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How easy it was to hate that which one did not understand. Such behavior was typical of the ignorant and those who allowed unfounded fear to dictate their lives.

  Now, he knew better.

  Comfortably attired in his clothes, he approached the bed.

  Ruby, as lovely as ever, floated on the tranquil waves of a perfect sleep. Bite marks blemished her neck. He had taken much of her blood, but had intuitively sensed when to cease drinking, to prevent ending her life. It was his earnest wish that she would join him in this wondrous new existence. Without her, immortality would lack meaning and purpose.

  He lifted her warm hand to his lips, kissed her fingers.

  He did not know how long it would take for her transformation to complete. Perhaps a day, perhaps sooner. She was safe, here. The master would not allow harm to come to those that obeyed him. And to disobey was as unthinkable as refusing to breathe.

  He carefully tucked the bedsheet under his wife's chin. He kissed her cheek.

  "Sleep well, my dear. I'll return for you soon"

  He left the room, fastening the door behind him.

  The dark corridor buzzed with activity. The valduwe (the unfamiliar but somehow fitting name came to his mind, like a memory of a dream) raced around in a frenzy, seeking to feed on any human in the vicinity.

  Undisturbed, he proceeded down the hall, to the exit.

  Upon pushing through the glass doors, two unexpected surprises greeted him. Number one: a street bicycle in good condition stood in the metal bike stall, unlocked. Number two: his old dog, Malcolm, was among a pack of hounds that had brought down a number of hapless humans.

  "Malcolm!" Franklin said. He whistled.

  Tail wagging, the dog trotted to him. Franklin scratched behind the canine's ears, something he used to do all the time in his prior life, much to Malcolm's pleasure.

  But Malcolm did not allow himself to be stroked for long. He whined, licked Franklin's fingers, then dashed off to rejoin his pack.

  Franklin rolled the bicycle out of the stall. He mounted the saddle.

  He pedaled across the sidewalk that led to the parking lot. He passed Kyle, the master's son. Kyle stood at the end of the path, hands clenched behind his back, viewing the action.

  Kyle did not look at him-Franklin understood that Kyle did not need to see him in order to sense he was near-but Franklin gave him a wide berth. Instinct warned him to keep his distance from vampires like Kyle. It was a bit like a child exercising caution in the company of a stern adult.

  However, he would obey any commands Kyle issued. The master had granted his son authority over them.

  But for the time, the valduwe were allowed to roam.

  Franklin pedaled across the parking lot and onto the road that fronted the medical center. His leg muscles were strongstronger than they had ever been in his prior life, even in his youth. He felt as though he soared on the wings of the gusting wind.

  And oh, the night! Night had never been so beautiful, so deep, so liberating.

  He did not have a destination in mind, but something would suggest itself, soon. He was growing hungry again.

  David, Nia, and King were the only ones in his Pathfinder. The rest of the team members had piled into other vehicles to make the five-minute drive to the hospital, where they hoped to stop the vampires' advance.

  David clenched the steering wheel. "I know I'm being overly optimistic, but I'm hoping that Franklin is still asleep there. I don't want to have to do this to him."

  Although David did not say what "do this to him" meant, Nia did not ask for an interpretation. Both of them had been present at Jubilee when the team had destroyed the vampiric deputy in the cellar.

  "Everything's going to be okay, David," Nia said. In spite of her reassurance, her own voice wavered. David noted that her fingernails, which had been painted and manicured when he had first met her, were bitten down to nubs, the nail polish chipped away.

  Even King displayed signs of stress. The dog did not move around the backseat looking out windows as he normally did when riding. He sat ramrod-straight, brown eyes watchful, ears raised.

  Wind blasted across the town, pummeling the trees and tossing debris through the air. Several trees, snapped in half like matchsticks, obstructed the roads. The street lamps were dead, and the homes they passed were dark and abandonedlooking.

  Thunder clapped. Jagged blades of lightning split the purple-black sky.

  Rain had not fallen yet, but when it did, David was certain that it would come in a torrent.

  At the next intersection, he turned right, onto Coldwater Lane. The hospital was less than a mile away.

  I'm stalling, he realized. I'm putting along at twenty miles an hour. I never drive this slowly.

  But God, I don't want to see Franklin.

  Nevertheless, he had a duty to his team. Poke behind too long and they would have to fight without him. He was supposed to be the leader.

  He pressed the gas pedal more firmly.

  Ahead, on the left side of the road, a green Taurus was parked in a driveway. David would not have paid it any attention, but the interior light was on, as though a door was open, and no one was visible inside the vehicle.

  He slowed to take a closer look.

  A low growl rumbled from King.

  "What's the matter, boy?" Nia said to the dog, but her attention was riveted on the car.

  Feeling as though he had been cast into a slow-motion sequence in a film, David inched past the Ford, and even as he saw the spectacle on the other side of the car he had known that this was what he would discover. A young woman in a blue dress lay on the ground beside the open passenger door, bags of spilled groceries surrounding her body. Franklin Bennett, his balding head gleaming in the light, knelt over the woman, as though giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation-except his mouth was attached to her neck. A blue bicycle lay on the front lawn, rear wheel jutting in the air.

  David's jaws locked, his teeth grinding together. He had pressed the brake to the floor.

  Beside him, Nia had stuffed her hand in her mouth, as if holding back a scream.

  Keep on driving, a soft voice whispered in his head. Pretend you didn't see this. This man is your friend, your elder. You can't hurt him, and you know it. Go on, keep driving. Nia won't mind, either.

  He well might have given in to the temptation to drive away, but King began to bark.

  Grasping the woman protectively in his arms, Franklin turned and saw them.

  Chapter 20

  ackson had prayed, more passionately than he had ever I]prayed for anything, that he would find his son alive. His prayer was, thankfully, answered. When he swerved in front of his house at a reckless speed in the patrol car, Jahlil sat on the porch. His shotgun, which Jackson had given to him last Christmas, lay across his lap.

  A blue Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight was on the lawn. Jackson recalled that the car belonged to Jahlil's buddy, the kid named T-Bone. The boy who had been attacked by monster mutts last night.

  Christ.

  Jackson parked in the driveway, jumped out of the car, and ran to his son.

  "Are you okay, Jahlil? Where the hell you been? Why'd you leave the station after I told you-"

  Jahlil raised his hand with the weariness of an old man and waved it feebly, and that motion alone shut up Jackson. Something had happened, and it wasn't good.

  "Hey, Dad," Jahlil said. His voice was hoarse. His eyes were puffy, too. "I'm all right. Haven't been anywhere, just here at the house"

  Jackson caught a whiff of a vile smell. It was the same stench that had steamed from the burned creature that had used to be the deputy.

  In the corner of the yard, a large shape lay on the ground. The stink came from over there.

  "What happened here?" Jackson said.

  Jahlil braced his hands behind his neck. "Poke and I came here to get some weapons before we went out to hunt those bloodsuckers. But the thing that used to be T-Bone drove up here to meet us. We had a fight. T-Bone bit Poke, I s
hot TBone, T-Bone almost got me, then Poke set him on fire"

  Shock blew the air out of Jackson's lungs. Weak-kneed, he plopped on the steps next to Jahlil.

  He had planned to give his kid a no-holds-barred tongue lashing when he found him; between praying for his boy's safety, he'd rehearsed the mad words in his head as he drove to the house. Now, he couldn't remember what he was going to say, and he didn't give a damn. Cussing out the boy would be a fool's move. His son had lost his two best friends, and it didn't matter that Jackson had long believed that the boys were a bad influence on Jahlil. None of that crap mattered anymore. Not in this terrifying new world they had been thrust into.

  "I'm sorry, Jahlil," Jackson said. Awkwardly, he put his arm around the boy's shoulders. He was surprised when Jahlil didn't bristle. Jahlil leaned against him, head lowered, and trembled as he gave in to silent weeping.

  Jackson remembered the last time he'd put his arm around his son. It was the night that Paulette passed. He had not touched Jahlil since then, not with an embrace or even a handshake. Something seemed very wrong about that. He liked to blame their communication gap on Jahlil being rebellious and resentful of his authority, but maybe he had not been holding down his duty as a father, either.

  Well, I'm from a different generation of men, Jackson told himself. His own father had never hugged him, after Jackson grew past the age of seven. Hell, his daddy hadn't liked to talk that much, either. The things Jackson learned from his dad, he learned mostly from watching him. His father was the epitome of the strong, silent type, like a lot of older men Jackson knew.

  Ain't no wonder that I'm just like him, then, Jackson thought. But my boy needs something more than that.

  Jahlil sniffled, and straightened. "Okay, Dad. I'm fine now. I'm not gonna get all soft on you"

  "There's nothing wrong with crying, son. Better to let it out than to keep it bottled up, driving you out your mind."

  "Yeah, sure. Just like you cried when Mom died, huh?"

  The comment hit Jackson like a blow below the belt. He fumbled for words.

  "Son ... ah ... I cried over your mama. I did. But not in front of you"

  "Why?" Jahlil wiped his nose. "Because real men don't cry in front of people, right? Guess I just proved I'm not a man yet"

  "I wanted to stay strong for you. When your mama passed, I knew I was all you had left. Couldn't afford to let you see me weak. So I had my tears in private."

  "Maybe you didn't hide the tears for me, Dad. Maybe you hid them for you, 'cause you can't handle anyone thinking you're weak"

  Jackson pressed his lips together. "Hmm. Might have a point there. Maybe I did it for me. But that's how I am, son. Doesn't mean I loved your mama any less, and it doesn't mean I love you any less, either."

  Slowly, Jahlil nodded. Jackson could hardly read his boy's mind though he wished sometimes he could-but he believed that he had answered a question that had troubled Jahlil for a long time.

  "Well, Dad, that's cool," Jahlil said. "I mean, you're a grown man, almost fifty, right? It would be kinda stupid for me to expect you to change your ways"

  "Hey, I'm almost fifty, but I ain't hardly dead," Jackson said. He laughed. Jahlil laughed, too, and for a moment, the vibe was right between them: easygoing and good, the way it had used to be before Paulette had died.

  Then the wind blew, pushing the stench of death in their faces, and their laughter dropped off. The gravity of their circumstances pressed on Jackson like a lead weight. It was time to get back into gear.

  "Where's your buddy, Poke?" Jackson said.

  "I took him inside. He's in the guest room, asleep. We need to take him to the hospital, Dad."

  Jackson grunted. "Can't take him there. Those vampires are overrunning the place. We sent the backup team there to help."

  Jahlil's eyes grew as large as dinner plates. "How many of them?"

  "Well, there were close to twenty folks in quarantine. Sounded like all of them have changed into those monsters"

  "That's messed up," Jahlil said. "We've gotta go there to help. We can leave Poke here, he'll be fine"

  "Till he changes," Jackson said softly. "Wouldn't be no sense in dropping him off with his family; we'd only be putting them in jeopardy." He sighed. "All right, let him stay here. By morning we should have some idea of what to do"

  "What about T-Bone's ... body?" Jahlil's attention flicked to the edge of the yard, and he quickly looked away. "I can't deal with that right now, Dad. Sorry."

  "Come morning, we'll have a plan in place. I think we're gonna have a number of cases like this on our hands, though I hate to consider it. Terrible shame"

  "Okay." Jahlil stood, swung his shotgun over his shoulder. His face had hardened with determination.

  Intense pride swept through Jackson. His son was a fighter, for God's sake. Suddenly motivated, Jackson rose, too.

  But the memory of Paulette's deathbed words came to Jackson: Take care of our baby, Van. You're all he has left in the world. Raise him to be a good, strong man.

  Briefly, Jackson considered making Jahlil stay home, away from the danger. But he rejected the idea. What could he do, lock the boy in his room? Then what if something happened and his son was attacked again? Nowhere in the town was safe tonight. The safest place for Jahlil was right by his side. He would lay down his life to keep his boy alive.

  "All right," Jackson said. "Let's go to the hospital"

  Cradling the woman in his arms, Franklin Bennett showed his teeth like an enraged animal.

  Although David sat in the idling truck, perhaps twenty feet away, he swore that he could see the needle-sharp points of Franklin's fangs.

  In the backseat, King barked, spittle flying from his mouth and spattering the windows.

  "I can't do it," David said, still clutching the steering wheel. He was dizzy, as though he had been spinning on a carousel for the past five minutes. "I'm not ready for this. I can't do it."

  Calmly, Nia pried his hands off the steering wheel. She placed a Molotov cocktail, fashioned from a beer bottle, into his sweaty palm, and pressed his fingers around the neck.

  "You can," she said. She took her gun out of her purse. "You have a cigarette lighter. Get it, and let's go. I'll back you up. '

  Feeling as though his limbs were attached to invisible strings manipulated by unseen hands, David got out of the SUV. Inside, King growled and clawed at the windows. Nia came around the front of the truck, gun pointed toward the ground.

  "Stay away from me, David," Franklin said. He was not wearing his glasses anymore. He let the woman's body fall to the ground.

  Hearing Franklin's voice, which sounded the same as ever, wrenched David's gut. Surely, Franklin was only ill. He could not be a vampire. Vampires didn't exist!

  But you saw his fangs, didn't you, David? Look at the blood on his chin!

  The bottle in David's hand might as well have been a hundred-pound brick. Lighting the fuse and hurling the homemade bomb at Franklin seemed like an impossible undertaking.

  "Please, don't make this any harder than it has to be," David said. "I don't want to do this to you. But I have to "

  "You don't understand," Franklin said. "I want this new life. I am healthier than I have ever been, full of a vigor that I never experienced as an ordinary man. You have no right to take this away from me. You have no right!"

  Cheetah-swift, Franklin broke into a run.

  Indecision froze David. But not Nia. She fired a shot as Franklin fled across the yard and leapt over a line of bushes with the speed and agility of a track-and-field athlete.

  The bullet knocked the vampire off balance. He fell to the ground, moaning. But he started to rise.

  Nia rushed forward. She fired again, plowing a shot into the creature's spine. Wailing, it dropped against the earth ... but crawled forward, resolute.

  Nia prepared to loose another shot.

  "Stop it!" David yelled at her. "That's enough!"

  She turned on him. She was crying, but her ey
es blazed with resolve. "Then you finish him, dammit!"

  David was both grateful at Nia for preventing the vam pire's escape, and furious at her for forcing his hand. But she was right. It was his responsibility to deal with Franklin. That was how Franklin had wanted it.

  His legs feeling as if they might give way underneath him, David ran closer to the vampire.

  Franklin (no, don't call him that, it isn't Franklin anymore) was on all fours. Blood soaked the back of his shirt. He groaned.

  David's fingers dug into his pocket, closed around the plastic lighter.

  Sensing David's approach, the vampire looked over his shoulder.

  "You need not harm me, David," the vampire said. "Go away, leave me in peace. I am not a man anymore, but I have not forgotten the friendship that we shared. I give you my promise that I will never hurt you or Nia."

  David slowly shook his head. "No. When you were a man, you made me promise that I would take your life if you ever became ... something like this. Remember?"

  Franklin's mouth opened, a soft gasp escaping him.

  "I remember. I charged you with that responsibility ... and sealed it with your promise. I remember." He sighed deeply.

  For a heartbreaking minute, his were not the eyes of a vampire. They were the eyes of Franklin Bennett again, the kind, intelligent man who had sacrificed his life to help David.

  A wave of tears threatened to overcome David, and he blinked them away, savagely.

  Franklin lay on the grass and rolled onto his back.

  "Hand me the explosive," Franklin said. "Once you've done that, ignite the fuse. Move with haste"

  "But-"

  "Do it. Please. Before I change my mind."

  David offered the bottle to him. Franklin plucked it out of his grasp and pressed it over his abdomen. The dry rag, hanging from the lip of the bottle, fluttered in the wind.

  "The fuse," Franklin said.

  It took three attempts for David to produce a flame with the cigarette lighter. The fire tasted the rag, and began to consume it hungrily.

  "Now run away from here, son"

  David ran.

  Seconds later, the explosion came. The blast punched a hole in David's soul. He dropped to his knees. He buckled over and vomited, crap pumping out of him, leaving his throat raw, hot tears dripping from his face and plopping into the vomit he had expelled on the pavement.