Dead Perfect

Newspapermen had often sacrificed their lives for a good story, and this was the story of a lifetime. “Have you ever made anyone into a vampire?”

“No.”

“Do you know how it’s done?”

“Would you like me to show you?”

Overstreet cleared his throat. “She said you’re the romance writer. Is that true?”

“I grow weary of your questions, mortal. Bring me the girl.”

“And what happens if I do?”

“You should be more worried about what will happen if you don’t.”

“We think the girl is dying,” Hewitt said. “We were going to take her to the hospital, but I’m not coming outside as long as you’re here.”

“She is ill. Bring her to me now. I will not harm you this night.” Ronan forced the words between clenched teeth. “I swear it on her life.”

“What about tomorrow night?” Hewitt asked.

“I grow weary of this,” Ronan snarled. “Her time is running out. And so is yours.”

“Give him the girl,” Overstreet urged. “If she dies, he’ll hunt us down for sure.”

Hewitt swore under his breath. “Back away from the porch and I’ll bring her out.”

Overstreet peered out the window. “He’s gone.”

Hewitt snorted as he lifted Shannah into his arms. “Just because you can’t see him doesn’t mean he’s not there.”

“Well, it’s a chance we’re gonna have to take.”

“Open the door.”

With a hand that trembled, Carl Overstreet unlocked the door, then ducked out of sight, his notebook clutched in his fist.

Hewitt took a deep breath, then stepped across the threshold. Kneeling, he placed Shannah on the porch, then darted back into the house.

Overstreet slammed the door and locked it, then sagged against the jamb. “Do you think he’ll keep his word?” he asked, then jumped as Ronan’s voice rang out in the night.

“I always keep my word. You are safe. For tonight.”

Hewitt slumped against the front door. Damn, that had been a close one.

“That’s it for me,” Overstreet said, shoving his notebook into his coat pocket. “First thing in the morning, I’m outta here.”

“You intend to let him go, just like that?”

“Damn straight! I’m no vampire hunter. I got what I came for. From now on I’m writing about safer topics, like terrorists and serial killers. I don’t know about the other vampires you’ve killed. Maybe they weren’t as powerful as this one. Maybe you just got lucky with them, I don’t know. But I know one thing, if you go after this guy, you’re out of your ever-lovin’ mind.”

“Then I’m out of my mind.”

Overstreet nodded. “I’ll be sure to spell your name right when I pen your obituary.”

Muttering an oath, Jim Hewitt pushed away from the door. Maybe Overstreet was right. Maybe it was time to quit the field while he still could. He had been hunting vampires his entire adult life and what had it got him? He had a small house he hadn’t seen in months, a car with over two hundred thousand miles on it, and a suitcase. No family. No time for a girlfriend. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out on a date.

Maybe it was time to give it up. The pay wasn’t that great, considering that he put his life on the line every time he went after one of the Undead. He couldn’t kill them all. He laughed bitterly. He sure as hell couldn’t kill the one he was after now. Not that he had really tried, he admitted sheepishly. And as long as he was being honest with himself, he might as well admit that Ronan scared the crap out of him. It wasn’t something he could tell Overstreet, but just thinking about going up against Ronan one-on-one sent cold chills down his spine. There was something about this vampire that frightened him. Maybe it was just the fact that Ronan was so old. Vampires didn’t weaken as they aged. Quite the opposite. They grew stronger, faster, more deadly with each passing year.

He blew out a sigh. Dammit, he wasn’t a quitter! If he walked away now…he shook his head. If he walked away now, he was no more than a coward.

“Is he gone?” Overstreet asked.

Hewitt switched on the porch light, then peered out the window. There was no sign of the girl, or the vampire. “Looks like he’s taken her.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here while we can,” Overstreet said. “I don’t want to be here if he comes back tomorrow night.”

With a nod, Hewitt unlocked the front door and stepped outside. Overstreet joined him moments later, his eyes wide and scared as he glanced from side to side.

Sliding behind the wheel of his car, Hewitt switched on the engine, wondering if he had completely lost his nerve for the hunt. And what he would do if he had.

Cradling Shannah in his arms, Ronan transported the two of them to his house, materializing inside Shannah’s bedroom. He drew back the covers and put her to bed. She was pale, so pale.

And cold. He drew the covers over her, stroked a lock of hair from her brow. Her heartbeat was slow and unsteady, her face was deathly pale, her breathing shallow and labored.

Her time had run out.

Kneeling beside her, he lifted her head, then bit into his wrist and held it to her mouth. “Drink, love,” he coaxed.

She was too weak to argue.

He spoke to her while she drank, telling her that he loved her, begging her to fight, to tell him what he should do.

He felt the blood flowing out of him, knew she was taking far more than she ever had before.

He waited for her color to improve, for her breathing to return to normal, for her heartbeat to become regular. Waited, and then waited some more, but there was no change, no visible improvement. He recalled telling her that he couldn’t keep her alive forever, but he had hoped his blood would prolong her life for years to come instead of just a few months.

“Shannah. Shannah, love, what would you have me do?”

She moaned softly. Her lips moved, as if she was trying to speak, and then she was still once more.

Her heartbeat was faint, so faint that even with his preternatural senses, he could scarcely hear it.

“Shannah!” He was losing her. He could feel her slipping away with each labored breath. “I can’t let you go. I can’t, and I won’t!”

And yet, how could he bring her across? She had told him time and again that she didn’t want to be a vampire, that she didn’t want to survive by drinking blood.