“Anything else?”
“Yes, and this is…disturbing. Part of his gang—the bulk of it, in fact—is rumored to be made up of…creatures unlike any I’ve heard mention of before.”
He stopped walking, frowned at her. “Creatures?”
“Vampires—only…not.”
“Then…what?” he asked.
She blinked rapidly, scratching her cat’s head more slowly as she considered her answer. “Bear in mind, this is second- and third-hand information. I only have rumors and reports to go by. But it’s said these creatures are large, powerful blood drinkers, who seem to have no thought or will of their own. They obey Gregor mindlessly—even to the point of self-destruction.”
He lifted his brows. “Does such a creature exist?”
“I’ve heard of vampires who’ve learned to make slaves of ordinary mortals. They do this by drinking their blood and giving them a drop or two of their own in exchange. This leaves them weak and increasingly dependent upon the vampire, much as a drug addict becomes dependent upon his chemical of choice. But they’re still mortals. Weak, eventually mindless, yes, but only mortals. These creatures are strong, large and, apparently, immortal. An entirely different breed. No one, not even the oldest among us, can guess how Gregor made them.”
Reaper nodded. “Clearly, we’re dealing with a brilliant mind. I hate clever villains. What else do you know, Rhiannon?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. Only that Gregor and his gang are dangerous, a pack of rabid animals. They murder innocent mortals. They bring the danger of discovery—and the wrath and hatred of those who already know about us—down on the heads of every vampire in existence. They must be destroyed. But you’ll need to be very careful.”
“Not to mention very well compensated.”
She pursed her lips and tugged a drawstring bag from her sash. He hadn’t noticed it there, and no wonder. It was black velvet, like the gown itself. Holding it up so it dangled by its strings from her long, dagger-tipped fingers, she said, “Very well compensated.”
He took the bag, which weighed at least two pounds and jangled musically when he shook it. He didn’t bother opening it. He trusted her. If she said it was fair, it was fair.
“One hundred thousand in gold. These krugerands are only the down payment. You’ll get the rest when the job is finished.”
“A hundred grand, huh? You must really want this Gregor dead.”
“Not just me,” she told him. “The oldest, the most powerful and the wealthiest among us have contributed to this cause, Reaper. You have their blessing.”
“The blessing of the damned. That’s rich.”
She tipped her head to one side, frowning. “You’re exceedingly bitter, aren’t you?”
“Am I?”
“I’m only trying to tell you that if you need assistance, there are many of us waiting to offer it.”
“I won’t need help.”
“But if you do—”
“I work alone.” He turned and walked away from her.
“Contact me when it’s done,” she called after him, that air of command in her voice a note that was familiar to him and natural to her.
“I won’t need to,” he said. “You’ll know. I will be in touch all the same, though, to collect the rest of my payment. ” He tossed the pouch of gold coins and caught it again as he moved out of sight.
1
Seth Connor was cornered and low on energy, crouching on the top of a crumbling crypt in the middle of a cemetery. Toxic sludge had seeped in, covering the ground on all sides, so getting down and running for it was not an option. He wouldn’t last long if he stepped into that muck. Besides, he was surrounded by zombies—half-witted, yeah, but still dangerous. The sludge didn’t seem to bother them, or maybe they were just too zoned out to notice. Still, between them and the bubbling green chemical cocktail down there, he wouldn’t stand a chance. He was going to have to try to jump the gaping distance between where he was, and where he needed to be—the roof of the caretaker’s cottage. And it was a long jump. He wasn’t sure he had enough juice left in him to make it.
But standing still wasn’t an option, either. He shouldered the shotgun, emptied it into the mob of zombies, who were already trying to climb onto the roof themselves, just to clear himself a path, then pushed off hard. His body somersaulted through the air, once, twice, three times, poisonous muck flashing beneath him with every flip, and then it seemed to be getting closer. Hell! He stretched, straightened, reached—and just barely caught the edge of the cottage roof with his fingertips.
His legs dangled. Zombies were reaching for him, grabbing on, trying to tug him down. He kicked at them, then managed to draw his handgun. Hanging by the fingers of one hand, he peppered the bastards with lead.
They fell away. He dropped the handgun—a hell of a loss, but he might be able to find another at the next level. Tugging himself up onto the roof of the caretaker’s cottage, he took a look around and saw the path to safety: a power line suspended from the roof’s far side. He headed for it, hopped on and tightrope-walked his way to Level Nine.
Blowing a relieved sigh, Seth dropped the game controller onto the coffee table, stood up and stretched the kinks out of his back. It had taken a while to get through that last level, but the feeling of triumph, though bright, was only fleeting. It was a game. A fun distraction from the constant waiting that had become his life. He didn’t even know what he was waiting for. But the sense of nervous anticipation, that electrical charge just before a lightning strike, that feeling that something big was about to happen, had come on stronger today than it ever had before.
He was destined for something important. He’d always known it. But he was getting awfully bored waiting to find out what it was.
His phone rang. He jumped, that was how tightly wound he was. Then he grabbed it with the half-formed notion that this might be the call that would start him on his way toward whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. A glance at the caller ID box wiped that notion away. It was only J.J. calling from The Hole, the local sports bar where Seth had been promoted to manager.
Sighing, he picked up the phone. “Yeah, pal, what is it?” It was always something.
“Seth, I don’t know what to do, man. Tommy’s supposed to be on grill, but he went home sick. We’re out of grenadine and the dishwasher’s acting up again. And we’re packed tonight and short on staff.”
“Dude, you call me every time I have a night off.”
“It’s a crisis, Seth.”
“No. It’s normal. A crisis is when things are unusually bad. This is stuff that happens all the time. Normal, J.J. You gotta learn how to handle it.”
“I’m trying, but there’s only one of me.”
Seth lowered his head, then sighed and figured what the hell. It wasn’t as if he had anything else to do. Maybe go to bed early. Maybe dream about her again. The beautiful little redhead with the eyes that looked right through to his soul. The one who had something to do with his destiny. The one he’d never met, but had dreamed of for as long as he could remember.
He sighed. She would be there waiting in his subconscious, no matter what time he went to sleep. “I’ll be right over, okay? Meanwhile, call Bobbie to come in and handle the grill. She’s closest, and she always loves picking up extra hours. Call Tanya in to wait tables. She goes right by the liquor store on her way in, so have her pick up a couple of bottles of