, though?"

"Yep. That info came from the tax assessor's database."

"West Live Oak... better find us a place to set up there."

"Hold on." There was a lengthy pause, and then Cosmatos came back with the news. "There's only one street we could use to set up an observation post, and that would be the southern end of Mountain Oak Drive. I'm not sure if it would give us direct visibility, though."

"An acre's a lot of land for that area," Licht said. "What about a street behind the registered address?"

"Got Verde Oak Drive, right behind it. It's got to butt up against the property line. Or maybe the estate has two entrances."

Licht looked at Ellenshaw. "Well?"

Ellenshaw sighed and stared out at the lightless streets of Hollywood. Hollywood Boulevard was completely dark. Despite the weather, figures shambled about in the storm: drug addicts and the homeless, searching for shelter. Ellenshaw knew many of them would wake up dead if he and Acheson's team couldn't get things straightened out in the next few hours.

"Contact the containment team," Ellenshaw said.

###

Acheson drove Cecil's Excursion up the Harbor Freeway as fast as he dared. Despite its weight, the vehicle swayed back and forth in the gale, and the windshield wipers barely kept up with the pouring rain. He had the huge SUV in four-wheel drive due to the water that cascaded across the freeway. In some lower areas, it splashed against the doors, despite the truck's three-inch lift. They were lucky to make thirty miles an hour, and even that felt suicidally fast.

They had found their way to Interstate 105 and were working travelling eastbound when Sharon called Acheson's cell. His surprise that cellular service was still available was replaced by near shock that Sharon had managed to break out of the Plant... and that she was within spitting distance of what remained of Osric's clan.

Sharon had followed as Claudia was picked up by one of Osric's human servants and taken to the big house on West Live Oak Drive, only a few hundred feet away. If she hadn't managed to see the car drive through the estate's gate, she wouldn't have even known it was there. After giving Acheson the address, she relayed everything that had transpired since she and Claudia had escaped from the Plant, finishing with tracking Claudia and the human servants to the big mansion where she believed Osric and his minions waited.

"Don't do anything," Acheson pleaded with her after she had given her report. "Just sit tight and wait for us to get there."

"I don't have a lot of time left, babe," Sharon had responded. "If I don't get in now, I might not have a chance to do anything before I Turn. And they have to know I'm here. They're probably expecting me."

"All the more reason for you to chill until we can get there."

"Can't. Sorry," Sharon had said, and then the line went dead. Acheson swore and tried to call back, but to no avail. The call went into the original owner's voice mail.

With no other recourse, Acheson continued on his way, pointing the big Ford toward the Santa Monica Mountains. Beside him, Julia cleaned her MP-5 submachine gun. Behind him, Cecil changed out the barrel on his SAW, and Nacho tended to his dogs in the very rear of the vehicle. Acheson had already changed out his AA-12's ammo drum and loaded it up with high-explosive minigrenades. They would be more useful during a forced entry operation. He could blast a door off its hinges in less than two seconds.

"Two-Six, this is TOC, over."

Acheson recognized Jerry Licht's voice. He switched the headset to voice-activated so he could keep both hands on the steering wheel.

"This is Two-Six. Go ahead."

"Two-Six, TOC. We have the target address. There aren't a lot of sites where we can establish a line-of-sight O.P. of the residence. We're about ten minutes out. How do you want us to play this? Over."

"Ellenshaw, are you listening in?"

"Right here, Mark."

"What's the SITREP?"

"SITREP is this: We're off the Hollywood Freeway and driving up Los Feliz Boulevard right now. We no longer have direct visual on the truck, but satellite tracking has it on East Live Oak. It's headed right for the house Sharon said they would be using. It makes sense, as it was owned by Schwimmer and it gives Osric a view of his new kingdom. Over."

Acheson thought about the TOC's position. The house that Osric had taken over was below the one he and Sharon had lived in a lifetime ago, up on Mulholland Drive.

"Get to Edgemont Street. Pull to the curb and wait there. I'll give you more instructions once we're on-site, over."

There was a long pause. "Ellenshaw, do you copy? Over."

"Roger, Mark. I'm just not sure what it is you're hoping to achieve by holding us up. I thought the old playbook was dead. Over."

"Sharon's already inside the AO," Acheson said. "If she can, she'll get us updates faster than the TOC could. Plus, you'd be sitting ducks. We took out a huge number of vamps in El Segundo, but Osric isn't sitting in a house in the hills all by himself. Head for Edgemont and hold—we'll call you when we want you. Two-Six out." Acheson reached down to the transmitter on his belt and took it out of VOX mode.

"How many vamps do you think we're looking at?" Julia slapped a fresh magazine into her MP-5 and charged it.

"Don't know. Ten, twenty. Maybe more."

"Ain't gonna be less than twenny," Cecil said. "You thinkin' Osric might send vamps for the TOC?"

"If Osric's spent enough time training Helena to get past the ghoul stage and get her lucid enough to have a nice little conversation with Sharon before she got fanged, then he'll use her to get to Ellenshaw," Acheson said. "That's what I'm worried about. Ellenshaw's way too raw to deal with Helena right now."

"He's gonna have to eventually," Nacho said. "And eventually happens real soon."

Acheson kept his eyes riveted on the street ahead, the small swath of it the headlights revealed to him. The Excursion pounded through puddles on the freeway as he maneuvered it around a stalled semi. There was nothing else to say.

###

The man had identified himself as Tremaine, and from his clipped British accent, Claudia knew he was the man who had ordered her to the meeting point. Seated in the Jaguar beside him was an Asian woman. As they drove through the stormy night for a few brief minutes, Claudia came to realize that some of the cues she would look for in a woman weren't there, and from what she could tell from the back seat, the woman's bone structure wasn't right. She was actually a he.

Tremaine pulled the car into a walled compound. The gate was nearly invisible from the street, and the high walls shielded a huge mansion from view. Claudia normally would have gasped at the sight of such grandeur, but any excitement she might have felt was lost in the sea of sickness that suddenly assaulted her. Moaning, she covered her mouth as tears slipped past her closed eyelids. She could sense Osric's black mark inside the mansion, but that wasn't the full reason for her discomfort. There was something wrong here, something terribly wrong. And Osric was only a tiny part of it.

My God, what is he going to do to us?What is he going to let loose on the world?

It was then she sensed Chiho. Like a drowning sailor finding a lifeline, Claudia latched onto Chiho's signature, felt the warmth of it and drew strength from her presence. She was very close now, and some of the black dread slipped away from Claudia, making room for rational thought.

Tremaine stopped the car in front of the huge dwelling. Palm trees were bent by the wind, and rain slashed at everything. The car rocked from side to side. Tremaine switched off the engine and looked at Claudia in the back seat.

"A few moments longer and you'll be reunited with your true love. The happiest of times for you, yes?"

Claudia said nothing.

Tremaine sneered when he said, "On behalf of my master... thanks so much for coming."

The door beside Claudia opened, and a tall vampire with a gaunt, pale face that was adorned by a Franz Josef-style mustache hauled her from the Mercedes' dry interior. He regarded her with complete disinterest. Silently, he hustled her up the fieldstone walk toward the huge double doors that led into the mansion. Tremaine and his companion followed. Claudia held up one hand in a vain attempt to ward off the driving rain. Though she was exposed for less than twenty seconds, she was drenched by the time the vampire dragged her across the threshold. She slipped on the entry foyer's marble floor.

"Careful, darling," Tremaine said. "You wouldn't want to hurt yourself now, of all times." There was a malevolent glee in his voice. She turned and glared at him.

"Are you the pitcher or the catcher?" she asked him, cutting her eyes over to the transgendered man standing beside Tremaine.

Tremaine's face remained unchanged, but Claudia felt the anger surge from him.

"So impetuous—do watch that your sweet mouth doesn't land you in any trouble you can't handle, dearie."

"The Master commands you to join him in the study," the hulking vampire told Tremaine. He spoke with a heavy, Germanic accent. Tremaine continued to glare at Claudia. His companion ran a hand through her long hair, fussing with it, annoyed that it had gotten so wet.

"Tremaine, do not keep the Master waiting," the vampire said, this time with more iron in his voice.

Tremaine snapped out of it and nodded curtly, obsequiously. "Of course," he said. "Come with me, darling." He pulled his companion along with him, walking deeper into the house, their footfalls echoing in the marble-lined hallway.

"We will wait here," the vampire told Claudia. He didn't look at her, nor did he appear to be bothered by the fact he was dripping wet. He kept a hand on Claudia's arm, and the contact was sickening. When she tried to pull free, the vampire's grip tightened.

"When can I see Chiho?" Claudia asked.

"When it is time," the vampire responded.

"When will that be?"

The vampire said nothing in response, only stood in the middle of the foyer like a statue. Claudia sighed and reached out with her senses. Chiho was very near now.

###

"My Master." Tremaine bowed his head before Osric as he led Holly into the mansion's study. It was a richly furnished room, full of gleaming wood and ancient texts that appeared to have been bought more for prestige than for reading. An expensive telescope stood by the wide window that overlooked the swimming pool and, beyond that, the lights of Los Angeles.

Osric was alone in the study, peering out the window. He turned toward Tremaine, his face expressionless. Still, when his unholy eyes turned in Holly's direction, Tremaine sensed a slight change in his master's carriage. As if he was offended... or disgusted.

"You've done your duties well, Tremaine," Osric said. "For years, you've been a faithful servant. A most suitable guardian during the daylight hours, and your assistance continued well into the time when darkness reigns. I must take the time to thank you for such dedicated service."

Tremaine bowed again, and his heart fluttered. Tonight is the time! he told himself, jubilant. Tonight, we join the ranks of my Master's Family, and we live forever!

"The pleasure has been all mine, my Master," Tremaine said. "It has been my great passion to do your bidding, no matter what the hour." And serve he had. Regardless of his personal condition, be he well or sick, Tremaine had always discharged his duties with seasoned competence. To have done otherwise would have invited death.

Tremaine motioned to Holly. "My Master, may I introduce my companion? This is Holly."

Osric offered Holly a blank expression, his dark eyes revealing nothing. Holly was uncertain how to respond, and Tremaine picked up on it. She seemed poised on the knife edge between fear and reason, which was not an unusual prospect when in the presence of a being as powerful as Osric. Osric himself remained neutral while examining Holly for the longest of moments. Finally, he turned back to Tremaine.

"Even in death, there is a natural order to things, Tremaine," he said smoothly. He swept an arm toward the window, indicating the glittering city below. "Mankind has long displayed a trend toward destroying that order, wouldn't you agree? They've created things that are great and perhaps even awe-inspiring, but at the same time..." He looked at Holly. "They've given rise to sheer abominations."

Tremaine knew what was going to happen, even though he could never have guessed things would end in such a way. To him, Osric had been the entity whose uncaring and outright dismissal of the human condition was legendary. Tremaine had presumed that Holly's true biological nature would be of no interest to him. He was surprised to discover that this was not the case. Old European mores were difficult to shake at the most inconvenient of times.

"My Master," he said, his voice weak, his protest lacking conviction.

Osric crossed the gap between him and Holly in an instant. His movements were so rapid that they defied the naked eye, registering as a brief blur. It ended when Holly's body hit the floor, her life snuffed out by Osric's neck-shattering blow. The vampire stood over the warm corpse for a moment, looking upon it with utter revulsion.

"That you should bring such a thing to me unnerves me greatly, Tremaine," he said, his voice sharp and vicious. "I cared not how you spent your time when not in my service, but to display before me such a creature is completely unacceptable."

Tremaine stared at Holly's body. Tears clouded his vision, and his breath caught in his throat.

"Yes, my Master. Please forgive my stupidity. I never intended to offend you," he said, his voice a tortured whisper.

"Dear Tremaine." Osric drifted over to his side and placed a cold hand on his shoulder, forcing Tremaine to look up at him. Osric smiled at him like a father would.

"I know what it is you want. And you have labored for it long and hard. It's your final wish to join my Family, is it not?"

Tremaine nodded, and a small beam of joy perforated the darkness of his grief. "Yes, my Master. I would give anything to walk the world as you do."

"And who would not, if they were in your position?" Osric said. "Why continue to exist as a mere mortal, your every move and thought dedicated to continuing your pitiful, weak existence? Why live as the hunted, when you can live as the hunter? Why stagger beneath the weight of all that a mortal must carry—the pathetic emotion, the fear, the drudgery—when another world, a beautiful, dark world, waits nearby?"

"Why indeed?" Tremaine agreed.

Osric looked at him. "Do you feel you are worthy, Tremaine? Are you worthy of being inducted into my Family?"

Tremaine nodded emphatically. "Oh yes, my Master, I am worthy! I've done everything you've asked for, haven't I? I've been as loyal and faithful as any servant you've ever had, isn't this true? Have I ever imperiled you or yours in the past?"

"You have been loyal," Osric said, "but your faith has always been in question. I saw this crisis in you fully on the night of the ceremony upstairs, when we made our offering to the Ancient Ones. Your heart, my friend, simply wasn't in it."

"I... I was only shocked by what I saw, my Master! It was surprising to see those children consumed by the mirror and what lies beyond it—"

"What lies beyond the surface of the mirror is that which drives me, Tremaine. That which commands me. That which owns me, as I own the Family and your pitiful life. What you say is not the truth, dear Tremaine—remember, I've had centuries to study humankind, and I can tell a—what's the term?—a 'bullshit artist' from any honest man. And you, dear Tremaine, are trying to give me a load of bullshit, aren't you?" Osric smiled, revealing his fangs, and his eyes flashed.

"No," Tremaine whispered. "No, my Master... it's not what you think!"

In a flash, Osric twisted Tremaine's head completely around. Tremaine twitched only once, and Osric allowed the body to collapse across the other corpse. The vampire looked down at them with a soft smile on his face.

"Oh Tremaine," he murmured. "Telling me I'm mistaken simply was the wrong thing to do."

He left the library and called for Stahl to bring the Nero woman to him.

CHAPTER 23

The rain and wind weren't as bothersome to Sharon as they should have been as she crawled through the dense brush that hid the mansion's walls from the road. She could thank the Turning for that. She felt the changes taking place in her body, changes that were both sickening and exhilarating. External stimuli, such as cold and pain, were fading into the background while her visual and aural acuity grew sharper, revealing things to her that she had difficult filtering out—the wind rustling through individual leaves, the sounds of insects crawling in the brush as they sought shelter from the storm, the heartbeat of a feral cat as it scurried away from the mansion grounds. But with the changes came a queer pain as well, a blossoming ache that spread from her core and radiated outward to her limbs. It was a pain that was difficult to ignore because it was so extraordinary. Just the same, Sharon pushed it from her mind as best she could.

When will I start to turn into an animal? Will I feel it coming, or will it just happen like a light turning on?

She made it to the vine-covered wall and crept to her right, keeping the wall between herself and the mansion. She could sense movement on the grounds—a few humans (she sensed their beating hearts) and more than a few vampires, who emitted a psychic pattern she was capable of receiving in an odd way, much like she could have perceived a subtle breeze moving through a large room. She wondered if they detected her, and if so, was it with greater accuracy? She wouldn't be surprised if that were the case, though it meant her attempts to close on the property unnoticed were useless. Just the same, she fell back on the training she'd received during her time with the Marine Corps: approach without being seen. Sensing a presence was one thing; putting eyeballs on target was another.

So she continued along the wall, pushing through the weeds and foliage until she reached the end, where it angled around toward the rear of the property. Sharon followed it several hundred yards from the road, until the wall doubled back and paralleled the street she'd left behind.

And that was when she heard the sound of car engines through the ruckus of the hurricane. Even to her heightened senses, they were barely audible. She looked in the direction they seemed to come from and saw nothing but trees and scrub brush that had escaped landscaping. She knew it would be the Containment Team. The engine noises faded away, as if they had never been. The team would abandon their vehicles and come the rest of the way on foot.

Sharon moved along the wall until she found a small section devoid of vines or brush. Without a second thought, she scurried up its face like a squirrel, scaling its ten-foot height without difficulty. It wasn't until she crouched atop it that she marveled at the ease of her ascent. She checked her hands, opening and closing her fingers. They seemed to be working normally. She rubbed them together, but felt nothing unusual. Placing one palm on the wall, she dragged it back and forth and felt it sticking here and there. She looked at the palm again. The ridging there had changed, and as she watched, it reverted back to its normal state.

She realized that she was casting a perfect silhouette while perched on the wall. She scampered down the wall's interior face and lowered herself into the landscaped bushes in the back yard. Keeping low to the ground, she edged deeper into the bushes.

The lawn was large and well-maintained. On the far side, the wall gave way to a black, wrought-iron fence that provided an unobstructed view of the city lights below. The view was still stunning, despite the storm. Parts of Hollywood and West Hollywood were dark, as was a great deal of the city toward the Pacific, but those portions of that still had power gleamed beautifully. And on the hills above her, the Griffith Park Observatory sat like an alabaster beacon, shining in the darkness that pervaded the mountains and canyons.

Figures moved inside the mansion. Some were human, and a few of those held assault rifles. They were well armed, but there were only three of them. Sharon reached out with her growing senses. They revealed several more vampires inside, and Sharon glimpsed a familiar face: the tall, dark-haired vamp she had faced down during the hospital raid. As soon as her eyes alighted on him, he stopped and looked out the window into the back yard. Sharon kept still as the vampire swept his gaze across the yard. He peered in Sharon's direction, then shook his head and continued on with a smile.

Sharon reeled in her senses. It was possible that by using them, she could be advertising her presence like an attack jet's radar energy could warn an enemy of its approach. It took a moment, but she was able to shut herself down. Convinced that she was as invisible as she ever would be, she kept her eyes on the well-lit mansion as she slithered through the bushes to another position.

###

North Edgemont Street was almost a river choked with assorted debris that washed down from the Griffith Park mountains above. The streetlights were out. In the darkness, sporadic flashes of light blossomed as live power lines writhed about on the ground, dragged back and forth by the raging wind. All the stylish residences on the narrow street were dark, and several had been hastily boarded up. Here and there, candlelight glowed in the windows. The TOC van was parked on the street just south of the Cromwell Avenue intersection. Acheson pulled the Excursion up behind the van, killed the lights and engine, and unfastened his seat belt.

"I'm gonna walk the dogs real quick," Nacho said.

Acheson nodded. "Take care of them, then wait with them here. We'll be in the TOC hammering out a plan of attack, and I want you to keep eyes out."

"Roger that." Nacho was already clipping leashes to the dogs' harnesses.

Acheson led Julia and Cecil to the van. They crammed themselves inside the vehicle and tried not to get rainwater on the electronics. Erskine Fiedler was on one of the encrypted voice-only channels.

"There's no chance of arranging an air strike, not in those conditions. The Air Force won't release even satellite-guided weaponry," Fiedler told them. The high-frequency satellite communications system made his voice sound even reedier than usual. "The only option on the table right now is a direct action operation. Good work on the warehouse in El Segundo, by the way—it's still burning."

Acheson ignored the accolade. "Director, is there anything you can throw our way? We're going up against Osric direct, and he's got to be surrounded by the biggest and baddest."

"I don't like the odds either, Mark. But you're all we have. We could try and get LAPD surged into the area, but suspect they wouldn't be much of a help."

Acheson rubbed his eyes. The weariness he felt was almost debilitating, but he knew the rest of the team felt the same way and would be taking their cues from him. He straightened up and looked at the glowing electronics before him.

"We have floor plans of the target?" Acheson asked.

"Right here," Cosmatos said. He tapped a button on the command and control console and called them up. They'd been found in one of the local builder databases compiled years ago and made available to the federal government as part of the Patriot Act. Acheson studied them. The mansion was a huge, sprawling affair. Not that it mattered. When the team was done, the house would be razed.

"Getting in and planting the charges is going to be a problem," Julia said. Like so many neighboring homes, the house Osric had chosen was perched on a hill that overlooked downtown L.A. to the south and the rest of the city to the west. It was a multimillion dollar view, and with that view came a pristine location that helped turn the mansion into something resembling a fortress. Approaching unseen would be a tall order.

Acheson grunted in agreement, and examined another display that revealed the local topography. The house was set off the road behind high walls that were in turn disguised by well-maintained vegetation that had been groomed to help conceal the mansion. That vegetation would be useful in covering the team's approach, but the wall was continuous and at least ten feet high in places. The team would never know what was on the other side until they tried to breach it, and they could walk right into a trap. The vamps had had a great deal of time to plan for such contingencies.

But the southwest corner of the property line was protected by a seven-foot iron fence and little else. This was to provide pleasing sightlines from the swimming pool area, so that sunbathers could look out over Hollywood during the day or take in the luminescent view at night. The hillside leading to the house would be difficult to negotiate, and much of the foliage had been cleared away twenty feet from the fence. The team would be exposed when they emerged from the scrub.

Acheson tapped the LCD display, indicating the southwest corner. "This is it."

"At least we'll be able to see what we're walking into," Julia said. "Of course, they might be able to see us too."

Cecil leaned forward, staring at the screen. "I ain't looking forward to the climb, though."

Julia shrugged. "Me either. And this weather is just going to ruin my hair."

Acheson turned to Ellenshaw, who sat quietly in the semi-darkness.

"Feel like coming along for the ride, Robert? Settle some old scores?"

Ellenshaw nodded silently. His mind would be on Helena Rubenstein, of course. For his part, Acheson considered Sharon's plight... then wondered if Chiho had been taken down that dark path as well.

"Jerry, we could use another hand to round us out," Acheson said. "You interested?"

"Uh... well..." Licht slowly faced Acheson and sighed. "Sure, why not."

"It ain't like you'll live for long if we fail," Cecil said.

"Thanks for the pep talk."

"Free of charge."

"Mark, do you have a plan?" Fiedler asked.

Acheson stared at the van's displays, studying the mansion floor plans and the aerial map of the property. He cupped his chin between thumb and forefinger and felt the heavy stubble there.

"Mark?" It was Ellenshaw prodding this time.

Acheson nodded. "Yes, I have a plan. No one will like it, but we're out of time, altitude, and airspeed."

###

"Man, this does suck," Cecil said as he humped up the hillside through the sheets of rain. The wind raged so hard and fast that it tore the words from his lips.

"Buck up, little chilito." Nacho was just ahead. He held onto the dogs' leashes and allowed them to advance at the front of the party. While the heavily laden humans were slow to climb, they were fleet and agile, straining against their restraints.

"Chilito? Ain't that somethin' on the menu at Taco Bell?"

"You call someone that in Mexico, they'll slit you wide open."

"Guess it ain't no compliment then. What's it mean?"

Nacho smiled beneath his night vision goggles. "It means 'tiny penis,' something you should be used to, you gorilla."

"Man, you're jus' jealous. I cain't find a codpiece big enough to hold back all this black steel!"

"Gentlemen, that really is enough," Julia said. She brought up the rear, with Jerry Licht between her and Cecil. She heard the running commentary over her headset, as everyone's radio was set to voice-activated.

"You guys always chatter like this?" Licht asked breathlessly. Like the others, he was humping a rucksack full of ammunition and one fuel-air explosive, and the weight was almost bone-crushing given the incline and thick vegetation they had to hack through.

"Only Cecil," Julia said. "He never shuts up. Always bitching."

"Someone's gotta add the human dimension to all the shit we go through," Cecil said.

"Yeah, and that usually means screaming like a little schoolgirl," Nacho said.

"Blow me, bean eater!" Cecil shot back.

"No time to organize a search party," Nacho said, using the age-old refrain that Cecil walked into time and time again. He followed the dogs through a thick set of brambles as they stalked up the craggy hillside. He slipped in a patch of mud, but kept his grip on the leashes. Cecil was there in an instant, and he grabbed Nacho and helped him to his feet.

"Don't say I never did nothin' for you," Cecil said.

"Just don't expect me to take care of your diaper rash once this is over."

"Enough boys," Julia commanded, and they fell silent. They spent the next several minutes clambering through the wet darkness, following Nacho's dogs. At least they were serious about it, she noticed. Where Cecil would complain until the cows came home, Nacho's dogs just pressed on. Every now and then, she glimpsed one as it paused and sniffed the air, hackles raised. They knew what lay ahead, but they still advanced.

"Lights ahead," Nacho murmured over the radio an eternity later. "We're at the edge of the scrub. I can see the house—it still has power."

"Hold the dogs back until we all get up there," Julia said.

"Roger that."

"Mark, you copy that last?" Julia quickened her pace and overtook Licht. She pushed him with both hands, urging him forward. He slipped and stumbled in the dark murk, but managed to keep his feet beneath him.

Acheson came back immediately. "Roger that, Jules. We're about set here. Put eyes on target and give me a SITREP, over."

"Roger, stand by." Julia pushed past Licht. Ignoring her burning thighs and lungs, she climbed through the brush until she drew abreast of Nacho. He lay prone on the wet ground, his MP-5 shouldered and aimed at the mansion. His three dogs crouched before him, as motionless as statues in the dark.

Julia dropped to her belly and pulled a night vision monocle from her belt. She powered it up and pushed her NVGs back on her head. Holding the monocle to her right eye, she surveyed the landscape ahead.

"Definite movement indoors," she said. "I count four—no, six individuals. Mark, I can see one of them with an assault rifle. HK G36, I think."

"Roger that. What else?"

"The house is fully illuminated. All windows look intact, no storm damage as of yet. We might want to consider dropping the lights, just to make it more difficult for the servants with the weapons, over."

"Negative. Darkness is one of Osric's strengths, so let's deny him of that for as long as we can. Any sign of Claudia or Chiho?"

"Stand by." Julia passed the monocle back and forth across the rear of the house. She counted more figures—humans and vampires alike—congregating on the mansion's second floor, where huge windows overlooked the back yard and the city beyond. She zoomed in on those windows, and the bright light oversaturated the monocle's light-intensification chip for a moment before the excess illumination was filtered out.

"Holy shit, I have a tally on Osric," she half-whispered into her headset's boom microphone. "Second floor, rear of the house. And—stand by." A flurry of activity in the house caught not just her attention, but Osric's as well. Julia watched as the tall, stately vampire turned. He smiled and held up his hands as if welcoming a long-lost friend.

Claudia Nero stepped into frame, herded toward Osric by a huge, powerful-looking vampire with a mustache that was probably all the rage in the 1800s. Though the monocle couldn't reveal every detail of her features, Julia could see Claudia was panic-stricken as Osric placed his hands on her shoulders.

"I have a tally on Claudia," Julia reported. "Same room as Osric. He has his hands on her, Mark, but isn't feeding on her." Yet.

"Hold position until you hear otherwise," Acheson said, his voice clipped. "We're still a few minutes from a go condition. Out."

###

"The charming Claudia Nero, the woman of my dreams!" Osric beamed when Stahl ushered her into the second-floor great room. He noted with some amusement that his mere presence brought her to near panic. Claudia shook her head from side to side, mouth open, a scream dying stillborn in her throat. When he placed his hands on her shoulders, she convulsed with fear. "Please, dear Claudia, be calm. You are among friends here."

Claudia's eyes remained wide, wild with fear. Osric had no doubt she was suffering mightily beneath the psychic onslaught emanated by a being of his stature. It was a problem, for it threatened to interfere with what he had planned.

He dismissed Stahl with a glance and steered Claudia toward the windows. Stretched out across the stormy blackness beyond was the jeweled tapestry of Los Angeles, revealed for all to see. Osric gestured to it with a sweep of his hand.

"Look before you—the city you know, the City of Angels. A familiar sight to you after all these years, yes?"

Claudia trembled as if she had been cast naked into an Arctic gale. Osric sensed her frail psyche was nearing its limit, and he had no choice but to intervene. She was no good to him as a babbling wreck.

"Claudia... look into my eyes, sweet one." Osric kept his voice low and soothing, speaking in a pitch made as smooth as glass by centuries of practice, as comforting as kid leather.

Haltingly, Claudia did as instructed. Her doe-like brown eyes rose to meet his silver-in-black gaze. Her mouth dropped open, and she did scream then, a pathetic rasping squeal that reminded Osric of the pigs his father had once slaughtered centuries ago. Pigs whose blood ran hot and warm when the razor-sharp metal slashed through their weak flesh...

"Calmly," Osric whispered, backing up the single word with the power of his gaze. "Come back to me, Claudia..."

Fear nothing, his eyes told her. Fear is worth nothing to you, fear stands in the way of uniting you with your beloved...

Claudia began to fight off the terror that chilled her every nerve. The wild light that had flashed in her eyes ebbed, leaving a semi-calm in its wake. She gazed up at Osric, still fearful, but now her fear was hemmed in behind a wall of rationality.

"What is it you want from me," she said, her voice barely more than a gasp.

Osric gestured toward the windows again. "Do you know where you are? You know what it is you see beyond these windows?"

Claudia looked down at the storm-swept lights of Los Angeles. "Your City of the Damned. I've seen it before. In my dreams."

"Yes," Osric hissed. "Dreams, dear Claudia, are another window through which we view reality. Did you know that?"

Claudia didn't answer.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"To free Chiho." She turned and faced the tall vampire, and her eyes were hard and flinty. "I know you want me for her. Or at least that's what you want me to think."

"Dear Claudia, you're right... and at the same time, wrong. You see, I have every intention of honoring what I promised you through my intermediary. But of course, I give nothing away for free. As always, there is a price."

"Of course there is," Claudia said. "What is it?" She nodded past Osric's shoulder, where Helena stood, smiling at her like a demonic lapdog. "You already have one empath, why do you need another?"

Osric laughed. "My darling, I don't need another empath for my own purposes. But your skills are required by another. It is for this reason that I have summoned you here, and for this reason that I give you a choice. You must decide upon this of your own free will."

"Decide what?"

"To give yourself to me, dear Claudia," Osric said. He smiled, and his fangs glittered in the light. "Give yourself to me so that I might use you in any way I see fit. If you do this, your beloved Chiho goes free. If not, then you will watch as I feed upon her and make her one of my own."

Claudia snorted. "Some choice."

"I never said the choice would be easy. Nor did I promise it would not cost you."

"So if I agree to this, what do I get out of it other than your assurance that Chiho goes free?"

Osric stepped closer to her. "Your dreams... you recall them? Do you recall the passion, the intoxicating fires of your releases?"

Claudia looked away. Osric smiled.

"Tempting to experience the full force of such passion in real life, as opposed to the pale taste you received through the veil of a dream world, yes?" he asked. "Your last moments before I claim to this city, consumed by such ardor. Fitting, is it not?"

Claudia looked out over the city lights. Osric was foul, filthy, the absolute antithesis of everything she stood for. But what he offered was almost irresistible. She had lied to herself, convinced herself that what she did all this to ensure Chiho's life. But the truth of the matter was she craved the fiery passion her dreams promised, the blazing fervor that had awakened her night after night. It had been almost impossible to put it out of her mind, and no matter how many times she made love with Chiho or how many times she masturbated to climax, the desire to experience it firsthand weighed heavily on her. It was as if she were addicted to some powerful narcotic.

My God, what is it that I'm about to do?

"Let me see Chiho," she said. "Let me see her, and I'll make my decision then."

Osric put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her away from the window. Claudia turned to find Chiho standing right there, held by a lean male vampire. She was naked, and her eyes were glazed and unfocused. She leaned against the vampire, a man with a narrow face that was framed by a long mane of black hair. Claudia stepped toward her, angry.

"What have you done to her?" She grabbed Chiho's arm and shoved the vampire away from her with all her might. The vampire barely moved, but he released Chiho with a dead smile.

"Your friend is well and unharmed," Osric said. "She has been put in a fugue state, however—more for her safety than anything else. You must know she would fight us with every ounce of energy she has. Better to restrain her this way than risk injuring her, yes?"

Chiho slumped forward. Claudia grabbed her and hugged her close. She lowered Chiho to the floor and stretched her out on her back. Claudia examined her for bite marks and found none. Her wrists and ankles were bruised, and she glared up at Osric.

"She did this herself by struggling against her bonds," Osric said. "As I told you, she would fight against us with everything she had if she were allowed."

"Chiho, can you hear me? It's Claudia. Chiho?" Claudia looked into Chiho's dull eyes and saw no glimmer of recognition. Claudia shook her, but her head lolled against her chest.

"I need to talk with her!" Claudia shouted at Osric.

"Are you sure this is wise?"

"I don't care if it's wise or not, it's what you need to do!"

Osric stepped toward her, eyes hard. Claudia's breath caught in her throat as she squelched her scream and turned away from the fury of his glare.

"Never pretend to know what I need to do, meat!" Osric thundered.

Claudia tried to look over at him, but her gaze would not rise past his shining shoes. "I think you should do as I ask," she whispered, "because I think that whatever you need to have happen here tonight depends on me giving up to you willingly."

Osric hesitated for a long moment. "It would be better if you were to give yourself to me freely, yes."

"Then do as I ask," Claudia said.

"Step aside." Claudia did as instructed, and Osric stood over Chiho's prone figure. He glared down at her for a moment, his eyes boring into hers.

Chiho gasped and floundered on the floor, scuttling away from him, eyes wide. She leaped to her feet in one fluid motion, and before Claudia could say anything, Helena had Chiho by the throat.

"Oh, how I wish to feed on you!" Helena tittered.

Chiho grabbed Helena's wrist with one hand and held it tight. She spun on one foot, throwing her weight into the movement as her free hand slammed into Helena's elbow. Helena screamed as bone and tissue parted in her shoulder. The vampire released her and hissed, fangs bared, black tongue pistoning from her mouth like a dark serpent.

"You'll pay for that, bitch!"

"Helena, please show some restraint," Osric said. "Miss Hara, our dear Claudia would like a word with you."

Chiho snapped into a low fighting stance, fists clenched and held close to her body. She took in the room, noting the positions of the vampires and their human servants. Her eyes drifted across Claudia but did not linger on her for more than an instant.

"Claudia," she said, "get out. Now."

"I can't." Claudia reached for Chiho, and her fingers closed around one of her wrists. "I'm so sorry, Chiho, but I can't leave now. I'm here to save you."

"Save me?" Chiho asked. She pulled Claudia toward her and twisted again, ending up shielding Claudia from the knot of vampires with her body.

"A dramatic stance, Miss Hara, but completely useless," Osric said in a bored tone. "There's nowhere for you to go and no way you can outfight even one of us. You should listen to your dear Claudia."

Chiho calculated the odds and found they were about as bad as they could get. Osric, several masters, and even more lower-caste vamps and ghouls were in the house, along with some human servants who were armed. Chiho considered the humans. If she could get to one of their weapons, she would be able to postpone the inevitable for a few moments at best.

"Why are you here, Claudia?" she asked.

"To set you free," Claudia said.

"How can you possibly set me free? That does not make any sense," Chiho said.

"Claudia is here to fulfill her destiny," Osric told her. "As are all of us in this room."

"You used me to get Claudia here," Chiho said. She was careful not to look at the vampires directly. Instead, she noted their positions through her peripheral vision. A human servant was fifteen feet away, holding an H&K assault rifle. Chiho decided the weapon would be her best chance.

As if sensing her thoughts, Osric waved the humans out of the room. Chiho despaired.

"However she came to be here, here she is," Osric said. "She wishes to speak with you. I suggest you listen, for time grows short."

"Chiho? If I give myself to them, then you get to live," Claudia reached out and touched Chiho's face. Chiho turned toward her. Tears glistened in her eyes.

"Oh, Claud," she said. "They only told you that. Of course I they will not let me live—you must know that."

Claudia wiped away Chiho's tears, even as her own eyes grew moist. Deep down, she knew Chiho was right.

"Whatever they need me for," she told Chiho, "I'll only give it to them when you're safe."

Claudia felt Chiho's despair, wave after wave of regret and misery that slammed into her like the Pacific Ocean. And then suddenly, a predatory calm descended upon her, as surprising as an Arctic gale slicing through a balmy summer day.

"I love you, Claudia," Chiho said.

Claudia suddenly understood as her own tears spilled over. Was it the only way? At that moment, she found a hidden cache of strength, and it no longer mattered.

"Oh Chiho," she whispered.

Using every ounce of speed she had, Chiho launched a lethal blow that would shatter several of Claudia's cervical vertebrae and end her life. But fast as she was, she was no match for Rodrigo and Stahl. They seized her wrists and lifted her off the floor. Chiho screamed, slashing at them with her feet, and even landed a blow that was strong enough to crack a couple of Stahl's ribs. It would have driven a normal man to his knees, but Stahl wasn't fazed in the slightest. He grabbed her head in one oversized hand and forced her to look at him.

"Sleep," he intoned. "Einschlafen!"

Chiho went limp in their hands. Rodrigo nodded to Stahl, and the bigger vampire handed her to him. Rodrigo hefted her in both arms, holding her like a sleeping child.

"How unexpected," Osric said. "She intended to kill you."

Claudia hugged herself and sank to the floor with a sob. "Please... just let her go. Please."

"Then give yourself to me!" Osric roared. There was no lightness in his voice, no boredom, no fecklessness. The time for negotiation was past. All that remained was for the deal to be struck.

Claudia wept as she nodded. The last embers of strength she had felt only moments ago burned away into nothing. "Yes... whatever you want me to do, I'll do it. Just let her go... and let me feel the passion."

Osric smiled and bent over her. He guided her to her feet and nodded to her.

"Chiho will not be taken by me. She will be safe. And you will feel the passion, the passion that only one of the Ancient Ones can give to flesh such as yours—"

His words were cut short as something exploded outside with such force that the entire mansion shook.

CHAPTER 24

Acheson accelerated down the street when Ellenshaw signaled. He wore his night vision goggles and left the Excursion's headlamps off as the big truck hurtled through the darkness, its prow-like grille aimed for the thick wall that surrounded the mansion. He backed off the accelerator at the last moment and shouted into his headset's microphone.

"Robert, now!"

"Roger that," Ellenshaw responded. Acheson squeezed his eyes shut as the academician triggered the charges he had planted on the wall. The sudden flare of light penetrated his eyelids, and Acheson saw coruscating orange light for a brief instant before the shockwave slammed into the hulking SUV. The black Excursion danced from side to side for a moment as Acheson opened his eyes and fought the steering wheel. He tapped the brakes once, twice, and the vehicle straightened out. He stomped on the accelerator again, and the Excursion hurtled through the hole in the wall, its big V-10 engine bellowing, its four-wheel drive system propelling it over the rubble and tangled vegetation that had survived the detonation. The vehicle went airborne as it crossed the threshold, engine racing even higher as it sailed through the night air. Glass tinkled as the mirror on the passenger door struck the ragged edge of the wall and was ripped off the truck. The Excursion slammed onto the wet lawn. Its knobbed tires bit into the rain-slick ground, and it accelerated toward the mansion.

Behind it, Ellenshaw left his cover and ran toward the hole in the wall. Crouching at its edge, he shouldered his M-4 and fired into the house on full automatic, raking the windows. Someone with a rifle appeared in one window, and Ellenshaw rewarded him with a burst that sent the man spinning back into the house.

In the Excursion, Acheson unfastened his seatbelt. He lined up on the mansion's thick wooden doors, flipped on the truck's fog light array, and dove out the driver's door. He hit the leading edge of the circular driveway with a slap and roll that tore the night vision goggles from his head and ripped the wind from his lungs. Concrete tore his cheek, and then he slammed into one of the parked cars in front of the house as the Excursion thundered on. Acheson blacked out.

Inside the house, one of the human servants ran toward the thick wooden doors that led to the front porch, assault rifle at the ready. Four vampires followed, leaping across the entry hall's black-and-white floor like grotesque frogs. As the man reached for one of the elegant doorknobs, light flashed through the ornate windows atop the double doors. In an explosion of splintered wood and twisted steel, the Excursion blasted through the doors and into the man, tearing him almost in two as it dragged him across the marbled floor, leaving a trail of gore in its wake. It overran one of the vampires as well, but the creature fared better as only one of the spinning tires passed over it, collapsing its rib cage like dry kindling. It clawed at the tire with talon-like fingers, and succeeded in causing it to blow out. The Excursion drifted, tracking to the right, where it slammed into the right sweep of the double staircase that led to the mansion's second level. The opulent wooden banister exploded, and the Excursion's front fenders and thick bumper imploded. The airbags deployed and sent the vehicle's windshield hurtling through the air. It spun like a shimmering blade, beheading one vampire as it tried to leap away. The Excursion bounced up several stairs before the staircase collapsed beneath its multi-ton weight. The vehicle sagged into the wreckage as its radiator exploded, filling the entry hall with foul-smelling steam. The SUV's engine hitched once, twice, and then stalled into silence. The only sounds left were rainwater slapping across the marble floor through the ragged hole the vehicle had left behind and the ticking noises of cooling metal.

Stahl led several vampires onto the landing overlooking the entry hall. With a great leap, the huge vampire dropped to the wet floor and advanced toward the vehicle. The rest of the vampires converged on it also, some creeping down the walls like spiders, others darting toward it like charging bulls. Stahl tore open the driver's door. He pulled aside the deflated airbag and found little of interest. The rear passenger door wouldn't open, for the SUV's frame had bent, locking it in place. Stahl snarled through clenched teeth. Grabbing the door's frame, he ripped it right off its hinges. Again, there was nothing inside other than some shipping cases, none of which were large enough to hide a human. He sniffed the air; he could smell prey.

"Search it," he said to one of the lower-caste vampires, a Latin girl with scraggly hair that had been bleached white. As she darted toward the vehicle, Stahl saw a flash of light from the corner of his eye. Simultaneously, a good portion of the female vampire's head exploded toward him, and Stahl grunted as the remains of a silver-jacketed bullet buried itself in his shoulder. The headshot vampire sank to the floor, twitching as if in the grips of a powerful seizure.

And from the back of the house, three explosions came in multiple succession, one right after the other. They were powerful enough to make the massive, decorative chandelier hanging above the entry hall swing back and forth.

Light winked again from the dark murk at the front of the house. Stahl snarled and convulsed as three silver-jacketed bullets tore through his chest.

"Check the rear," Stahl ordered the rest of the vampires. "I will take care of the front. You..." Stahl kicked the twitching vampire at his feet which was already recovering from the headshot, "make sure there is no one in this vehicle!"

With that, he charged into the savage night, roaring like an enraged lion as more bullets flashed through his body.

###

Cecil fired a volley through the sliding glass doors that led to the poolside patio, dropping one of the armed servants before the man even knew the team was there. The glass door exploded, collapsing to the floor in a cascade of shards. Nacho, Julia, and Licht hustled toward the opening. They hurled three fragmentation grenades into the house and flattened themselves against the walls as Cecil pounded up behind them. The steep climb to the property had worn him out, and he was moving slower than he would have liked. It didn't help that he was also humping an FAE on his back in addition to his regular gear. At times like these, being the team muscle had its drawbacks.

A triple header of explosions brightened the night and turned the room beyond into a kill zone full of whirling shrapnel that would decimate humans and cause even a powerful vampire some extreme inconvenience. Before the sound had faded, Julia edged to the destroyed doorframe and pivoted at the waist, bringing her MP-5 to bear as she fired a three-round burst into the smoke-filled room.

"Dogs," Julia ordered, and Nacho let his dogs loose. They slowly entered the room, growling, teeth bared. Their hackles were raised, and they were reluctant to advance very far, despite Nacho's urging.

"Whassup with them damn dawgs?" Cecil snapped.

"Totally freaked out about something," Nacho said. "Not the vamps. Something else."

"Push in," Julia ordered. "Forget the dogs. If they're not up to it, it doesn't matter. Grenade!" she hollered as she tossed another frag grenade into the house, hurling it down a long hallway. It landed and rolled just as two vampires rounded the far corner—one lurched along the ceiling while the other bounded across the floor on all fours like a wolf. It didn't notice the hand grenade that rolled beneath it. The device exploded, shredding the vampire's torso and amputating all of its limbs. The vampire on the ceiling caught a load of shrapnel in its back, and it fell to the floor, writhing.

"Fight's on!" Julia advanced on the vampires and fired her MP-5. She kept to the right and knelt as more of them appeared and surged into the hallway. Cecil took his place on the left side of the hallway and fired his SAW on full automatic, blasting away bits and pieces of the vampires as they advanced. Nacho and Licht guarded the rear, and Nacho checked his watch.

"Here it comes!" he shouted.

###

The vampire with the bleach-blonde hair slithered into the wreckage of the Excursion, nostrils flaring as it tried to separate the myriad scents inside: buffed leather, spilled coffee, human sweat and old flatulence, burnt radiator fluid and oil, high octane gasoline—and something else. The vampire searched its memory as it crept into the rear of the large SUV, trying to place the smell. It was somewhat sweet, somewhat pungent, somewhat oily—what was it?

Jet airplane fuel?

The vampire snarled to itself as it slapped at one of the metal cases in the back, tearing it open at the hinges. Inside, a tiny red LED stared back at it like an angry eye.

The vampire screamed.

###

Stahl stalked past one of the cars in the driveway when something tickled his senses. Snapping his head toward it, he smelled the human (Blood! his mind shouted) before he saw it as the man rolled into a sitting position fifteen feet from him. The man was battered and beaten, and from the sizeable dent in the passenger side of the car next to him, he had struck it at sufficient velocity. Stahl recognized him immediately: Acheson.

As Stahl gathered to leap, Acheson raised his right hand and fired two shots from the pistol he held. Both bullets passed through Stahl's left cheekbone, and his head snapped back as he was flung to the rain-soaked ground. Shattered bone reintegrated while tendon and sinew snapped back into place and flesh knitted over the entry and exit wounds. Stahl launched himself into the air, spinning like a twister, roaring with rage. He was a great vampire in his own right, and he had learned the secrets of flight centuries ago.

Below, Acheson's watch beeped. Stahl was confused when the man suddenly curled into a ball, covering his head with his arms. At the same time, the vampire in the wrecked vehicle shrieked an unintelligible warning.

Stahl swooped toward the ground. Just as his feet touched down, the bomb detonated.

###

Osric had commenced with the ceremony even as the battle raged outside the mansion on two fronts. So far, none of his children had perished. They had been wounded—that was to be expected—but none of the threads that bound them to him had been severed.

Claudia had been stripped naked and her flesh revealed to all. She would have made for fine feeding, Osric noticed: skin the color of porcelain covered a curvaceous figure that was soft in all the right places, and through her formidable bosom, Osric could see her heart pump rich blood through her circulatory system. Almost all humans could be used as food, but just as there were different grades of beef, there were different grades of humans. To a vampire, Claudia Nero was as succulent as a perfect piece of Kobé beef.

But such a valuable vessel was destined for greater things than feeding the ever-thirsty Undead. Tonight, she would be injected with the seed of an Ancient One, and in just six days, she would bear a son. A most perfect son, the one who would claim Earth as the next dominion of Hell, and in whose service Osric would remain bound. Claudia would perish in the birthing process, of course, but it was a loss so small as to be unnoticeable.

Three vampires remained on the second floor, overseen by Rodrigo. No blood offerings were necessary tonight; enough blood had been spilled in the name of the Ancient Ones. The offering of the twelve infants had bound them to Osric, and he to they. Their destinies were intertwined, and they would succeed or fail together.

Osric was surprised to find there was no need to put Claudia under suggestion. He told her what to do, and she did it: shed her clothes and lie before the dark mirror in total supplication. As Osric began the incantations he had memorized, he saw her vague reflection in the mirror's muted surface. She had spread her legs wide, and her ample breasts heaved as she stared at the mirror in near-rapture. She was more willing and compliant than Osric had hoped.

"Aragatha, morikan'th surus bo teïcon..." The language of the Ancients rolled off Osric's Undead tongue as if it were his own. He had spent the better part of a century developing the proper linguistic skills, practicing the entire evocation in pieces, again and again. Tonight was the only time he would speak it in its entirety, from start to finish.

In response to his words, the mirror began to thrum. Claudia gasped and spread her legs wider, thrashing her head from side to side. Rodrigo and the rest of the vampires stepped back as the candelabras arranged throughout the room sprung alight by themselves. The lights of Los Angeles dimmed and went dark, section by section, grid by grid.

Chiho moaned, even through the near-coma Stahl had put her in. Rodrigo regarded her with his characteristically flat expression, keeping a watchful eye on her. If she was to be his queen, he needed her to act as his servant first, and he wanted no harm to come to her.

The mirror's surface trembled as if it were liquid. Ripples slowly radiated outward from its center. Claudia thrust her hips up and down while impassioned moans escaped from her lips.

Explosions tore through the lower floors of the house. Rodrigo turned away from the ceremony and hurried toward the thick doors that led to the landing beyond. He knew that now was the most inopportune of times for Acheson and his people to be launching an attack, and if they managed to disrupt the ceremony his Master had spent so many decades preparing for, then the results might be fatal for all, vampires and humans alike.

He opened the doors just as Hell exploded into being below his very feet.

###

The FAE in the Excursion went off as planned. The vampire sitting next to the weapon was atomized before it could flinch. The Excursion followed suit a nanosecond later, and the remaining gasoline in its fuel tank provided a momentary yellow blossom that heralded the FAE's glaring white detonation. As the superheated shockwave radiated outward at almost three times the speed of sound, the marble floor began to melt near the point of ignition. Farther away, the intense heat forced the stone to fracture. Then the air itself caught fire as the FAE ignited the oxygen content. Those vampires still in the entry hall were disintegrated as the heat swept across them, followed immediately by the shockwave. The double stairway rolled back like flayed skin, and the expensive wall hangings in the entry hall were reduced to ash. As the great explosion continued moving outward in an ever-expanding white-hot sphere, structural elements of the mansion began to fail. Load-bearing members creaked, splintered, and collapsed. The roof sagged for an instant before it was blasted outward into the wet night. Composite shingles whirled through the stormy night like meteorites burning through the atmosphere. For an instant, the blast's might was even greater than that of the storm.

Rodrigo was saved from atomization by the thick flooring that separated him from the maelstrom below. Just the same, as his clothing ignited, the shockwave found him. It snatched him up like a rag doll and hurled him through the great room. He flew right past Osric, screaming, and through the windows on the other side of the house. He disappeared into the night, trailing smoke like a damaged fighter jet.

But the house was large and solid, and the placement of the FAE had been haphazard. If the Excursion had penetrated the mansion by another twenty feet, the fury of the fuel air explosive would have been even greater. Constricted by the structure itself, the overpressure wave would have been more powerful by several magnitudes. But the gaping hole in the front of the house allowed much of the blast's energy to escape. While the face of the mansion on the circular driveway was almost decimated, along with a substantial portion of the roof, the mansion's upper reaches were left mostly unscathed. This was a temporary condition, as tendrils of flame began to consume whatever could sustain them. It would not be long before the mansion was transformed into an inferno.

###

Stahl screamed as he rolled about on the wet lawn and slapped at the flames consuming his Undead flesh like a hungry tiger. The pouring rain helped, and within a few moments, the flames had been extinguished. But the damage was severe. In some areas, dull bone gleamed in the night before skin and tissue slowly closed over them, leaving Stahl in exquisite agony.

But he could still sense the human nearby, fleeing from the burning hulk of the car he had slammed into not so very long ago. And Stahl could tell that human was headed toward him as he lay in a smoking pile on the front lawn. Metal clicked as Acheson pulled another weapon.

The vampire rocketed into the air like a missile, shrieking curses in German as Acheson fired. Several projectiles whizzed past Stahl at unbelievable speeds as the big vampire corkscrewed into the dark sky. Within seconds, Acheson lost sight of him, and as Stahl drifted among the fast-moving storm clouds, he allowed himself to drift with the wind. Healing. Gaining strength.

###

Acheson reached for his night vision goggles, but they were gone. All that was left was the torn rubber strap around his neck. He found his headset, dangling from his collar by its cable. He plugged it back into his ear and scuttled to his left, staring up into the sky, looking for the vampire.

"Ellenshaw, this is Acheson. Do you read?"

"Right here, Mark. I'm still at the breach in the wall. I'll be with you in a moment—"

"Negative, stay where you are! Can you give me a tally on the vampire?"

"Negative, but it was not Osric. I say again, Mark, that was not Osric. I believe it's one of his oldest companions, a master named Steel, or Stahl. You need to get out of the open, Mark. He's extremely dangerous!"

"I figured that out when he did his Superman act," Acheson said. "All right, I'm going for the house—"

Stahl flashed toward him like a missile, emerging into the fire light while streaking toward Acheson at three feet above the ground. Acheson fired his AA-12 at the vampire, but the rounds fell short. Just the same, the minigrenades tore through the lawn right in front of Stahl, and the hot fragments forced him to throw a hand up to shield his face. That gave Acheson enough of an opportunity to dive to his right—but Stahl still managed to catch him with a glancing blow to the shoulder that sent him cartwheeling across the black lawn.

Acheson came to rest on his back, his AA-12 beneath him. He reached for his MP-5 and ripped it from its carry rig as Stahl alighted nearby. His face was a blackened mask of fried flesh. His coat and shirt were gone, and his torso had been horribly burned. Acheson could see one of his collarbones peeking through the ravaged flesh, and he was missing several fingers from both hands. Stahl screamed a Germanic war cry and lunged toward him, fangs gleaming.

Acheson fired the MP-5 on full auto. The vampire danced about like a marionette as the rounds ripped through him, his war cry turning into shouts of pain as Acheson blazed away. The weapon's breech snapped open with a loud click—the magazine had run dry. Acheson dropped it and slogged to his feet, reaching around behind him for his AA-12. His hand closed on the weapon's pistol grip, and he spun it around as Stahl recovered and bore down on him again.

"See ya pal," Acheson said, pulling back on the AA-12's trigger. He had intended to blast Stahl into ribbons with minigrenade fire, but the firing selector had been moved during his skidding tumble across the lawn. It fired on semi-automatic, and one round exited the AA-12's barrel when Stahl was less than ten feet away. The round blasted off Stahl's right arm at the shoulder, but that didn't stop him. Stahl howled and slammed into Acheson, knocking the shotgun off target. Acheson slugged the bigger vampire in the side of the skull with a solid left that rocked Stahl's head over to one side. But Stahl recovered, and the backhand he retaliated with sent Acheson flying. He crashed to the lawn almost twenty feet away, and Stahl was there in an instant. He snatched hold of Acheson's pack and slung him around in a tight, vicious circle like a kitten. Parts of his gear whirled across the drenched lawn. Acheson shouted when Stahl released him, again sending him careering into the night. He wound up on his back, staring into the black sky. He could taste blood in his mouth.

He reached for his AA-12 with numb fingers. It was gone, and he could see it lying fifteen feet from him, its anodized frame reflecting firelight from the burning mansion. Stahl raced toward him. He was healing. Acheson wasn't quite so lucky.

"Ellenshaw," he croaked as he ripped his pistol from its holster.

"Here!" Shots rang out, and Stahl jerked as Ellenshaw's rounds found their target.

"Find Osric," Acheson said. "Find Osric and kill him. I've got this guy." He sat up and held his P220 in both hands. He squeezed off shot after shot, and each bullet found its mark. Stahl snarled as each .45 caliber round smashed through his body, tearing flesh and shattering bone. But the damage wasn't severe enough to stop him. Acheson fired two rounds into the vampire's face at a range of seven feet, and Stahl didn't even slow down. Acheson continued firing and backpedaled frantically toward his AA-12, but some of the rounds missed Stahl by a wide margin. The rain intensified, coming down in what felt like a solid sheet of water. Acheson fired his last shot, and the P220's upper receiver stuck in the open position. Steam rose from the weapon as rainwater landed on its hot breech. He ejected the magazine and reached for a fresh one as Stahl caught up to him.

"Hello, meat!" Stahl shouted as he shoved Acheson into the lawn and pinned him there. Acheson dropped the pistol and reached for the machete on his belt. His fingers found only an empty scabbard.

Stahl lunged toward him like a viper, jaws spread wide. At the same time, another figure loomed out of the darkness behind Stahl, half-illuminated by the firelight. Inhuman eyes flashed, and Acheson caught glimpses of rainwater gleaming on ebony skin. The figure swung at Stahl.

The machete took off Stahl's head right at the neckline, and the blow was so powerful that it ripped the corpse right off of Acheson and slung it into the night. Acheson gasped as he struggled to sit up. He lunged for the AA-12, grabbed up the weapon and shouldered it as he rose to one knee.

Sharon walked toward Stahl's headless body, which continued to thrash about on the dark lawn, the remaining fingers of one hand tearing up clots of sod and mud. Great gouts of black ichor pumped from its neck. She knelt on the corpse and reached into a knapsack on her side. She pulled a stake from the bag and drove it into the headless vampire's chest. The huge body thrashed once, then fell still.

Sharon turned back to Acheson, her movements rapid and precise. Her silver-in-black eyes found his. Acheson adjusted the AA-12's aim, bringing it to bear on the center of her mass.

"That won't do the job," Sharon said. Her voice was different; muted, husky, felt more than heard above the din of the storm. She drew closer, and Acheson could make out specific details. Her skin was ashen and clammy, and her hands shook and trembled. As she watched, her eyes went from silver-in-black to brown and back again. Her head twitched back and forth like a bird's, and she shuddered so hard from time to time that Acheson thought she was convulsing.

Not convulsing. Turning.

"Sharon," he whispered.

Sharon collapsed to her knees before him as he lowered the AA-12. Ellenshaw pounded up behind her, M-4 aimed at her head. Soaked to the bone, he looked like a drowned rat. Sharon half-turned toward him.

"Hello, Professor," she said.

Ellenshaw released a long, heavy sigh. "Sharon. I'd hoped..."

"You need to go," Sharon said. She turned back to Acheson and took his hand in hers. Her flesh was cold, her body almost dead. She opened his fingers and put the machete handle in his palm. Acheson couldn't bring himself to look at her. "You need to go and do to Helena what Mark has to do to me. And you need to do it right now, Professor."

Ellenshaw stood over her and Acheson for a moment longer, then put his hand on her shoulder.

"May God keep you close to his side for the rest of eternity," he said softly before he turned and ran toward the flaming mansion.

Sharon looked back at Acheson. "Just you and me, babe." Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

"Sharon," Acheson said, agonized. His eyes burned.

"I felt my heart stop beating a while ago," Sharon told him. "Right after I found your bag of stakes on the lawn. But it keeps starting up again. Only for a little while, then it stops. It's beating right now. But it's not going to keep beating for much longer. I feel it now, Mark. I feel the changes. I can feel everything. I love you, Mark. And in just a minute, I'm going to love sucking your body dry."

She shrugged off the knapsack and reached inside. She pulled out a stake and stuck it into the ground beside her. Rainwater poured across her face, and she shuddered again. Her other hand gripped Acheson's, closing his fingers around the machete handle.

"You promised you'd save me," she said.

Tears poured from Acheson's eyes. "Oh my God, Sharon, I'm sorry—"

"I know. You've got to hurry, Mark. I'm Turning."

Acheson clambered to his feet. Sharon shuddered and moaned. It sounded bestial, inhuman. In the dim firelight, Acheson saw the muscles and tendons clenching beneath her wet T-shirt. He hefted the machete. The tears blurred his vision.

"I'm not sure I can do this," he whispered.

"If you love me—if you ever loved me—then save me now." Sharon convulsed again, and she made a retching noise. She fell forward and caught herself on her hands. Her fingers dug deep into the rich lawn that had been kept vibrant and healthy throughout the arid Los Angeles days by a millionaire's money and an army of illegal landscapers.

"Oh God, it hurts so much!" Sharon screamed, looking up into the sky. "Oh please, please, Mark, save meeeeee—"

Her voice trailed off into a guttural howl. The last vestige of life faded from her eyes, and her jaws spread wide open, revealing growing fangs. Her breath turned fetid and corrupt.

Acheson swung, beheading her with one stroke. The body fell forward onto the ground. Acheson pulled the stake from the lawn and flipped the body over with one foot, then knelt on it and slammed the column through its chest cavity, slashing open the Undead heart. Black ichor flowed from the wound and pumped from the severed neck. It stopped after a few seconds, and the body lay quiet.

Acheson grabbed one of its cold, dead hands in both of his. He bowed his head and released a long, trembling sigh.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

From the mansion, a barrage of gunshots rang out. The throaty bellow of Cecil's SAW was distinguishable. Acheson held his face up to the rain for a moment, letting it wash him clean. He pushed himself to his feet and gathered up his scattered gear. He had a job to do.

CHAPTER 25

Ellenshaw ran toward the mansion, slipping and sliding across the waterlogged lawn. Two vehicles sat in the broad, circular driveway—one had been the truck they had followed from the warehouse, and the other had been an expensive car. Both were flaming wrecks now. The fountain that made up the driveway's center point had been demolished as well, its elegant stonework pulverized by the shockwave.

The front of the mansion was ablaze from front deck to roof. Bright embers floated away on the winds, blazing brightly before being extinguished by the rain. One of the graceful Greco-Roman columns that had flanked the mansion's entrance was gone, torn asunder and scattered across the driveway. Ellenshaw tripped over a sizeable piece of it and fell hard, splashing into a puddle.

Gunfire reached his ears as he pushed himself to his feet. Through the maelstrom that consumed the entry hall, he could make out the stroboscopic winks of muzzle flashes. The rest of the team was still inside the mansion, where they were slugging it out with the remaining vamps.

The flames prevented Ellenshaw from entering through the front doors, so he ran to one of the remaining ground floor windows. Most of the paned glass had already been shattered by the explosion, and he kicked in the rest of it, tearing away the gossamer drapes as they billowed out to greet him. He stepped into a darkened office. There was a desk, a chair, and a long sofa against one wall. Expensive-looking porcelain lamps accented by gold lamé flanked the sofa. Ellenshaw donned his NVGs and powered them up. He was alone in the room.

"This is Ellenshaw," he said over his radio headset. "I'm entering the house through one of the windows, east of the entry foyer. Can I get positions, please?"

"Robert, Julia," came the immediate reply. "We're caught between the front of the house and the rear. The vamps have us pinned down!"

Ellenshaw advanced toward the office door, his weapon at the ready. He put his hand on the door's ornate knob.

"How many are there?"

"Four, maybe five," Julia replied. "We're bottled up in a hallway, vamps on both sides. It's a standoff—they can't get to us, and we can't disable them long enough to get free!"

Ellenshaw pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway beyond, keeping close to the far wall. The smoke was thicker here, and toward the western part of the house, an orange glow loomed. The floor was slippery; the mansion's fire suppression system had been tripped, and sprinkler heads poured water into the hallway. Ellenshaw crept toward the glow, and the heat became more intense. He removed his NVGs and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The hallway ended at the entry hall, which was awash with flame despite the sprinklers. Something danced through the thick smoke, silhouetted against the flaming background. It shrieked with laughter even as the intense heat made its clothing smolder. The vampires were playing with the team, keeping them pinned in place until the smoke and heat overwhelmed them.

"Let me see what I can do," Ellenshaw said into his radio as the vampire streaked past the hallway entrance again. He abandoned stealth and moved quickly, with purpose.

The vampire was running laps around the entry hall, cackling as it circled around and around. It would pause before the hallway where the team was bottled up, drawing their fire for a few moments before retreating, giving it time to heal before accepting another volley of punishing gunfire. Ellenshaw reached into his knapsack and removed a stake. Holding it point-down, he stopped just outside the entry hall. The heat was terrible, and the smoke was thick, though the wailing wind helped to keep the air breathable. The vampire ran past again, still cackling to itself like a lunatic. It ran halfway up the far wall, then launched itself back toward the team. It was met by a fusillade of gunfire.

"Team, tell me when the vamp falls back!" Ellenshaw had to shout to be heard above the gunfire and the roaring flames.

"It's fallin' back now, man!" Cecil responded.

Ellenshaw had only an instant's notice, but it was enough. As the smoke parted and the vampire came running past, he threw his arm out before it. The vamp impaled itself on the stake. It screamed and lost its footing, skidding across the debris-laden floor face-first as it thrashed about, trying to pull the stake free. Ellenshaw was disappointed the vamp was still alive, for that meant he had missed the heart. He raked the vamp with gunfire from his M-4, firing in tight, controlled bursts as he advanced upon it. The vampire jerked and shuddered like a marionette.

"Behind you!" Julia shouted over the radio. Ellenshaw barely heard the warning over the gunfire, roaring flames, and howling vamp. All he could do before he was hit from behind was to brace for it as best he could.

Another vampire slammed into him with such force that he was carried halfway across the cracked marble floor. The fire's heat went from terrible to blistering. He came to a halt on his back, and smoke stung his eyes. His first thought was not of the large vampire hunched over him like a hungry wolf, but of the intense heat setting off his ammunition.

The vampire grabbed Ellenshaw's head in its hands and twisted it to one side, baring his neck. Ellenshaw thrashed about beneath it and punched the vampire in the ribs with one gauntleted hand. Even though he struck with all his might, the vampire's only reaction was to reposition itself as he writhed about on the marble floor. From the corner of his eye, he saw the vampire open its mouth. Fangs gleamed in the firelight. With a lupine grin, it dipped toward Ellenshaw's exposed neck.

One moment the vampire's head was there, and an instant later the entire skull disappeared in a detonation of tarry ichor, white bone, and waxen flesh. The headless corpse danced about above Ellenshaw for a moment as its hands clawed at the air. Black ichor spurted into the air.  Ellenshaw barely had enough time to throw his arms over his face before the cold, sludgy liquid rained down upon him. The vampire's corpse jerked again as more explosions tore through its chest cavity, separating the right arm at the shoulder. The blasts ripped apart the vampire's upper body, leaving only the legs, pelvis, and a portion of the midriff intact. Ellenshaw screamed in disgust and shoved the quivering remains off him and scrambled away. The mutilated corpse continued to move, despite the tremendous damage. Its legs kicked, and its remaining arm reached into the smoky air. Ellenshaw was mortified by the sight, but a small part of him remained clinically engaged.

Amazing they can retain some ambulatory capability after so much damage...

Rough hands jerked him up. Ellenshaw cried out again and swung at the figure towering over him. The blow was stopped cold by a deft forearm block, and then Ellenshaw was spun around to face his opponent.

It was Acheson. The containment team leader's face was battered and bloody from his encounter with Stahl, and his eyes had a peculiar gleam to them. They looked dead to Ellenshaw, as dead as a vampire's. His jaw was set, and his split lips were compressed into a thin line as he stared at Ellenshaw.

"Are you hurt?" Acheson asked before Ellenshaw could say anything.

Ellenshaw shook his head, still a bit dazed. "No..." He saw something move past Acheson's shoulder. The vampire he had staked but not killed darted toward them, fangs bared, eyes narrowed into furious slits. It no longer laughed, no longer toyed with its prey. It had been hurt, and it wanted to strike back... and then feed.

Ellenshaw managed only a strangled croak as a warning. Acheson pivoted with more speed and grace than Ellenshaw had thought possible, given the gear he carried and the beating he had suffered. Acheson's right hand lashed out as he grabbed the smaller vampire by the neck. In one fluid movement, he hurled the creature into the flaming, twisted wreckage of the Excursion. The vampire howled as it was impaled upon warped, blackened metal. The flames consumed it instantly, brightening as they devoured the Undead's putrid flesh. Acheson ended its screams with a single shot from the AA-12; the vampire's head exploded into wet fragments.

"Your gear's smoldering!" Acheson pushed Ellenshaw away from the fire, and Ellenshaw stumbled when he stepped on the first vampire's severed arm. It bent at the elbow, its fingers clutching at him. Acheson grabbed the appendage and tossed it into the fire, along with the rest of the vampire's tattered, trembling corpse. He dragged Ellenshaw deeper into the house, staring into the smoke ahead. Water from the sprinkler system washed over them.

"Ellenshaw, recharge your weapon. How many others are there on this floor?"

Ellenshaw's hands trembled as he shoved a fresh magazine into the empty M-4. "Several. The rest of the team is—"

"I know where they are. Stay close." Acheson hefted the AA-12. It wasn't difficult to know where to go, even though the thick smoke made visibility haphazard more than three feet ahead. The gunfire was unmistakable, and since the overhead sprinklers were now getting a handle on the flames, they could move more freely. A bullet cracked past Ellenshaw's left ear. He didn't know which threat to be more mindful of—the vampires or catching a stray round in the face.

The smoke parted, revealing a vampire creeping along the floor. One of its legs was cocked at an odd angle, courtesy of a gunshot. Half its lank hair was singed off its head, but as Ellenshaw and Acheson watched, it grew back. The leg straightened as well, snapping into place with a loud pop. As it healed, the vampire became aware of the men behind it. It whirled while springing to its feet, almost spinning like a top, its demonic eyes glaring at them.

"Want to play a game?" it snarled. Its voice was rough and ragged, courtesy of a neck wound still in the process of healing.

Acheson blasted it with a burst from his AA-12. The vampire collapsed to the ground in a shuddering heap, its head rolling clear of its body. Acheson blasted it into fragments, and bone and teeth scattered across the floor. Ellenshaw pulled another stake from his knapsack and sunk it into the mutilated body's thorax. It quivered once, then fell still.

Shapes appeared in the smoke. Ellenshaw drew back, lifting his M-4 as the rest of the vampires charged toward them.

"Team, hit the deck!" Acheson shouted over his microphone. He nudged Ellenshaw out of the way and lifted the AA-12's barrel. The weapon roared, and he screamed as he went to guns on the remaining vamps, letting off controlled bursts. He shot each vampire in the center of its mass, and the minigrenades did their work, blasting meat off fractured bone. The vamps howled but still tried to attack, save for one that scuttled off into the smoky darkness.

"Team! Master vamp headed your way!" Acheson reported as he fired a single round into each vamp's head, taking them out for the count.

"Got it," Julia responded, and a moment later her MP-5 coughed in the distance.

"Stake it, stake it!" Cecil shouted over the radio. Something shrieked loud and long in the smoldering darkness. The cry went on for much longer than human lungs could sustain before it trailed off.

"Is everything all right?" Ellenshaw asked as he slid stakes into the vampires Acheson had dropped.

"Vamp down." Julia's voice was thin and weary. "The vamps to our rear have broken contact and disappeared, over."

"Roger that," Acheson replied. Through the thinning smoke he could make out the long hallway the team had been caught in. Julia stood over the decomposing corpse of the master vamp she and Nacho had staked. Cecil and Licht oriented their weapons toward the hallway's rear.

Ellenshaw staked the last of the vamps and rose to his feet. He removed one gauntlet and rubbed his eyes.

"Done here."

"Team, move toward us. Maintain a perimeter down here as well as you can—there's a lot of territory to cover, but the bastards won't be able to sneak up on you."

"Roger that," Julia said, and she led the others toward the entry hall. One of Nacho's dogs led the way, its muzzle wrinkling as it snarled. The animal was trembling. Acheson suddenly felt the same way as a bolt of fear and revulsion shot through his entrails.

"Robert... do you—"

"I feel it too, Mark." Ellenshaw's face was ashen. The skin beneath his right eye convulsed, overcome by a nervous tic. He looked toward the sweeping staircase, where the left stairway rose to the mansion's second floor.

"Whatever it is, it's happening up there."

Acheson nodded. He reloaded the AA-12 with a fresh barrel of minigrenades. Julia approached him. Her eyes looked glazed. Acheson nodded to her.

"I want you and Cecil to get that second FAE ready," he told her. "The first one didn't fuck up this place like it should have, and we're basically out of time."

"Can you feel it, too?" she asked. "The... fear?"

"Yeah."

"So I'm not just freaking out. What's the plan?"

Acheson headed for the stairs without answering.

"Mark!"

Ellenshaw grabbed Julia's arm and stopped her from following Acheson. "Mark and I will handle this part. The rest of you set the FAE and get clear. If we can follow you, we will. If we can't, then there's nothing to be done for us anyway."

"You can't face Osric alone!"

Nacho's dogs bayed madly, then ran off into the storm-torn night. Nacho shouted after them, but they did not heel.

"You feel it? Osric's threat is growing, so the sooner we face him, the better. Follow Mark's orders." Ellenshaw bolted up the steps two at a time until he caught up to Acheson. The two men stood abreast as they advanced up the remaining stairs.

CHAPTER 26

The mirror thrummed with a power so potent that Osric felt a thousand times more powerful. The total evil emanating from the device bathed him with malice and discontent, passing through every cell of his Undead body. It was the closest he had felt to being alive in centuries.

A part of Osric's consciousness—one small part that refused to succumb to the rapture that presaged the Ancient One's arrival—continued to take a psychic inventory of his surroundings. The human slaves that had formed a perimeter around the room were also affected by the cascading wickedness, but on a much lower level. Mankind's ability to discern pure evil had eroded with time and evolution, leaving them almost blind and deaf to it. However, they were fidgety and on edge, as was the Hara woman. The portion of Osric that stood sentry duty found it curious that Claudia Nero was, in an unusual counterpoint, almost ethereally calm. Was she resigned to her fate, or had she also been seduced by the evil? Even though she lay naked on the floor at his feet, Osric could no longer read her. Just minutes ago, Osric would have been able to anticipate her every move. Now, all he felt from her was a blinding lust that overpowered everything else.

The clutch of vampires that had returned to the large, candlelit room stirred, also caught up in the thrall of the moment as Osric continued to speak in the Ancient's tongue, bidding him forth. As he spoke, Osric lit a series of candles. The second story's fire suppression system hadn't been triggered, which was fortunate. A great deal of the invocation ceremony depended on certain atmospheric details remaining constant, and a deluge of water would have altered things considerably.

But the vampires—and the humans they owned—served as a tenuous conduit to the physical world. Through their unease, he sensed all was not well. Even while he was immersed beneath waves of pure, delightful malice, he could ferret out the thread of worry that moved from human to vampire and back again. A worry that had nothing to do with the coming of the Ancient One. Osric reached out with his mind and was surprised to find that all of his subordinate masters were gone—Stahl, Vanessa, Orlat, even Rodrigo. All that remained were several newlings who were held at bay only by Helena.

How can this be? Osric asked himself. He dared to pull himself away from the evil that bathed him, for just an instant. It was long enough for him to get a taste of what had transpired, and who was urging events forward.

Acheson. Ellenshaw.

There were several momentary pauses in the ceremony. When Osric transitioned into one of those pauses, he moved away from the euphoric evil that washed over him like a narcotic. Just long enough to fix his gaze on Helena.

Just long enough to tell her what to do.

###

The smoke was thicker upstairs than it had been below, and was slower to dissipate. Acheson panned his weapon to the right side of the landing, while Ellenshaw kept watch to the left. Debris from the exploded Excursion crunched underfoot, and a body lay along the wall—a dead human lying atop an assault rifle. Acheson fired a single explosive round into the corpse's head. He was taking no chances.

"Oh no," Ellenshaw moaned.

Advancing through the dissipating smoke, her white ballroom dress incongruously clean and bright, Helena Rubenstein drifted toward them. Her strawberry-blonde hair was well-styled, and though her eyes hadn't held life in well over a year, she still looked very much like a porcelain doll. When she smiled, her fangs gleamed.

She spread her arms wide as she looked at Ellenshaw. "Hello, Robert," she cooed. "Give me a kiss?"

Acheson swung the AA-12 toward her. Helena frowned and Ellenshaw slapped the weapon's barrel aside. Ellenshaw faced her, ignoring Acheson. He made no attempt to train his M-4 on Helena.

Another door at the opposite end of the hallway opened, and two men appeared with assault rifles. They opened fire, and Acheson spun toward them as he fell to his knees—there was nothing he could do for Ellenshaw now. The attackers' aim was atrocious—the first volley missed Acheson and Ellenshaw by a wide margin, and the bullets blasted deep divots into the plaster walls. Acheson's return fire was not as random. One of the men collapsed into a bloody heap as three rounds struck his chest in a neat group, decimating lungs and heart and liver after shattering his sternum. The second man yelped and ducked back into the room, but Acheson raked the doorway with full automatic bursts. The minigrenades ripped apart the doorframe and blasted through the wall and the man on the other side. His ragged corpse slumped to the floor in two pieces.

Before Acheson could take further actions, several vampires surged out of the room, leaping over the bloodied corpses. Their eyes were wild, and they shrieked like demented cats, fangs exposed, tongues flicking at the air like those of a serpent. They charged toward Acheson at full speed, some on all fours on the floor, others sidling up the wall and onto the ceiling, where they advanced like gigantic cockroaches.

"Ellenshaw!" Acheson fired into the vampires even as they dispersed. He blasted one in two and chopped the leg off another. A third launched itself from the ceiling, flying toward him like a missile. Acheson backpedaled while pumping a stream of fire into it, splitting it almost in half from head to crotch. The vampire—they were all ghouls, he saw—thrashed and flailed about on the polished floor, spurting black ichor across the long Persian rug that ran the length of the landing.

"Ellenshaw!" Acheson risked a glance over one shoulder and saw the older man slowly follow Helena Rubenstein as she faded back into the doorway she had emerged from, beckoning to him with long, clawed fingers. Her eyes blazed, and she grinned like a mischievous child.

Ellenshaw had looked at her eyes and followed her without hesitation, giving no sign he was even aware of Acheson's plight.

Something tugged at one of Acheson's boots, and he tore his eyes away from Ellenshaw's retreating back. The ghoul he had almost split in two had crawled the last few feet toward him and was clutching the toe of his boot with one gnarled hand. Acheson yanked his foot free and fired a burst into the creature's head. Foul-smelling ichor spurted all over Acheson's legs. He continued backpedaling as the rest of the vampires closed on him, despite their injuries. He pulled back the trigger on the AA-12, rewarding them with withering, lethal weapon fire. Limbs were disintegrated, torsos were blasted open so wide that coils of dead intestines boiled forth—but still, the vampires advanced, howling in pain and rage and hunger.

The AA-12's ammunition drum ran dry. Acheson ejected the spent drum and inserted another, his hands and fingers moving in a practiced, machinelike fashion. He pulled back on the AA-12's charging lever and fired again, just as one ghoul's hands seized the fabric of his body armor. The AA-12's first burst blew the creature in two while the second burst raked across the rest of the vamps, driving them to the floor. They writhed in agony as their bodies tried to repair themselves.

The vamp Acheson had blasted in half still clung to him. The nub of its spinal column whipped back and forth like some grotesque tail as strands of gray, fetid intestine poured out of it, splashing onto the floor and Acheson's steel-toed boots. It was this that caused him to lose his balance as one foot slipped in the smelly mess, flinging him onto his back. The vampire cackled wildly, riding him all the way down. Acheson's head struck the floor hard, and the AA-12 fell from his grasp. He flung one arm up as the vampire's head reared back, fangs bared. It struck him like a cobra.

###

Peace, Robert... you're at peace with me, Helena's voice whispered in his head. With me, you will be complete. With me, you will find everlasting love at my side. With me, you will live for an eternity in perpetual bliss.

Her sudden appearance had surprised Ellenshaw before he could guard himself. In that single moment of weakness, he had faced his former love squarely, and their eyes had met. She had ensnared him, and his willpower, his entire sense of self, was crowded out of the way. He was dimly aware of the battle raging behind him as Acheson faced the rest of the vampires alone. A small core of his consciousness pleaded with him to turn and add his own firepower to the fight, but Helena filled his mind completely. Turning from her—he could never do that, not now, not ever.

He followed Helena as she retreated into another narrow hallway, at the end of which candlelight flickered, casting shimmering shadows about. Helena was silhouetted against it, and she stretched out her arms to him, beckoning for him to embrace her as she continued to drift back.

"Kiss me, Robert," she said, this time using her real voice. "Kiss me. It's been so long, darling, and I've missed you so..."

Ellenshaw advanced toward her. But as she retreated from him, the shadows grew darker, deeper, until her features disappeared entirely. For a moment, the iridescent light was caught and held by her inhuman eyes... but then, even they faded as her face dipped into impenetrable shadow.

And as her gaze faded from his view, her hold over him vanished.

"Come, darling," Helena whispered. "Come to me now."

Ellenshaw did as she bade him, his M-4 hanging at his side. He felt her clammy, lifeless hands drift across his shoulders and draw him near. He put one hand on her hip. Beneath the fabric of the dress she wore, her body was cold, bony, inhospitable. Nothing like what it had been when she were alive. It was as if she were one of Madame Tussaud's misplaced wax dummies. Her fetid breath wafted across his face, and he stiffened in revulsion. Helena sensed the change in him, and her grip became like iron around his neck.

"Too late for you now, Robert," she hissed. She pulled him toward her and felt her fangs scrape his collar.

"Goodbye, Helena," he whispered as he thrust the stake he had pulled from his knapsack deep into her chest.

Helena threw her head back and shrieked, flinging herself away from him. She slammed against the opposite wall and crawled halfway up its face, screaming, as thick ichor boiled out from around the stake. Then her scream became a choked gargle as more ichor spurted from her widespread jaws in a gurgling rush. Helena convulsed twice, then collapsed to the floor. Her eyes turned to him, dead, doll-like, their power draining away.

"Robert," the thing croaked once, before the eyes fell back into their sockets and the skin of its face began to melt away.

Ellenshaw shook as a ragged sob forced its way out of him. Hot tears burned in his eyes as the old grief hammered home once again. Helena now lay at rest, but his heart had been flayed open and laid bare.

The gunfire outside stopped. Ellenshaw turned and looked back the way he had come. Acheson was on his back, wrestling with the torso of a vampire as it climbed up his body. Several others were scattered about, their bodies savaged by Acheson's gunfire, but they were collecting themselves. As Ellenshaw watched, they swarmed toward Acheson, screeching like banshees.

But from behind him, Ellenshaw could hear snatches of chanting.

Osric.

Ellenshaw looked back at Acheson's struggling form, torn. But he made up his mind and turned his back on the scene as he sprinted down the dark corridor to where flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on white walls.

###

The vamp's fangs sunk into the reinforced collar of his body armor, missing his flesh by millimeters. Acheson felt the sharp points press against his skin, held back by the padded Kevlar. He managed to get his right hand under the vamp's jaw, and he pushed it away from him with all his strength. Though the vamp had the greater strength, he had the leverage. But looming over his attacker was another vamp, and behind it, yet another. They streamed toward him, hissing and snarling.

A hail of gunfire broke their charge as silver-jacketed bullets tore through them, ripping away chunks of their dead, waxen flesh. The ghouls howled as they were forced back, and Acheson saw Cecil and Julia advancing up the staircase. The muzzles of their weapons spat fire. Nacho was right behind them, and he raked the ceiling with his own weapon, bringing down one of the vamps as it tried to scurry away. It crashed to the floor, and Julia fired a burst into its head.

"Help Acheson!" she screamed to Jerry Licht, bringing up the very rear. Licht was obviously frightened to death, and he looked at Acheson as he grappled with the half-vampire.

"Go on!" Cecil shouted at him over the roaring SAW. He covered Julia and Nacho as they methodically staked the vampires.

Licht stumbled up the steps and hurried to Acheson. The vampire sensed him approaching and turned toward him, snapping its jaws. Licht stopped short, slack-jawed and eyes wide.

"Jerry." Acheson tried to keep his voice calm. "Jerry, get a hold of yourself and shoot this thing through the head."

Licht advanced the last few steps and raised his MP-5. He aimed it at the thrashing vampire only a few feet away.

"Don't look into its eyes!" Acheson warned.

"I'm not—I'm looking at its fucking teeth!" Licht inched a little closer and squeezed the trigger. A quick burst ripped through the vampire's skull, blasting half of it into oblivion. Acheson rolled and pinned the twitching corpse beneath his left arm. He reached into his knapsack with his free hand. His fingers found the wooden stake, and he slammed it home. The vampire spat ichor, then fell still.

"Holy fucking shit!" Licht said, overwhelmed. "I mean—holy fucking shit!"

Acheson rolled toward him, trying to get to his feet. Licht reached out and grabbed his arm, trying to help. Acheson shouted and jerked Licht toward him instead as the last remaining vampire catapulted over Julia, Cecil, and Nacho. It landed right behind Licht, and before anyone could react, it latched onto him, sank its fangs into his neck, and launched itself over the balcony. Licht screamed.

"Jerry!" Cecil shouted, stunned.

"Nail that thing!" Acheson screamed. "Don't let it get away!"

All of them were at the balcony rail an instant later, weapons shouldered. The vampire crouched over Licht's kicking body, feeding on him even as Licht kicked and flailed beneath it. He didn't scream. Acheson saw his face for a moment, and his eyes were glazed, overcome by shock as the ghoul tore into his neck, feeding on the blood pumping from his severed carotid artery.

The vampire and Licht were savaged by the ensuing fusillade. When it was over, Licht had moved on. The pieces of the vampire continued to twitch and shudder as they drew themselves together.

Acheson turned and looked at the rest of the vamps on the landing. All had been staked and beheaded, decomposing. He nodded toward the remaining ghoul below as it slowly reconstituted.

"On it," Julia said.

"Nacho, go with her. Cecil, you're with me."

"Roger that." Cecil stepped back from the railing and looked around as Julia and Nacho descended. He frowned.

"Where's Ellenshaw?" he asked.

"Helena took him," Acheson answered.

"Gud damn," Cecil muttered in response.

Acheson jerked his head toward the doorway Helena had led Ellenshaw into. "This way."

Before they had taken five steps, a large crack ran up one wall, spitting plaster as it went. The stairway landing tilted, and part of the polished wood floor splintered. Acheson and Cecil fell against the wall, which bowed inward. The crack raced toward the ceiling. The mansion shook and shuddered as if caught in the grip of a powerful earthquake.

"I don't believe it!" Cecil shouted. "This place is slidin' down the fuckin' hill!"

###

Ellenshaw advanced into the second-story great room, the butt of his M-4 tight against his shoulder. The room's furnishings had been replaced by an elaborate maze of candelabras. Burning candles cast flickering shadows about the room. From the corner of his eye, Ellenshaw saw they were more than shadows—he had the impression of dark demons laying waste to the planet, devouring Mankind and his cities whole in one immense, shimmering mural of debasement. It was incredibly foul; if he contemplated it for too long, he knew he would lose his mind.

In the center of all this, Osric stood tall before a huge, dark mirror framed in wood that was almost black in color. He chanted, staring into the mirror with an intensity that would have been frightening had it not been framed by so much undulating terror on the walls. Behind him, Claudia Nero lay on her back, completely naked. As her fingers danced back and forth across the heart of her sex, it was not lost on Ellenshaw that her most private part was pointed directly at the mirror. Her hips writhed up and down, and her mouth formed a perfect O as she shuddered in primal lust.

Not far from her, though in no apparent position of importance, lay Chiho. She appeared to be semi-conscious, at best. Like Claudia, she was naked, but that seemed to be by circumstance, not consequence. Dark shadows formed around her, broke apart, then reformed. Whether or not she had a part to play in the black ceremony, she had been noticed.

As had Ellenshaw. He sensed some of the shadows surging toward him in erratic jerks, filling in the momentary gaps left by the flickering candles. Ellenshaw thought they lacked sufficient power to harm him, but that was likely temporary. Whether they had the strength to bring him down, they stalked him just the same.

Ellenshaw pointed his M-4 at Osric and fired. The weapon barked twice, then fell silent. The weapon's final rounds found their target, but the tall vampire barely moved. He did not react to the onslaught of the silver-jacketed projectiles, but the flickering shadows surrounding the room did. They dispersed for an instant, flashing around the room like a disturbed school of fish before reorienting on him. Ellenshaw knew his time was up. He dropped the M-4 to the floor as he pulled his pistol.

At the same time, Osric stepped toward the mirror and reached for its dark surface. His fingertips settled on the black glass for an instant... and then passed through it.

"Osric!" Ellenshaw shouted. He raised the pistol and aimed at Osric's broad back, but a talon of shadow raked across his calf. Blood oozed from the cut that had parted the fabric of his dark cargo pants. Ellenshaw fired as whips of shadow lashed out at him, slicing his skin, tearing his uniform, scraping across his armor. And while his bullets found their mark, Osric paid him no mind at all. He reached deeper into the mirror, casting about in the darkness. He reached in with his other hand and pulled with all his might. The mirror's ebony surface rippled like water.

Ellenshaw cried out as one of the shadowy whips raked across the face, opening a shallow cut that ran from eyebrow to jaw line. His last two shots missed Osric and hit the mirror, but they disappeared into its liquid surface. Osric pulled, and his hands reappeared, but now they held the wrist of an even larger entity. Its skin was a glossy black, and its thick fingers ended in talons whose tips were sharpened to infinity. In that one moment, Ellenshaw realized what was happening. The mirror was a doorway, and Osric was playing the midwife at the birth of a new kind of evil.

The mansion trembled, and Ellenshaw stumbled as the floor buckled beneath him. Several candelabras fell against each other, collapsing like a row of dominos. As the candle flames sputtered and died, only then did Osric react. He looked about with a puzzled expression as he continued to pull on the dark demon's wrist, exposing its thickly-muscled forearm. Claudia Nero gasped with passion, squirming about on the floor behind him.

Osric looked across the room and saw Ellenshaw. His look of bewilderment was replaced by one of sudden recognition—and a flash of fear.

"Ellenshaw!" he roared. "You're too late, worm! Only God himself could intervene, and it seems he doesn't even care!"

Ellenshaw brought up his Beretta and fired again and again, pelting Osric and the mirror with bullets. Those that struck the demon disappeared in puffs of blue flame. Those that struck Osric seemed to add fuel to his confident bravado.

"Only God, Ellenshaw!" he crowed. "Where is He?"

The floor buckled again, and Ellenshaw fell against the wall. Shadows slashed at him, and he lost his grip on the Beretta. It hit the floor with a metallic clatter and spun away from him. Ellenshaw dived after it as black blades of shadow hacked at him.

Then the angle of the floor changed. The windows overlooking the city of Los Angeles shattered as their casements warped and twisted. Osric cried out as he lost his grip on the demonic arm, and it sank a few inches back into the mirror. He seized it again and pulled with all his might, exposing the appendage up to its elbow. Ellenshaw watched with mounting fright. Whatever Osric was pulling forth, it was huge.

The floor tilted again, and wood splintered as joists failed. More candelabras fell into disorganized jumbles, and the shadows that had been attacking Ellenshaw retreated. He realized then that what had looked like a forest of candelabras was in fact something else: a complex pattern, integral to the ceremony itself. Each candle's position was in precise relation to the symbols drawn on the great room's floor, and as they changed, the supernatural power filling the room became diffuse, unfocused...

Unsustainable! Ellenshaw scrambled to his feet and grabbed a fallen candelabra. It was heavy, but he swung it like a bat and sent a score of candelabrum toppling to the floor. The candle flames sputtered and died. At the same time, the storm outside intensified, battering the mansion with rain and wind. Osric screamed as the balcony beyond the shattered windows collapsed, taking the wall with it. Wind howled through the room, snuffing out the candles and toppling the branched candlesticks that held them. The floor tilted crazily, and the mirror slid toward the gaping hole that led to the night. Osric dug in his heels and pulled on the demon's arm with all his might.

The mirror paused for a moment, but with a cracking roar, the floor gave away beneath it. Its dark glass became solid again, then shattered as the mirror fell out into the night.

"Noooo!" Claudia Nero screamed. The pain and suffering in her voice was unbearable, and it affected Ellenshaw like a physical blow. Whatever psychic stress she'd been under had driven her into insanity's waiting embrace.

Osric collapsed onto his back. He still held the demon's arm, but it had been severed at the elbow. As he watched with wide eyes, it disintegrated into black dust that was swept away by the wet wind.

Osric screamed loud and long, and not even the roaring wind could overcome the power of his voice.

Ellenshaw couldn't find the Beretta. He reached to the small of his back and pulled his final firearm, a SigArms P-225. As he pushed himself to his knees, Osric spread his arms and darted into the air like some sort of monstrous kite. He spun and glared down at Ellenshaw with hate-filled eyes.

"You dare," he snarled. "You silly, pathetic piece of blood-filled shit. You dare!"

Claudia rose to her feet before him. Wild-eyed, she tore at her hair.

"Where?" she cried. "Where is he? Where? You promised me!"

Osric looked down at her with utter contempt, then struck her so hard he shattered her spine. Ellenshaw cried out as she was flung to the far side of the room by the power of the blow. Osric fixed his baleful glare on him, and Ellenshaw felt a bolt of terror course through him. As Osric flew toward him like a fighter jet, he raised the pistol and fired again and again. The rounds passed through Osric and only intensified his fury.

"Insect!" he roared.

He was less than five feet away when one of his arms was blasted off his body. Another explosion occurred deep inside him, knocking him off course, distending his chest. Osric slammed into the wall beside Ellenshaw—indeed, he almost crashed right through it before he rebounded and fell to the floor on his back, stunned as another series of rippling explosions ripped him open.

Acheson and Cecil advanced into the room, peppering Osric with all the firepower they could deliver. Osric roared and levitated again, spinning toward them in a complete, blind rage. They continued firing at Osric, blasting away bits and pieces of him as he hovered there.

"Stop!" Osric thundered, and a queer force crackled through the room. Both Acheson and Cecil cried out as they were flung backwards, skidding along the floor. Osric drifted toward them, emanating waves of hatred that hit the men with physical force. Osric seized Acheson's right arm with his remaining hand, and the bone snapped loudly. Acheson cried out, wilting.

"Maybe I underestimated you," Osric snarled. "Just as well, I'll need a new leader for my Family, someone sharp and resourceful and ruthless. You'll do just fine, Acheson."

He spread his jaws wide and dipped his head forward. Instead of sinking his fangs into the man's exposed flesh, he cried out and dropped him to the ground. Osric's jaws opened and closed, like a fish out of water. His eyes widened with agony.

"Surprise." Acheson wiggled the stake he had thrust into Osric's chest from side to side. Osric looked down at the protrusion as he slowly settled toward the floor.

"It can't be," he said, his voice a choked whisper. "It can't be!"

Steel sang, and Osric slowly looked over his shoulder. Ellenshaw advanced upon him, and in his right hand was his machete. Osric's lips moved, but he said nothing.

"You forgot about me?" Ellenshaw lifted the machete high. "And after all the years I've spent trying to get your attention, Osric. I can't believe you'd just forget about me like that."

"Ellenshaw," he said with a sigh. He settled onto his knees, head lolling. Dark, putrid liquid oozed from around the stake and down his parchment-white belly

Ellenshaw beheaded Osric with a single stroke.

CHAPTER 27

It took two days for the hurricane to dissipate, but when it did, the sky over southern California shone bright and beautiful. Temporarily cleaned of smog, Los Angeles was revealed anew, washed clean and shiny. The city had changed, of course. The storm had caused billions of dollars in damage as mudslides took multimillion dollar homes from one neighborhood and deposited their remains in another. One of Hollywood's most famous film studios had disappeared into a gigantic sinkhole, and the surging tidal waters had swept inland and all but washed away the 405. Commuting would be an even tougher affair than usual for the next several years.

Usually, the team leader was summoned to Washington D.C. to make a final report and presentation. This time, since there wasn't a lot of team left, exceptions were made. Michael Millhouse and Bernard Schechter, Fiedler's two hatchet men, flew out in a government-owned Gulfstream 450 to debrief Acheson directly. And they had a small surprise with them—Erskine Fiedler himself.

They met Acheson at the Plant after he had been released from the hospital. Millhouse and Schectner were very similar in appearance and mannerisms, wearing identical gray suits and sporting the same kind of salt-and-pepper mustache. Millhouse still had hair, which he combed back from his forehead. Schectner was mostly bald and kept his remaining hair cut bristle-short, much like Fiedler himself. Fiedler handled the debriefing, relegating Millhouse and Schectner to taking notes, even though the session was electronically recorded.

Fiedler's interview style was blunt and direct, with no passion or recrimination. There were topics Acheson was reluctant to discuss—such as Sharon, and Chiho, and the nature of the relationship that had existed among the three of them. Fiedler was gently insistent, but seemed to know the boundaries; he didn't press too hard when the questions strayed off the topic of Osric. Acheson told him all he knew, and retold it twice more, during a twelve-hour span.

The next day, Ellenshaw was put through the same process. His session also took almost twelve hours, during which he was upfront and non-evasive. Over the next three days, Millhouse and Schectner interviewed the rest of the team at the Plant, with the exception of Rick Wallace, who was still in the hospital recovering from his injuries. That did not spare him, however, and he also suffered several hours of interviews, though his sessions were abbreviated owing to his condition. His attending physician was insistent on that, and Millhouse and Schectner, the "twins of evil" as they were known, had to play ball.

"Those guys are dicks," Rick told Acheson later during a visit. "I mean, they're like the same guy, even if they didn’t look alike. Maybe they're fraternal twins. Or maybe they're salami-garglers who are doing each other."

Acheson rolled his eyes and told Rick he would pick him up in two days, when he was scheduled to be released.

Fiedler stayed at the Plant taking care of affairs during the time Millhouse and Schectner discharged their final interviews. On the day before their departure, he called Acheson into one final meeting. Only Acheson, Fiedler, and Ellenshaw were present.

"This is informal," Fiedler told them in his high, reedy voice. "I'll be very quick about it, but I'd like to ask some questions that are off the record. Your answers will not be entered into a legal document of any kind."

Acheson and Ellenshaw exchanged glances, and Acheson shrugged and nodded. "What's on your mind, Director?"

"Mark, do you feel you are fit to retain command of this team?" Fiedler asked.

Acheson hesitated for a moment, caught off guard. Before he could pull himself together and answer, Ellenshaw did it for him.

"He is," Ellenshaw said.

Fiedler pushed his round wire-rimmed glasses up on his narrow nose. "Thank you for your opinion, Robert, but I was asking Mr. Acheson."

"I can still lead," Acheson said at last.

"There's no shame in stepping down if you need to," Fiedler told him. "You’ve been through a lot in the past few weeks, things that could sack any man."

"No need for that. I'm as committed as ever."

"Very well. Robert? Do you envision a place for you on this team, going forward?"

"He doesn't," Acheson said, and both Fiedler and Ellenshaw smiled.

Ellenshaw jerked a thumb at Acheson. "The man knows what he's talking about. I'm going back to Santa Barbara. I've... exorcised my demons."

Fiedler nodded. He looked back at Acheson for a long moment. Acheson looked back at the smaller man, uncomfortable with the open inspection. He fidgeted after a while, and cleared his throat.

"Will you be staying with Miss Hara this time?" Fiedler asked finally.

Acheson blinked. "Uh..."

"I know all about it, Mark. I think all of us do," Fiedler said, casting a glance at Ellenshaw. "Let's face it, your dick got you in a lot of trouble. Everything came together as well as it could have, but let's not get into this kind of situation again."

"Are you advising me to put my dick elsewhere, sir?"

"Just use the big head more often, if you would."

Acheson nodded.

"I attended Jerry Licht's funeral yesterday, and Claudia Nero's service is tomorrow," Fiedler said. "I'm unable to attend. I've sent flowers, and made the necessary arrangements with her family. I want to offer both of you my condolences as well. What happened over the past few weeks has taken a terrible toll, and it's a testament to your fortitude that you're still able to face the coming days. I admire both of you, and I want you know that."

"Thank you, Erskine," Ellenshaw said.

Acheson nodded. "I appreciate the sentiment, sir."

Fiedler looked at Acheson. "I've arranged a plane to take you to Detroit tomorrow, Mark."

Acheson looked at the top of the conference table for a long, silent moment, as if debating how best to continue. "I never knew Sharon's parents. I'm pretty sure they won't want to see me. They lost their entire family."

"Yes... they've paid an unusually high toll. I'm sorry you'll have to put a face on that. "

Acheson shook his head sadly. "It's my duty," he said.

Fiedler nodded. There was nothing left to say about that.

###

After Claudia's funeral, Chiho approached Acheson as he walked to his car. They had seen each other in an official capacity since the entire Osric affair had ended, and Acheson sensed she was as uncertain about what to do going forward as he was. He didn't try to talk to her about it, and he didn't force the issue. Eventually, they would find a way to manage their guilt in their separate ways.

"Are you in any pain?" she asked, looking at the cast on his arm.

"No, not really," he said.

She nodded. "Thank you for coming." Her demeanor was as placid as ever, but there was a lot of hurt lurking beneath the surface. She wore dark sunglasses and a conservative brown suit. The hemline of the skirt ended just below her knee, conspiring to give her a matronly appearance.

"She was a member of my team, Chiho."

"Yes. I think I should support you the same way. I'll come to Detroit with you."

Acheson shook his head. "Thank you, but there's no need."

She removed her sunglasses and looked at him for a long moment.

"I'm not sure if you should go alone," she said. "I'm worried for you. Worried for you here." She put her hand on his chest, over his heart.

Acheson smiled wanly and put his hand over hers. "I know. But here has been through a lot. I'll make it."

Chiho removed her hand from beneath his slowly. She nodded and slipped her sunglasses back on. "If you change your mind, let me know. I don't want you suffering any more than you have to. What happened to Sharon is also my fault, as well."

"It's not your fault—"

"So you mean to say it's yours alone?" Chiho looked at him.

Acheson put his good hand in his pocket and sighed. He raised his face toward the sun. It felt good on his skin.

"It is. I accept the blame."

Chiho continued to look at him. Nacho walked past with Cecil, who was using a cane as his back had been injured in the final confrontation with Osric. They exchanged nods with Acheson. Chiho turned and waved at them, then noticed an older man and woman as they slowly walked toward a waiting black limousine. She turned back to Acheson, her lips compressed into a tight line.

"Claudia's parents," she said.

"I know. Go on. Do what you need to do."

"When you come back, I want you to know I'm ready to move forward," she said. "We should at least talk about these things. Sometimes, we have the opportunity to meet at the starting line again, if you understand my meaning."

"I do."

She smiled at him slightly. "You always did. It's why I love you, you know."

And with that, she turned and hurried to the waiting black limousine. Acheson watched her go, and for a moment the heavy weight of his next duty seemed just a little lighter.

That evening, he boarded another government-owned jet, this one bound for Detroit. One last mission to complete.

This time, he would be there for Sharon.

EPILOG

As he stalked through the foggy night near Golden Gate Park, Rodrigo recalled his time in Los Angeles. He had almost been incinerated by the bomb the humans had detonated. Had the shockwave been less powerful, he might not have been ejected from the mansion, where the flames would have ended him as certainly as a stake through the heart. Instead, the power of the blast had deposited him into the swimming pool, which had extinguished the flames and given him a place to rest while his body repaired itself. As it happened, he had just regained consciousness when the entire hillside broke away. The swimming pool disintegrated, and Rodrigo was buried beneath a dozen feet of mud and sodden earth. Even as he sensed Osric's flame had been extinguished, he spent the next several hours entombed. The storm Osric had summoned took two days to blow out, and by that time, Rodrigo had already clawed his way to freedom. He traveled by night on foot, feeding on livestock when he could, fasting when required. He did not taste the blood of humans again, not until his second night in San Francisco. There, he fed on one of the homeless, then beheaded the body and tossed both into the Pacific Ocean. Neither was found.

On his third day, he set about searching for a servant. It took some time to ferret out the proper individual, but when he did, he found his servant in the form of Esperanza Diaz, a former stripper who had been forced into slavery by her pimp. Rodrigo looked into her eyes one night and set her free. With her wealth of knowledge regarding San Francisco's underbelly, he could navigate these new, uncharted waters with some degree of safety.

For Rodrigo Antonio Sabastano, late of the clan of Osric, San Francisco was a godsend. It wasn't as brutally hot as Los Angeles, nor as big, nor as unmanageable. San Francisco was a city at the tip of a peninsula with well-defined borders. There was another vampire clan in the area, but they were small and weak. He would stalk their leader during the coming nights, execute him, face down any challengers, and start over. He would lead with wisdom and compassion, and above all, respect for his human opponents. He had learned firsthand what could happen by underestimating them. Even cattle had very sharp horns, and those horns could be lethal.

San Francisco was, at the very least, his oyster.

---

Stephen Knight is a displaced Texan fighting to survive in the wilds of the New York City Area. You can find more of his fiction at:

http://www.amazon.com/Ghosts-ebook/dp/B004PLNQ6U/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1298900334&sr=1-1

http://www.amazon.com/Family-Ties-ebook/dp/B004P5NS2S/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1298900381&sr=1-1

Coming in March 2011: The Gathering Dead.