Dead Perfect

It was only when his hunger began to stir that he glanced up at the clock, surprised to find that he had been writing for almost four hours.

When he reached the end of the next chapter, he saved his work and shut down the computer, the first hint of worry rising in his mind when he realized that Shannah had not yet returned home.

Leaving his office, he went into the living room, snarling softly when he caught the scents of Hewitt and Overstreet. Muttering an oath, he took a deep breath. The two men had been in his house recently. Why hadn’t he noticed it sooner? He knew the answer even as the question surfaced in his mind. He had been so lost in his work that the house could have gone up in flames and he probably wouldn’t have noticed until it was too late.

Opening the front door, he followed Hewitt’s scent out to the curb, noting that Shannah’s scent was strong here, as well.

He swore again, his anger rising quietly within him. The fools had taken her and for that they would die.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Hewitt!” Overstreet called, a hint of panic in his voice. “Hewitt, come here!”

“What’s wrong?” Jim Hewitt turned away from the kitchen table where he had been methodically sharpening several stout wooden stakes.

“Come here and take a look at the girl.”

“Why? What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know. She looks…” Overstreet shook his head. “I think she’s…dead.”

“What?” Knocking his chair over in his haste, Hewitt ran into the living room. He dropped down on one knee in front of the sofa and grabbed Shannah’s hand. Turning it over, he pressed his fingertips to her wrist, feeling for her pulse. “Dammit! What did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything! One minute she was sitting there on the sofa, glaring at me like I was the devil incarnate, and the next she just sort of keeled over.”

Hewitt swore again.

“Is she dead?”

“Not yet,” Hewitt said, gaining his feet. “She’s unconscious, though. Dammit!”

Rising, Overstreet reached for his coat.

“What are you doing?”

“We’ve got to get her to a hospital.”

“In the middle of the night?” Hewitt asked. “Are you completely out of your mind?”

“So, what do you want to do? Just let her die?”

Hewitt raked a hand through his hair. It was time to cut his losses and admit defeat. They could drop the girl off at the nearest hospital and then hightail it out of town.

Returning to the kitchen, he filled his pockets with several vials of holy water, made sure his crucifix was in place and visible, then picked up four of the wooden stakes.

“Bring the girl,” he said, striding toward the front door.

Carl Overstreet grunted softly as he lifted Shannah into his arms.

Hewitt snatched the car keys off the table; then, keys in one hand and a stake held firmly in the other, he opened the door, and stopped dead in his tracks.

“What’s wrong?” Overstreet asked, coming up behind him.

Hewitt swallowed the bile rising in his throat as he glanced into the distance and saw a pair of blood-red eyes looking back at him. “He’s out there.”

Overstreet swore and took several hasty steps backward. “What do we do now?”

Hewitt slammed the door and turned the lock. “I wish I knew.”

“Hewitt!” The vampire’s voice, edged with preternatural power and authority, cut through the night. “Bring her to me.”

“Do I look like a fool?” Hewitt shouted.

“You have one chance,” the vampire warned. “Bring her to me now.”

“Go to hell, you bloodsucker.” Hewitt’s eyes widened as Carl Overstreet, still carrying Shannah, walked zombie-like toward the door. “Overstreet, what the devil are you doing?”

Overstreet didn’t answer, just kept walking toward the door, his eyes glazed over, his mouth slack.

“Overstreet, snap out of it!” Hewitt stepped in front of the newspaperman and slapped him in the face, once, twice. “Carl!”

Overstreet blinked. “What happened?”

“He’s playing with your mind. You’ve got to shut him out.”

The vampire’s voice rang out in the night. “Bring her to me!”

“Maybe we can make a trade,” Overstreet called, a note of desperation in his voice. “The girl for an interview.”

“Interview!” Hewitt exclaimed. “Our lives are on the line and you’re still worried about that stinkin’ interview?”

Overstreet shrugged. Staggering slightly, he returned to the sofa and lowered Shannah onto it.

“What kind of interview?” Ronan asked.

Overstreet and Hewitt exchanged glances as they realized the vampire was on the porch now, with nothing but the door standing between them.

“For one of the magazines I write for,” Overstreet replied. “What do you say?”

“Make it quick.”

Overstreet grabbed his notebook and a pencil out of his coat pocket, then dragged a kitchen chair close to the front door and sat down. “How long have you been a vampire?”

“Five hundred and thirteen years.”

“How many people have you killed in that time?”

“A hundred, maybe more, not counting the two of you.”

Overstreet swallowed hard. “How did you become a vampire. Was it voluntary?”

“No. I was brought across by another vampire against my will.”

“Are there many vampires in the United States?”

“More than you want to know.”

“How about in the rest of the world?”

“We are everywhere,” Ronan said curtly. “There have been vampires since the beginning of time.”

“Where did the first vampire come from?”

“No one knows for sure. Some say the first man to become a vampire was a man who refused to die. He called up the devil and offered to trade his soul for immortality. Some say the man’s name was Vlad Tepes.”

“Do you think that’s true? That Vlad the Impaler was really a vampire?”

“It’s possible.”

“This is priceless,” Overstreet said, scribbling furiously.

“Is it worth your life?” Hewitt asked dryly. “Because that’s what it’s going to cost you if she dies before you’re through.”

But Overstreet wasn’t thinking about that now. The reporter in him had taken control.