Part One - El Camino a la Muerte

I don't know where I'm going
Only God knows where I've been
I'm a devil on the run
A six gun lover
A candle in the wind

- Blaze of Glory, Jon Bon Jovi, 1990 -

Prologue

Just South of the Border, Present Day

The caravan of two black Humvees and a matching conversion van rolled over the horizon, a rippling vision in the rise of heat from the highway. Dust devils swirled in the wake of the wheels and irritated a scorpion basking on the side of the road in the midday sun. At moderate speed they made their way to a crossroads and took a right that led them out into the dry, sand swept countryside amid scatters of odd rock formations, dry washes, and cacti.

Then the lead Humvee veered off into a private drive that merged out of nowhere, followed promptly by the other two vehicles, which had to gun their engines to keep up.

"The Italian is on a swing, huh?" Kilroy muttered to Shaw, who was driving the van they had lovingly given the name 'Buffy'.

"Yeah, I swear he can smell the blood from a hundred miles away." Shaw had four-wheel drive in gear, keeping the tires from sliding over the loose gravel. Nevertheless, the van slid another foot when he brought it to an abrupt halt behind the two in lead as they reached the car port of a low-sitting, adobe style ranch house constructed on a plain where a carpet of thick, tall grasses began. A lone brown bull stood out in the pasture, looking back toward the house as if paralyzed with fear at the new arrivals.

"Nah, he got a tip off on this one," Kilroy muttered in the silence that followed when Shaw killed the engine. "I heard gossip some other hunter group called this in."

Shaw raised a brow at this. "Someone outside the Vatican?"

Kilroy shrugged. "Yeah, think so. The Clarion Group. . . that was it."

All three vehicles sat for a moment, greeted only by the high-pitched buzz of some desert insect out there in the grass. Then the driver side door on the lead Humvee swung open with the crack of grating metal. The man who stepped out sported a pair of inky sunglasses, his dark hair combed back in natural waves from a harsh, olive hued face. He didn't say a word as he walked straight toward the house, wind buffeting the collar on his loose white shirt.

Six other men, including Shaw and Kilroy, poured out of the other vehicles, their legs stiff from two days of driving. They attempted to brush it off in the same toughened manner as their boss, but most gave in to a grunt or groan and wiggled an ankle or jittered their knees a bit to get the blood flowing again.

"Let's go," Shaw said grimly and commenced to follow The Italian around the far end of the house and along the side of a white washed wall. They came to an open archway that had once been blocked by an iron portcullis, but the bars had literally been ripped from the stone.

Each man filed through the opening to freeze in his tracks and gape at what lay within. They had all seen similar settings, but none ever got quite used to it. It frustrated them knowing they couldn't have done anything. Their quarry was too elusive, had struck, made its mark, and moved on well before their arrival.

The interior was a small courtyard with a fountain in the center. The water trickled peacefully up through a center spout. But it was a rain of red that came down, the water saturated with the blood of some twelve bodies torn apart or laid open and scattered throughout the little haven. The puddles that had drained onto the stonework had congealed into thick layers of rust-red. The stains had baked into the cracks, along with tendrils of hair or little shreds of skin. Flies buzzed over the carnage.

Men, women, children. No one had been spared here.

The Italian crossed himself, his face remaining still and unemotional as he did so.

Ives, the group's priest, did the same.

Two of the others, Gentry and Dobson, followed suit as if reminded of their faith. The others fought the urge to vomit when the smell of decay and shit hit them on the next down draft of wind. A small palm garden established along the edges of the courtyard rustled in the breeze, rattling large leafy branches. The blood had actually sprayed as high as some of the leaves and though dry still gleamed against the green like some disease.

"Clean it up," the leader finally said, his voice a growl bearing the roll of his accent.

There were no questions asked. Setting about their messy work, they went back out to the van to don light canvas jump suits, rubber gloves, breath masks. . . whatever it took. Ives remained in his black uniform and collar, a vial of holy water in hand as he bestowed a final blessing upon the dead then dismissed himself. The cleanup carried on into the late afternoon. Any bodies that still had their heads were quickly relieved of them. The fountain was cleared and all remains heaped into a pile near the entrance to the house.

The sky had gone from the bright blue of full day to the rosy hue of dusk by the time the corpse mountain was completed and dashed over thoroughly with gasoline.

"I've never seen anything like this," one man, Reeves, confessed though his voice was bland, untouched by any strain of emotion. He backed away from the funeral pyre that only awaited the touch of a torch.

Just near the pile of corpses, The Italian stood quietly discussing something with Ives before he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a Zippo lighter. He snapped open the cap and flicked the switch, held up the open flame as a warning to everyone to step back. He lit the end of a piece of dry wood and then tossed it into the carnage. The Zippo gave a sharp shhhhhick sound as he snapped the cover shut and eased it back into his pocket. The pyre caught immediately, flames bursting out in orange blooms and then billowing upwards, producing a column of acrid black smoke that also bore up the pungency of death.

Alone for a moment, the tall figure, broad at the shoulders but narrow at the waist, paced silhouetted against the pyre, sparks fanning the air around him though he didn't move back or appear afraid of the tongues of flame that danced close to him. Finally he turned to look back at his men and removed his shades, revealing hard, dark eyes framed in thick lashes that matched his hair. Had he any light behind those eyes, he might have been considered handsome, but all character was lost in the mission to which he had devoted himself.

"All right," he announced, and again his accent rolled out with his words. "Earlier today I received a call from the Cardinal and accepted an added commission and extension to our work here."

Each man stifled a groan and the urge to immediately argue what was or wasn't in his contract. But none dared make a peep about it lest they all have The Italian down their throats, or Ives giving one of his famous lectures on the good of mankind. Over time, it all came down to money, because to think of the good of mankind filled one with an urgency that hindered rather than helped get the job done.

"We are looking for seven masters," The Italian continued. "Seven more, and you men can go back to your homes. Wealthy," he reminded them. "But we aren't stopping until it is done."

"Where do we start?" Kilroy asked eagerly, though his voice was almost drowned out by the roar of the flames.

"Just across the border," The Italian replied. "In Four Corners, New Mexico."

"But," Reeves objected. "That's just a ghost town. Why go there? The killing is happening here."

"That is where they will be," The Italian replied.

"But why would a buncha sucker's want to hole up there? Ain't no 'food' for some forty miles around." Reeves shrugged, glancing back and forth at his kinsmen to see if they had any suggestions.

"Trust me," The Italian said, and for once that day his handsomely sculpted lips quirked up at the corners into a wicked smirk. "Last week an anthropology team uncovered a mass grave at Four Corners and has been camped out there working studiously to uncover more dust. There is plenty of 'food' in the area."

This obviously made everyone a little uneasy. They shuffled back and forth on their feet, hip to hip, wiped sweat from their brows.

Shaw was the first to dare speak up about it. "Sir, that is using humans as bait, and that is against the rules."

The comment was ignored as The Italian continued to speak. "I've already developed a plan. Timing is essential on this one, gentlemen."

They all looked from one to the other, not happy with such sparse information. It was dusk though, and not the time to remain standing out in the open, the fire a beacon to the ones who had wrecked such havoc on this simple ranch home. And hunting at night, no matter how experienced and skilled the hunter, was just plain stupid. The group would get themselves to a motel and each sleep with one eye open. After five weeks of hunting, paranoia was common place, and the sight of their black vehicles, particularly the Humvees rigged with huge spools of tow cable on their front bumpers, had become known in most of the border towns.

The men were blinking at each other, some waiting to get into their own vehicles and discuss theories on what the boss' plan of action might be.

When the stern voice snapped, "Andiamo!" at them, they moved, picked up their feet, and began to go back to the driveway shedding their jumpers as they went and wiping sweat from their grimy brows.

Kilroy looked back, once more spotted Ives and the boss standing near the flames holding some private discussion. He nudged Shaw in the ribs to point back, but the other man wasn't interested. Best not to stick his nose in.

The Italian had a plan, and that should be good enough.

Chapter One

Santiago, Mexico, formerly known as Purgatory, Present Day

Something was happening to him.

The sparse crowd in the outdoor cantina produced a strange roar in Jesse's ears, more like the sound of swarms upon swarms of flies buzzing over road kill, and despite the warm, arid climate, he felt chilled down into his core.

Couldn't stop shivering.

After two days of confusion and fear, he had begun to remember what had happened two nights ago.

Little flashes of memory slapped him every time he blinked. A glimpse of his old Jeep Wrangler sitting on the side of the road with a flat. . . the last rays of sun on the western horizon melting down into little more than a smear of burnt umber. . . hands. . . cold, pale hands, reaching for him. . . sharp pointed canine's near his face. . . on his throat. . . Sheila screaming. . .

What had started out a relaxing fall break with a drive through Mexico with his girlfriend had turned into a nightmare

Somehow, sometime, after the attack was over. . . at least he thought it had been an attack, but wondered if he had only been hallucinating. . . he had managed to drag himself and Sheila into Santiago and check into a hotel. The innkeeper stared strangely at them until Jesse was forced to look down and acknowledge the blotches of bloodstains on his shirt and all over his shoulder from an injury near his collarbone. Sheila had similar stains too, but her leather jacket managed to conceal the worst of it. Both were lightheaded, swaying when they stood in one place for too long, and once in their room they had both slept for another day and a half, and neither had any appetite whatsoever.

Jesse awoke feeling a little stronger, but still sluggish, and then the chills had crept up on him and he found himself nauseated every time he stood in the direct sunlight that spilled in through the tall windows that looked out on a mock veranda. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a steady slow beat, and something in the air, some smell, kept accosting him. He couldn’t figure out what it was. Something coppery-salty-tangy. It swept around him everywhere.

Sheila seemed to smell it too, and she was equally as chilled.

They didn't realize how bad it was until they tried to put things back to normal, to just ignore their discomfort and go out. Perhaps this was a mistake, for that smell, warm, inviting, deliciously tempting, wafted around them, and all voices just bled together into that fly like buzzing that chafed Jesse's ears.

At seven in the evening, the sun had just crept down over the rooftops of the stone and adobe structures, leaving a dusty chill in the autumn air. The sky spread beyond with a wash of brown and pink rapidly fading into black. Soft, jangling music drifted from across the square where a band played outside the old Spanish mission, and the Hotel Del Sol. Jesse had thought that there was nothing sunny about the hotel's front. The sign that hung over the street was cracked right down the middle of a Mayan design solar logo and the main foundation's stonework was in need of a power wash. The rooms within didn't get much brighter, all the furnishings sparse, the floors creaky, and the water running from the bathroom taps always tepid but never hot or cold.

The couple took a seat at a rickety table on the edge of the cantina space, and Jesse ordered a Corona without lime that came as lukewarm as the tap water in the hotel room. He winced when the bitter-sweet yeasty fluid touched his tongue, and he suddenly shuddered, feeling as if he would puke right there.

Sheila had hardly said a thing over her untouched Coke. Her small, heart-shaped face was set so that it was obvious her jaw was set, and she kept her head lowered, gazing out from beneath her brows with piercing amber eyes. Her pupils dilated to the point they almost swallowed away all color in her irises, and Jesse frowned back.

"Sheila? Want to go back to the hotel?"

With mechanical slowness her eyes rolled back toward his. She shivered a little and issued a series of short quick breaths that resembled those of an anxious young bull. Reddish dips had formed under her eyes, which Jesse took to be part of the fatigue that was dragging them both down.

They should have gone to a doctor, he realized, but neither had been too sure what had happened out there on the highway, and considering their Spanish wasn't the greatest, they easily shied away from the idea of seeking medical treatment.

Jesse had just pushed the almost full Corona bottle aside when the air moved with a light breeze, carrying through the square and across the cantina's patrons. It came from the north, bearing with it a strange scent. Jesse looked over Sheila's shoulder toward the bar and what was left of any expression on his face began to melt away into a deadpan stare.

He counted six men positioned up against the bar, each varying in height from perhaps five-foot-seven to six-foot-four.

Something about them. . . something. . . familiar. . .

Jesse clenched up in his chair, his heart pounding harder in his chest, yet not picking up rhythm. It was like a hammer slamming beneath his rib cage.

Thrum. . .

His gaze immediately landed on the one whom he perceived to be the leader. Something about the aura exuded it.

Thrum. . .

They were all in various shades of brown leather, but this one wore black, from his duster to his black leather trousers. Some cowboy out of a spaghetti western, his eyes were steady and set in an ageless, chiseled face. His blond hair was swept back, a few stray bangs falling loose over his forehead. He wasn't the tallest, but he was lean, a feature that lent itself to give him a taller appearance, even while he was propped back on one elbow against the bar, his hand relaxed and fingers spread spider-like over the rim of a whiskey tumbler.

Thrum. . .

This beat forced a gasp out of Jesse, and Sheila eyed him strangely as if she had heard the pounding too.

The one to the leader's right was taller, bigger, one leg pulled up and cocked over the bar stool while the rest of his weight was focused on the other straight leg. This one wore a short tan leather jacket accented with western-style fringe, jeans worn through with holes at the knees, and a white tee. He seemed most interested in flirting with the pretty Latino waitress who was bringing drinks from the bar to another table closer to the street. Dark blue eyes twinkled at her, then dimmed as he took a nudge to the ribs from his companion and looked down to meet eyes with his watcher.

Riveted in place, Jesse pretended to be unvexed and blinked then went back to his analysis.

To the leader's left stood a shorter man in a thigh length jacket over a black tank shirt. He wore jeans and chaps along with boots and looked no worse for wear than if he had spent the day rustling cattle. Long waves of light brown hair framed a sharp, almost boyish face shadowed by a good coat of five-o'clock growth around the chin, and ice-blue eyes stared evenly back at Jesse. This third man threw back a shot glass, swallowed the amber liquid undaunted by its potency, and then slammed the glass rim down on the edge of the bar, only taking his eyes off Jesse for a second.

Jesse continued to look over the remaining three who had taken up leaning positions along the rest of the bar.

One was a hulk of a man in a full-length desert duster and jeans. His face was long, the features almost over accentuated, giving him a leonine look, particularly with his heavy brow and the gray mane of hair loosed from his head and spilling to his broad shoulders.

Along side him stood a black man of a similar height but smaller build, not in leather but the casuals of a black tee, jeans, and boots, his jacket removed and thrown back over one shoulder, his fingers hooked into the collar. This one didn't appear to be drinking anything. . . nothing alcoholic anyway.

The next one looked much younger than the others to the extent he was completely out of place. He had dark eyes set in a bright face that might have appeared innocent were he not, like the others, drawing a bead on Jesse with a penetrating gaze. His clothes were simple but sporting: jeans, a tee, and sneakers, and a leather form-fitting racing jacket that matched the large bulbous helmet settled on the bar beside him. While the others were more like a seasoned cowboy biker gang, this one seemed closer to Jesse's age of twenty and appeared to be a city boy trying to go country and not quite making it work.

Overall this group seemed as intent on analyzing Jesse as he was them. Then gradually it began to occur to Jesse that none of them smelled quite like the rest of the cantina goers. Even from here he could tell. There was something so terribly out of place about them, including that they were missing that coppery scent. Instead, the aroma that carried downwind was dry, musty in a way, somewhat earthen. And Jesse cringed, sure for a moment that the heartbeat he heard pummeling the inside of his body had multiplied and echoed around him, until somehow his hearing homed in on it, and he realized that he was hearing not just his own heart, or Sheila's next to him, but six other steady, slow rhythms that seemed to reach right through the air and shatter him.

These men. . . whoever they were. . . seemed to be connecting with him on some level he couldn't define.

Jesse stared, breath hitching until he coughed it back out.

Sheila frowned. "Jesse?" It was the first word that she had really vocalized that evening, laced with concern.

"Over there. . ." Jesse grunted out between shaky breaths. But before she could turn her head and see what he saw, he suddenly found he had to get away from them. Some instinct told him they were dangerous, as if they were giants and he was merely an insect on the desert floor. "Sheila. . . come on. . ." he stood so fast his lap came up, hit the edge of the table, and nearly knocked it over.

"Oooookay," she said uncomfortably and fidgeted in her seat before rising to follow him.

He grabbed her by the elbow and steered himself and her out into the plaza through the small crowd, glancing back to make sure he was moving out of their line of sight while he still looked for a new vantage point. No good. They seemed to follow him with their gazes, confident that they wouldn't lose him.

Pulling Sheila with him, he tried to take cover behind a kiosk several yards out from the canteen. Here most of his perspective was obscured by the movement of goods and people in the night market, but he could still see the guy in black and the two particularly focused men accompanying him. This gave him time to try to rationalize what he was doing.

A bunch of cowboys and a biker boy for fuck's sake! What the hell did he have to be afraid of them for?

Just then he noted another figure crossing the range of the scope and followed it.

Damn, make that seven.

This one, another male, walked with something of a waltz as he veered through the crowd and up toward the bar to join his companions. Jesse cocked his head, amused by the observation that this one appeared to be dressed in no less than a silk suit, soft taupe material that moved as gracefully as its wearer. Great, so this one looked like a pimp with fashion sense. From this distance Jesse made out wavy light brown hair, but he wasn't close enough now to get facial details.

"Come on," he hissed and pulled Sheila with him.

Weaving his way through the night market, beneath strings of soft lights and colorful banners, he veered down a small side street which he'd discovered earlier to loop around to the back of the Hotel Del Sol and into a crumbling, walled in employee lot. He was headed there when that delicious coppery scent wavered around him again, all consuming, and he paused. Without thinking he let go of Sheila's elbow and dropped his hand to his side, looking about at the sparser flow of foot traffic around him.

His stomach gave a hurtful, hungry lurch as his eyes landed on and followed the path of a young Mexican woman working her way into the night market back in the direction from which he had come.

At his side, Sheila gave out a longing sigh, looked at him, and then slowly began to smile.

Jesse shouted, his reverie with that delicious scent broken by the black orbs that had been Sheila's eyes, now gazing back at him. Her canine's had grown long and sharp, and what sounded like a long low combination of a purr and a growl issued from her throat.

Jesse stumbled backwards. "Sh-Sh-Sheila?" he stuttered, taking a few involuntary steps backward.

Her pale lips curled back further, her mouth gaping to make room for the length of those awful teeth, and then she snarled at him.

Jesse spun around to run and bumped right into an elderly man. Without thinking he caught onto the obstacle's collar and held on, pulling the dull fabric away from the leathery skin of the aged neck. The man uttered a surprised cry and said something in Spanish.

The scent spilled over Jesse with a warm wash that momentarily flooded away all other senses. He completely forgot about Sheila, or the thing she had suddenly turned into. His rational mind fled as he focused on that scent curling off the man's skin, from his neck. Beneath the warm cocoa skin and all its wrinkles, the rise and fall of a pulse captured Jesse's attention. He leaned toward it, his tongue sliding out to lick his lips.

"No! No!" the man cried, and tugged himself away.

Shaken suddenly, Jesse realized what he had almost done. It was consuming him, the need for the source of that scent, that wonderful-warm-salty-coppery-syrupy. . .

"Ah!" he shouted a hoarse objection to the alien craving as he understood now exactly what that scent was.

Blood.

It was blood, pulsing beneath the old man's collar, calling to him. Jesse almost gagged as he let go and pulled away so hard he sent the man reeling toward the crowd. People were turning toward him, faces curious to see what the commotion was about.

He realized Sheila was gone, and moment's later he heard a woman's scream rise from somewhere further up the street.

The same instinct that had sent him fleeing the cantina returned and sent him bolting down the half-lit alley, his footfalls echoing along the grimy walls, into the dead end of the parking lot behind the hotel, the far wall being that of the Spanish mission's grimy stucco. Jesse stopped, realizing there was nowhere else to go. He collapsed back against the entrance to the alley and sank down.

His skin tingled as if thousands of ice fingers were massaging his shoulders, his middle, through his scalp, and his gums began to hurt, his jaw clenching up as he reached out to the sides of the wall and his fingertips raked over old brick and a crispy layer of fractured stucco.

"Somebody. . ." he croaked out, "help. . . me. . ."

But he was alone, or so he thought. The sounds of the square—voices, music, the odd car—had faded away.

Then he caught that other scent. Not the one that lured him, but the one that had accompanied the seven men at the bar. . . that dry, earthy reek. . . and he could hear the loud boom of a slow-beating heart.

Looking weakly back down the passage toward the main street, realized he had been followed.

-7-7-7-

Chris Larabee had planted his focus on something that distracted him from his drink. He lowered his hand and propped back on the bar, casual as two of the cantina's patrons caught his attention. Their scent was his first clue, but he could also sense the lack of warmth in their bodies. Such was the case with the undead.

To his left, Vin had picked up on the same thing and followed his line of sight right to the source of interest. Two young'uns, or so it seemed, huddled up at a table, a male and a female. The girl was facing the other direction so there was no clear shot of her face. She was a red head, small and thin in jeans and a festive orange sweater. The male's eyes, soft blue and fringed in pale lashes, peered back over the girl's shoulder, blinked at Chris then feigned no interest as he looked away.

"Hey darlin'," Buck was chiming up at the barmaid as she carried a tray of freshly opened beer bottles around the far end of the counter. "One of those for me?" Smiling after her small figure sauntering by in a swishing skirt, he didn't bother to notice that there was a new scent in the air, or that the two heartbeats coming from that particular table were too slow and steady to be human. He jumped slightly when Chris' elbow made firm contact with his ribs and he turned, started to ask what that was for, then noted how Chris inclined his head toward the cantina's main floor looking out on the open night air and the Santiago square.

"We got two at one o'clock," Chris rasped softly and the word passed down the line, past Joshia and Nathan to J.D..

All six of them watched now, attempting to listen in, but the voices of the locals and the strum of music drowned out anything discernable other than their steady heartbeats.

"Loners?" Chris asked for an opinion.

Vin was already scanning across the crowd for any others, particularly a master who might lay claim to these two. In a quick glance he caught the young man's eyes again and gave an unconscious smirk in response before throwing back the contents of the shot glass he'd been holding. The liquor gave him a little sting to the tonsils, but otherwise drained on down into his belly without giving him any inner warmth as it had once done, or even the pleasure of a buzz. "Damnit, I miss a proper drunk," he muttered as he once more resumed eye contact with the youth. "They look lost," he noted.

Chris nodded. "No master, just two kids bitten and dumped out to survive on their own," he suggested.

"The innocent suffer the most," Josiah said, stepping in a little closer. "We can't let them live."

"Poor kids, they probably don't even know what they are," Buck interjected.

Chris turned his head and looked back at his best friend with naturally venomous eyes that faded in and out between green and blue, unsettled on a hue, expressing the constant turbulence of his emotions. He looked back out at the two at the table, and again there was that nervous glance from the male.

Kid had some serious shakes going on.

Most fledglings existed on pure instinct, killing wherever they went, driven only by their blood lust. These two weren't quite there yet, but their full conversion was almost at hand. They had not been killed and bled then resurrected. Each had been infected by a not immediately fatal bite. It didn't matter though. The results would be the same.

The Seven were on their annual pilgrimage back to Four Corners, but the recent slaughters that had taken place on the ranch near Vasquez had drawn them here to investigate. These two kids were obviously later victims, not part of the Vasquez slayings. It was always disturbing to find these types of victims, the ones on the edge who had just a little piece of humanity left in them.

As if to speak Chris' mind, Buck suddenly said, "Dang they look so. . . normal."

Chris spoke softly through his teeth. "They just haven't finished changing."

"You don't think. . ." Buck began. He shook his head, knowing the possibility was highly unlikely. "You don't think they could be. . . like us?"

Chris didn't bother to put words into a response for that. He just shook his head since technically there was no definition for what "like us" meant.

"Always the optimist, Buck," Vin replied rather acidly.

Just then the male got up, coming to a full height of perhaps five-ten, and dragged the girl with him by the elbow. All six watchers tensed as he left the table and hastened out into the night market crowd, the girl's much smaller figure stumbling along ungracefully in his wake.

"What're we gonna do?" J.D. asked, leaning down the bar a ways to bring himself more into the whispers of conversation.

Chris cocked his head, observing the crowd as it closed back in over the retreating figures. He glimpsed the male's head of blond hair reappearing in and out, followed by a little flash of the girl's red mane. They turned the corner of a kiosk but didn't drop completely out of sight.

Just then a more familiar figure crossed the path of Chris' vision and headed up to the bar.

Ezra Standish did not appear happy. He glanced haughtily back over the heads of the cantina's patrons as if seeking some distraction from whatever had him down, but found nothing or no one of interest. He had obviously just missed the odd pair on their way out into the market.

"I protest staying here one more night," Ezra immediately proclaimed when he reached the bar and stood before his companions. "It's the new millennium, and you would expect even a tiny backwater, particularly one formerly named after some region of Hell, and now converted and sanctified by the name of a saint, to have acceptable ventures." He wormed his way in between Buck and Josiah and propped back on one elbow, his wrist bent elegantly before him as he shook his head. "And they say civilization is on the rise." He rolled his eyes.

"Translation?" Buck asked.

"The only form of gambling here is cock fighting," Josiah replied.

"I abhor forcing any creature's natural inclinations to violence for the sake of human entertainment," Ezra elaborated.

Chris hadn't heard any of it. He leaned just toward Vin, giving the slightest nod of a gesture out toward the square. "Follow them," he said. "If they go on the blood hunt, kill them."

Hearing this, Buck took a step forward. "We should all go," he suggested.

"Excuse me," Ezra said, looking down the line from one to the other. "What exactly, as they say these days, is up?"

Without a hitch Buck just reached up, planted his spread hand on top of Ezra's head, and turned it forty-five degrees to look out at the crowd where the couple in question lingered. "We have two changing fledglings and no idea what they're up to," Buck stated. "Seem like just a couple'a scared kids ta me."

Ezra focused on them, the pupils of his jade eyes narrowing to a fine point, and his lips formed a soft, silent, "Oh dear."

Chris was taking the whole situation into quick consideration. "All right, we have their scent. Everyone branch out, close in."

Ezra immediately shook his head. "Seven against two? That's not exactly fair, Gentlemen. Soooooo. . . e re nata. . . I'll just stay here while you have those two unfortunates as a snack."

"Ezra," Buck warned.

The gambler blinked innocently at him.

Chris only nodded. "All right, you stay and keep watch, make sure there are no others about, or another master in the area."

Ezra seemed satisfied with this. "Happy hunting," he commented. If there was any killing tonight, he was more than willing to steer clear for the sake of his Armani. He settled back, ordered a shot of tequila—and not without grilling the bartender over whether it was the best quality or not even if technically it would just go right through him to be pissed back out—then positioned himself on one of the bar stools.

One by one the others parted ways, slipping sideways around the outer cantina so as not to be noticed leaving in mass. Hardly anyone noticed Chris, who whispered past several patrons using skills one-hundred and twenty-five odd years in the making.

Soon the other six had completely melded with the crowd in the night market. As planned, they branched out, Vin already tracking ahead of everyone else, and quickly catching site of their quarry rounding a corner into a narrow street that was little more than an alleyway leading back behind the Hotel Del Sol. Nathan and Josiah each forked off from the plaza and went completely opposite ways up along the street past the mission. J.D., his motorcycle helmet tucked casually under one arm, went to wander through the square, from kiosk to kiosk, pretending to examine the goods from jewelry to clothing, fruit, and flowers, all the while catching glances of Buck's tall lean figure moving ahead.

Chris and Buck stayed closer together, their eyes darkened and keen on every movement that passed by them, from the pedestrians to a cat inspecting the drainage ditch along the sidewalk. In moments like this, they felt as if they were once more back in their own time, where they belonged, acting as the regulators they had once been.

It took them back through memories deeply embedded like a festering thorn in each of them, to when everything was much, much simpler. To when all Chris wanted was to avenge his family. Vin wanted to clear his name. Buck only wanted to get J.D. laid. Finding the con of a lifetime was Ezra's greatest thrill. Josiah found Zen in refurbishing his church. Nathan desired only to save as many lives as possible.

And vampires were only a fairly tale.

Chapter Two

Four Corners, New Mexico, 1877

The killings had started almost a month ago. Few and far between at first, near Watsonville then soon closing on Four Corners. Families were found slaughtered in their homes, or there was the odd body of an unlucky traveler, whom no one could identify, found dropped in the dust along the main route through. Their throats were often slashed, but sometimes the wounds were more extreme, laying open bowels, or leaving a victim headless. Rumors began to abound that there was some wild beast roaming the outskirts, and huge hunting parties were gathered and sent out. Vin Tanner served as a tracker for one such party but found nothing to lead him to believe the desert had spawned a monster. Given the opportunity to examine one body, Nathan Jackson determined only that the gash that ran from the young woman's chest up to the side of her neck to her ear had not been dealt by an animal. It was too neat for that.

Four Corners was becoming known as a cursed town. The stagecoach started detouring through Greenly. Wagon trains began to avoid it, so businesses declined. Mary Travis, owner of the Clarion press, sent her son, Billy, away to live with his grandparents. A few others followed suit, sending their children off to stay with cousins, aunts, and uncles. Even stubborn widow Nettie Wells had closed up her little stead and moved away, if only temporarily, in the interest of protecting her niece Casey. Then larger groups began to filter out. Of the three hundred who had called themselves citizens, one hundred relocated, headed for California or back east, with hopes of escaping the mysterious thing that left a vapor of fear in its bloody wake.

And to make matters worse, a certain seven regulators were getting a bad name for not finding who-what was doing this.

It was driving Chris Larabee just the slightest bit 'round the bend. Not only were his and his men's reputations at stake, but it was just plain frustrating, leaving the regulators feeling powerless to do anything.

Which was why one early fall morning he found himself, Buck Wilmington, and Vin Tanner all crouched down along the little ridge just above the cemetery. They had reached the point of following any damned lead they could get, and this one came from Conklin of all people. The old fart was actually onto something, for a change, when he claimed he had spotted someone fooling around with the graves of the recently brutalized and buried.

Chris had seen the stranger before. Come to think of it, the young man had made his appearance just after the slayings had started. He was often found in a corner of the saloon, nursing a drink and for the most part appearing to observe people. The figure down below was visible from the waist up as he stood down in a half emptied grave, a pile of freshly disturbed dirt on one side, his tan duster splayed on the other along with a carpet bag that stood open, but its contents were not visible from the vantage point of the ridge. Sweat had drenched a dark "V" down the back of his dirt-smeared shirt between his suspenders.

The young man was just reaching the bottom of the grave when Chris silently signaled Vin to take the east side of the cemetery and Buck the west. Chris came over the top of the ridge and straight down, a sawed off shotgun cocked and ready as he called out.

"Hold it right there," the gruff voice carried over the soft howl of dry wind.

The young man jumped and spun around, the spade in his hand instantly coming up into a defensive position. He freed one hand from its grip on the handle to shade his eyes and get a better look at the man in black carefully climbing down his way.

"Mr. Larabee," he called back.

Buck and Vin both made their appearances at that moment, moving upon the cemetery, jumping the weathered picket fence on each side and closing in.

"I don't recall officially meeting you," Chris answered as he reached level ground and maneuvered his way through the main entrance, shotgun still at the ready, and eyes narrowed viciously, the landscape reflected in the aquiline pools of his irises.

"Me neither," Buck said, his Peacemaker drawn and settled just at hip level. The youngster standing in the grave didn't look much older than J.D., a thing that proved an instant weakness for the tall gunslinger. As he drew closer, he noticed a chiseled face etched with premature lines around the eyes, skin tanned from constant exposure probably due to riding.

"Can't say's I do either," Vin added, his casual drawl the last warning to the young man that he was essentially surrounded. If he tried to bound out of that grave and vault the south side fence, he was going to have more buck shot in his ass than sand in the desert.

The youth looked from one to the other. "I got ears," he said, "and people talk, they say your names in Four Corners all the time."

Chris came to a stance not far from the open grave, having an elevated advantage over the little grave robber.

Vin stood near the headstone, his head cocked, eyes shaded by the brim of his hat. "That so?"

Of course, the three knew this, and each found it rather amusing to play upon this issue while at the same time intimidating their suspect.

"Yes, Mr. Tanner, they do." The young man realized he still had the spade up and ready to swing and slowly lowered it. He looked over at Buck. "The ladies particularly talk about you, Mr. Wilmington."

That did it. Buck went from serious to a full, proud grin, which Chris acted quickly to dissolve.

"You mind tellin' us what you're doing in that grave, Mr.—?"

"Arrant," the other replied. "Michael Arrant."

At least they were getting something in the form of cooperation over the matter. Vin raised his head and looked across the grave and the pile of dirt at Chris, awaiting the next order.

Chris gave each man a nod and gesture toward the open pit. "Get him out of there."

They both moved in unison, Buck keeping his gun angled at the youth's head while he took the spade away and tossed it. He was just taking one arm, and Vin the other, to haul the kid out of the hole when he looked straight down. The kid was standing directly on top of the coffin's lid, the edges just cleaned off with room to the sides. Worse, he noted the name on the wooden head cross and realized the coffin belonged to the eldest daughter of the murdered Jenkins family who had owned a ranch just six miles out from Four Corners. The girl's face, when she had been alive, flashed behind Buck's eyes. A honey-haired teenager with naturally flushed cheeks and a heart-melting smile.

"You sick little shit," Buck growled as he jerked up.

Michael Arrant howled out a protest to the strain on his arms as he was hefted up and swung unsteadily onto the topsoil. "I can explain!" he cried out. "Please, just let me. . ."

Buck shoved him away and Chris stepped over to look down into the grave, incidentally kicking free a small rain of dirt from the edge. It rattled on the coffin's lid and the air around them all seemed to chill down.

"Let me show you," Arrant still protested, trying to squeeze past them and clamor his way back down into the hole. "It's the only way you'll believe me." The calmer tone with which he had greeted the three regulators had shifted to pure desperation. He looked up, squinting into the sun as if checking the angle on the rays.

"Hold on," Chris hissed, grabbing the kid's collar and shaking him.

Golden waves of hair tumbled free around Arrant's sun-stressed face and he turned pleading blue eyes up at his captor. "You don't understand," he objected, teeth gritting, lips drawing back into a snarl. "I thought you of all people would want to know why I'm digging up this grave. It's not to rob it."

"What for then?" Buck said, uncocking the Peacemaker and settling it back into the holster.

"I can show you what is responsible for these slayings!" Arrant still struggled, though it seemed no trouble for Chris to keep him in check with a mere fistful of the youth's shirt.

"Oh?" Buck asked, getting in Arrant's face and seething with sarcasm. "I'm sure the murderer is hiding in that girl's grave."

Arrant glanced around the big man's shoulder as the sun's rays broke past the edge of the grave and began to climb down inside.

"Explain now," Chris said with cool eerie calm into Arrant's ear. Both men were skilled at intimidation tactics, but Arrant only squirmed a little more, straining to keep his view of the grave.

"I have to show you, goddammit!" The youth pulled forward, reached up and pried at Chris' grip. Then suddenly he simply dropped his own feet out from under him. His descending weight jerked his shirt free, the coarse fabric leaving a burn in Chris' palm that pissed the gunfighter off just that much more.

Buck nearly fell over backwards as Arrant scurried on hands and knees around him and dove right back into the open grave just as golden rays fell close to the coffin's lid. The kid landed with a dull thump on the hollow pine vessel, glanced up one last time into the blazing orb overhead, then reached down and pulled the lid open, rolling into the free space around the box and using the underneath side of the lid to shield himself.

Chris, Buck and Vin were all about to scramble after him, when they halted, confronted with the sight of the dead girl within. Bleached-bone pale with dark, bruise-like circles around her eyes, she lay in eternal sleep.

For two seconds.

The three regulators all had that amount of time to recall that this girl had been buried with a slit throat, but that wound was no longer there, only a pearly scar as if it had healed after death.

Then she opened blackened, glossy eyes to the sun and let out the roar of an ensnared bobcat. Her mouth opened wide revealing long canine teeth, her tongue flicking between her lips.

Buck came close to letting out a yelp. Vin stumbled back a couple steps not knowing whether to fire the shotgun or throw it at the thing in the grave, and Chris' heart rose into his throat.

The girl sat up in the coffin, scraping the air with clawed fingertips, reaching right for the three men above when the full beat of the sun's rays took her. Her body burst into flames, first spewing out of her wavering arms like the spark on a lit fuse, then ripping down through her from head to toe. In seconds it was all over. The flames went out on their own with a hot whoosh of air. Whatever combustible element possessed her body, it burned up quickly. The corpse collapsed back into its wooden bed with a rattle of bone and a whisper of ash.

Slowly Michael Arrant came out from his hiding place behind the scorched lid and looked down at the smoking, mummified mass that had once been a young woman. Her face was now burned away, leaving a blackened skull and those horrid sharp teeth.

The three regained their composure and simply stared as Arrant slammed the lid shut and stood up. "That," he said, breathless as he gestured down at the coffin, "is what is killing the people around here, Mr. Larabee. Vampires."

Agape, Buck breathed out the word first. "V. . . vampires?" Feeling terribly light headed, he fought the urge to. . . for the first time in his life. . . faint.

"Vampires," Arrant affirmed. He dusted himself off and stepped back up onto the coffin. "Now could someone help me back out again?"

It was a good three minutes longer before they all got their wits completely back together and obliged him.

-7-7-7-

They watched Arrant work a little longer on the Jenkins girl's corpse. He scrounged around in the carpetbag and brought out a mallet and a length of wood sharpened to a point at one end, then he pounded it down into the chest of the crispered body. Next he uncovered a machete from beneath his coat and unsheathed it. He knelt down along side the coffin and reached in to grab one shoulder and pull the body up awkwardly just so, the creak and crack of stiff bones and the pungent scent of baked flesh and decay permeating the air. With a crunching whack! he removed the head, dropped the corpse back into its confines, and placed the head at the foot of the vessel.

When he was finished and closed the lid, he looked up to find his three watchers green around the proverbial gills. That was how you made sure a vampire stayed dead, he explained. Even the sun's rays could not permanently destroy them, and the ceremony of staking the heart and removing the head released the tormented soul trapped within the monstrous corpse.

"But the girl," Buck asked later when they had filled the grave back in and begun the walk back to town, "how did she become a vampire?"

"Killed by one," Arrant explained as he strode along, his duster draped over one arm, and the carpetbag with his tools tucked under the other. "Or more specifically, bitten. The exchange happens in the saliva, and you get a goon like that poor girl back there. Sometimes a scratch can do it. That's rare, but you still want to remove the head and stake the heart to be sure. It's an infection, gentlemen," he went on, "a contagion. The only way to contain it is to hunt them down and destroy them." He was so nonchalant about it that he had them all scratching their heads, trying to find questions when it was still early to know what to ask.

Chris was glaring straight ahead, digesting all of this with extreme unease, part of him in denial and the other desiring only to climb down inside a bottle and cope with what he had just seen.

"So that girl," Buck said, getting more of a grasp on it now, "she had to have been bitten."

"Yeah, and her blood sucked out." Arrant walked closest to him, a good head and a half shorter. "She was only a goon, they're the easiest to kill. Sometimes they take a bit longer to resurrect."

"Goon?" Buck fingered his mustache and frowned, his eyes a storm of mystification.

"Yeah, they have different classes, masters and slaves, basically." Arrant dragged his heals along, looking down as if saddened by some sudden private thought. "Masters are created on an even exchange of blood, and maybe more. . ." he stopped there, blushing and letting the statement go unfinished.

"Wait," Vin interjected, "how do you know about them so much?"

"Oh, I come from a long line of hunters." Arrant looked over at the tracker who kept more pace with Chris, who still hadn't said exactly what was on his mind about all of this. "There are plenty of us out there, different groups. The Vatican even has operatives all over the world. What do you think the crusades were about?"

"Crusades?" Vin shrugged. If it wasn't in American history, more specifically the last thirty years, he had little or no idea of it.

"Um, never mind." Arrant paused to heft his burden up, then he hurried a few steps ahead and turned back, stopping the three in their tracks just as the main entrance to Four Corners came within view. "Look, I know this is hard for you all to stomach. Hell, it was hard for me the first time I saw one, and I was raised to hunt. But now you know. You make a decision about it. You either decide to turn tail and run, or you fight back."

They all stared back at him evenly, perhaps each inwardly waiting to wake up and find himself in a bed or under the stars. But a minute passed and no one woke up from any nightmare. They were all still standing here, looking at this dirty kid with a machete slung across his back and a bag full of wooden stakes and a mallet.

Chris adjusted his hat and stepped forward, looking down at Arrant with that unreadable half-sneer-half-smile-just-a-little-psychotic look of his. "Okay, kid, you got me. But I'm not going to speak for the others. To stay or go is their decision." He casually looked back over his shoulder at Vin and Buck. Vin stood with his weight cocked on one hip, his thumbs in his belt. Buck had his hands planted firmly on his hips under the edge of his coat, his face blank.

"Hell, I ain't denyin' what I saw in that grave," Vin declared.

Buck looked from one to the other then focused on Chris, his own look vague, portraying no decision, except that something that rarely passed through his eyes ghosted by in just one tiny moment, then it was cast aside with a blink.

A glimmer of fear.

Chris nodded a silent understanding. Who wouldn't be scared in this situation?

"I'm in," Buck said. Then attempting to return to his usual spirited self, he added, "Got to protect the ladies, ya know." But it came out with no humor, dead in tone. He cleared his throat then and straightened up. "So, where do we get started?"

"We tell Josiah, Nathan, Ezra and J.D.," Chris replied, "and as many people in this town as will listen to reason on this." He shook his head. "Can't say I blame anyone decides to have us carted off to a mad house though." He looked back at Arrant. "I take it there are more infected graves?"

"Yes, Sir," the little hunter replied.

"Then we have more work ahead of us today," he added then looked over at Buck and Vin with eyes narrowed against the glare of the climbing sun. "Digging."

Vin cocked an eyebrow at that, and neither he nor Buck appeared to be looking forward to it.

Chris motioned for them to continue on into town. "Find the others and tell them to meet us back down at the cemetery by noon."

Each gave a quick tilt of his hat to that and they both proceeded on ahead, focused on the church first to see if Josiah was in.

Chris remained with Michael Arrant, just generally keeping an eye on him since he still didn't know what to think of the little hunter. "Whatever else you've got to tell, you tell it," he gruffed.

"Sure, Mr. Larabee, but you might want to wait for your men."

Agreed on that, Chris started back into town. He knew Conklin had probably already seen them coming with Arrant in tow and begun to gab. He'd let the townsfolk all stew over it, first talking of some scandal concerning grave robbing, then they'd all come down to the cemetery to let curiosity have a good shot at the cat. Just as Arrant had done with him, Buck and Vin, he'd show the real threat as opposed to trying to explain it.

He strode up the main street and veered over to the Clarion News where he left Arrant to sit waiting on the edge of the porch while he went inside. The little bell on the door jangled over his head as it closed behind him. He found the place cool and the air thick with the acrid yet earthen scent of printer's ink. In addition to the bell, the hollow clunk of his boots on the floor notified Mary Travis of his presence.

She looked up from her typeset table where she was busy arranging letter blocks for the latest headline. This was always somehow quite a sight to Chris. Mary with her blonde hair swept up elegantly and pinned in back, pearls on her ears, bedecked in a burgundy satin dress complete with bustle, and ink all over her hands. The first time he had ever seen her she was wielding a shotgun against the men who had tried to lynch Nathan Jackson. He admired her for that, at least, even if her occasional prudishness made his hackles bristle. And he admired her enough to give her a fair warning about what had the life of Four Corners in such peril.

"Chris," she said, a whisper of a smile in her blue eyes while she attempted to remain formal with him, even using his first name.

It had been this way ever since the Ella Gaines situation a little over a year ago. Not that they had ever been too close to begin with, but Chris had detected a distance in Mary ever since she had heard what went down at the Petrie ranch near Red Fork.

As for Ella. . . she had never been found. She had "leaked out of the landscape" as Vin had once put it, and though her wanted posters hung in sheriffs' offices from here to Kansas City, no tips on her whereabouts had been reported. It still made life awkward as hell for Chris. The occasional knot still rose in his throat at the thought that he had slept with the killer of his wife and child, and at times he had felt practically crippled, unable to do anything about it for lack of evidence on where to find the bitch and end it.

He would never have expected to go up against something worse than Ella, but here he stood, figuring out how to get it across to Mary that he had indeed found a new nemesis to contend with and that it was far from human.

"Ms. Travis," he began, giving a two-fingered tap to the edge of his hat.

She came around from behind the table, her skirts swishing crisply over the floor. She wore a neat white apron over the front of her dress. "Any word on the cause of these murders?" she enquired, and had been enquiring such for a week now. Likely she would agree that murder was a soft term to choose, but this was Mary using all of the discretion she could.

He paused a moment to read the little anxious creases in her pretty brow. "Yeah, I know something about it, but it isn't suitable to print just yet."

"Chris, if you know something it's important that we get the story in the Clarion. These people have the right to know what is killing them." It was clear that every report on the slaughters had begun to wear at her emotionally. It put a quiver in her normally calm voice, and as with many other folks in the town, she had begun to phrase the term for the killer not as who, but as what.

"I'm not here to give you a story, Ms. Travis," he declared in a warning rasp. "I want you to leave," he said straight out. "Get out of town today and go be with Billy."

"I certainly will not—" she started to protest, incensed by his intentional lack of tact.

"Mary. . ." He almost reached out to grab her shoulders and shake her, but he caught himself, hands just elevated to above waist before he dropped them back to his sides. "It's not safe for you. . . for anyone. . . here."

"I'm not going to let this town just dry up and die, Chris."

"It's already doing that, Mary," he said through his teeth. "The blood is getting sucked out of it—" He caught himself on that, might as well have laid his own tongue out on the floor and tripped right over it. Their voices were rising just to the point they were probably heard over in the bathhouse next door.

She thought he was only speaking figuratively. "Look, I know you're concerned for these people. All of them. Please just tell me something. . . what have you found? I'll report it. Better at least some clue of a warning than nothing."

"These people know they're being killed, they don't need to read about it in the paper!" he suddenly growled through his teeth. That stung her. He knew it. Could see it in her eyes, but better that slap in the face than for her to end up another victim. "The newspaper is useless now, Mary! No one can comprehend this. . . thing!" Before he thought about it, he advanced on her a step then halted, teetered backwards just slightly, his heart beating fiercely in his chest over this matter. Why the hell was he here? he wondered briefly. What did he owe this woman that had him here trying to save her life by sending her away? He was not in love with her—never had been. He felt close to her, but it was as if she was a distant cousin or some other such family member. What drove him now? A possible answer flashed through his mind, that Mary Travis, in all of her refinery and jewels, with her gumption to keep the locals educated on the world at large, embodied civilization. A figure of fragility and strength all in one. It was quite heartbreaking in a way.

Chris almost lost his voice on those thoughts. When he found it again he spoke more harshly. "Mary, please just go. Go now. I can escort you to Greenly and you can catch the coach to Ridge City. When it's all over here you can come back, but just go far away from here where it's safe."

Her eyes betrayed a deluge of thoughts about to burst through a flood dyke. "Chris Larabee," she declared angrily, "you know as well as anyone that any place I go can be just as dangerous as it is here now in Four Corners."

He shook his head, looking away, no longer able to face the liquid ridges forming at the corners of her eyes. She wasn't about to cry. Oh no, not Mary Travis. Not without damned good reason and not in front of Chris Larabee. But she was still provoked by his blatant command that she just up and leave, and there was nothing she hated more than for it to be insinuated that she could not take care of herself.

Great, Larabee, he thought disgustedly to himself, don't forget that she's an independent woman out to prove to the world she's got balls under that dress.

Knowing this battle was lost, he stepped back away from her and gave a resigned nod. By the time she saw the proof that would give her a story for The Clarion, the day would be almost gone and there would be no time for her to leave. With a sigh he conceded. Maybe it would get her to listen to his other plans on the matter, but first she had to see what he had seen.

"All right, then. Come down to the cemetery this afternoon."

"The. . . cemetery?" Her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Trust me," he tossed over his shoulder as he turned to go. "You have to see this for yourself." In a few hurried paces he cleared the path back to the door. The bell jangled again when he pulled on the door handle and a shaft of bluish daylight fell across the floor. He gave her one last glimpse before he left and the shaft of light closed away again.

Roughly two hours later the Seven had gathered in the cemetery and begun an excavation of three other fresh graves. It had taken some solid urging to get them down there, especially J.D. Dunne. Being the sheriff and also disturbed by the idea of desecrating graves, he had tried to put a stop to it. Buck's charms had won him over with the insistence that he was going to see something completely unbelievable. The tall gunslinger practically made it sound like they were digging for buried treasure, only he wasn't smiling about it, a thing which J.D. took note on.

Some fifty townsfolk, including Mary Travis, clutched up around the outside of the fence to watch Chris, Vin, Buck, and Michael Arrant dig. Josiah stood whispering a prayer that his comrades hadn't lost their minds. Ezra had a lacey monogrammed hanky in hand ready to hold over his mouth against the reek of decay. Nathan simply stared as if he had eaten a sour grape. J.D. paced, worried first about what Judge Travis would think about all of this, and second about puking himself in front of everyone the moment one of those graves was opened.

The three regulators, along with their young guide, Arrant, pulled up the ground over each death bed simultaneously, practically racing to see who got his assigned spot of soil shoveled out first. It was a good thing, because the first one proved a dud. Sunlight dashed upon the corpse of the middle aged Albert Jenkins, slashed across throat and gut. These wounds were concealed beneath a dull gray burial suit, but everyone knew the details already. Conklin's face turned bright red as he started getting wound up to deliver a blustering speech about what an outrage this act was, to defile fresh graves. Especially the graves of people recently ripped open by Gawd-knew-whut kind of person or thang, as Conklin put it. Albert Jenkins remained intact. No flames burst out of his body in the light of the sun.

Everyone was ready to simply turn their backs on the Seven and saunter back into town when Arrant threw open the second coffin, that of Jenkins' wife.

The body practically leapt from the pine box with a screech and the gnash of fangs, then ignited in shoots of blue flame that consumed it before it fell to the ground in a smoking heap of mummified flesh. J.D. managed not to puke, but he came damned near close. Twenty more people were ready to leave town that very day.

Chris urged them on, and for those who deemed themselves brave enough to stay, he proposed that they form watch groups for the night. One group would house up at the church at dusk, others in the saloons or in the homes of those willing to share their space. He was just finishing his short speech on the arrangements when his eyes met those of Mary Travis. Her lips, normally full and pink, had paled with the rest of her face and drawn out into a grimace of disgust at what she had just witnessed. In all she appeared sickened, but it wasn't enough to convince her to leave.

Blue gusts of smoke still billowed off the vampire's corpse in the space of air between the Seven and the watchers. As Mary Travis hitched up the side of her skirt in one hand and turned to weave her way out of the surrounding group, Chris met with a cool feeling up his spine. He watched her slender figure waver slightly, perhaps with the threat of fainting, then she erected herself, hitched back her shoulders proudly, and proceeded back into town.

Chris couldn't have known that it was the last time he would see her again alive.

They found in the final grave Jenkins' son Albert Junior, who was also infected and quickly destroyed in the sun's light. Arrant pitched a speech to the remaining bystanders on what it took to kill a vampire, how guns could only hold them off but not totally stop them, that it would take decapitation and staking to put them down for good. Although Albert Senior appeared to be blessedly uninfected, his body was treated in the same manner just as precaution and rearranged in his coffin before being buried again. The other bodies were soon tucked back into their holes, and, his spiritual feathers right good and ruffled, Josiah said a new prayer over each one.

As a means of detecting where a vampire slept, Arrant also recommended the use of a horse. The animal would happily trample across any grave, but when it came to the grave of an infected individual, the horse would falter, refusing to go any further. This method was tested on the rest of the cemetery, but no more graves found to contain incubating undead.

That all done, the Seven and Arrant cleared out and headed back into town. Although they were not the cause of the contagion that was slowly leveling Four Corners, they received a good number of odd looks from those folks who remained in the streets. It was an uncomfortable feeling for all of them, having to adapt from being gunmen to vampire hunters, all in the space of a single day. But they had seen what such creatures could do, and Chris Larabee had the distinct feeling that the ones in the cemetery had been uncommonly easy to dispatch over those who attacked in the middle of the night and left devastation as a calling card.

The rest of the afternoon was spent making preparations. The town's main lumber supply was practically raided and wittled down to hundreds of sharp sticks, and Watson's Hardware cleared out of hammers, mallets, and anything that could pass for a good pounding tool. The townsfolk were running about gathering other supplies for a long night indoors—liquor, food, water, ammunition, and plenty of lamp oil.

"Look at 'em," Vin remarked from where he leaned against the porch support in front of the Seven's favored saloon. "Ya'd think we had an army of twisters comin' through." He flicked shavings of wood off the sharpened end of the stick he had just been working on and added it to the growing stack.

"Not much difference from the sound of it," Chris replied. He had gotten in on it too, coat discarded and sleeves rolled up. He finished off the tip on another stake and tossed it in with the others before picking up another piece of wood.

To Chris' right, Ezra complained constantly that his hands were not meant for this kind of treatment. After carving out his twentieth stake, he called it quits and went to check on Nathan and Josiah's progress making the church into a temporary hotel. The only other not accounted for at the moment was J.D., who was in his office.

Sitting just down the way, Buck cursed with a soft, "Sheee-it," as his hand slipped on the stake he was working on and a splinter pierced the heel of his hand. "Hey, kid," he piped up to Michael Arrant, who was currently looking over a map of Four Corners and the surrounding territory. "How many of these damned things you think we need?"

"As many as possible," the young man replied without looking up from his own project. "We've killed three fledgling goons. Whichever master created them had a link to them and now knows that we're onto them. The others will not waste time revolting."

Buck stared at him deadpan. "Yer kiddin'."

"Nope."

So they kept working. They handed out the stakes to passers by, and Buck took a good portion up to the sheriff's office for J.D. to hand out. Word was sent around to the outlying ranches and other homes that the owners and their families should come into town to spend the night where there was safety in numbers. Of course, not all of them knew about the real threat, and as none would believe it without having seen the spectacle in the cemetery, Chris knew that many stubborn farmers would blindly attempt to defend their homes. He confessed to himself that he was overwhelmed by all of this, but he did his damnedest not to show it.

The late afternoon sun couldn't have set faster. The lemon-yellow disk sank into a distant haze, turning rapidly to a more orange glow first. It made them all a bit more desperate to get as much done as possible, but soon the streets began to clear, and they simply picked up and went inside. Josiah, J.D., and Nathan all began to arrive at the saloon and then a new phase of preparations began with making sure the horses were saddled and readied as patrols of two men each were to make hourly rounds on Main Street only, where the street lamps burned in their sconce stands. With no idea if or how the goons would attack, they were all guaranteed a sleepless night. Perhaps even a few sleepless nights, watching each other's backs. What lay ahead in their days had yet to be determined as well.

When all were arrived, and the sky was still just pale enough that walking in the streets felt safe, they all went in to the saloon and piled up at their usual corner table. Beyond the window, Chris watched the dusty streets fade from warm hues to the cool gray of evening, and not a soul passed by now.

J.D. had commandeered a bottle of booze and sipped from it, his hands shaking as he set it down and attempted not to touch it again. Chris had happened to take a seat directly across from the kid and stared into the amber depths of the bottle with growing intensity. The leader of the regulators found himself briefly wishing all of this was just some whiskey inspired dream.

"They can accept it, they don't want to. . . they won't make up their minds," J.D. griped about the last of his afternoon in the sheriff's office. "I don't think nobody in this town wants to be saved, even though they saw it with their own eyes."

"Seein' isn't always believin'," Buck said, stepping up to the table, firmly gripping the bottle by the neck and removing it swiftly, eyes falling to meet with Chris' even, scalding gaze which didn't touch a single nerve in the taller gunslinger. Boots clunking softly across the floor, Buck returned the bottle to the bar and strode back to the table.

"I will make this brief as possible, gentlemen," Arrant said as he laid the roll of the map down on the table and captured their attention. He used empty shot glasses to pin down the corners, and the seven others all huddled in to peer at the layout of not only Four Corners, running end to end northwest to southeast, but the surrounding territories and lines that marked ridges, valleys, and roadways. "Whatever happens tonight, we also have to make plans now for tomorrow as well. There are several methods of hunting, and with a full group of hunters like you folks, I think we can pull it off." He looked around the table at their faces, each trying to maintain calm even though the space surrounding the table began to crackle with tension.

"What makes you think we'll work with you?" Ezra asked and the others threw unreadable glances at him. Unlike Vin and Buck, he hadn't sworn any allegiances even after seeing the proof of undead existence. Josiah, Nathan, and J.D. had not either; they had simply continued to naturally work with the seven-headed entity of the group.

"You want this whole town infected," Arrant quipped back, "I'll walk right out of here now and you can figure it all out yourselves."

"Don't worry, kid," Buck muttered. "He's with us, just doesn't like to be spoken for."

"Just get on with it," Chris said huskily, easing closer and looking at the map and how Arrant had circled various sections. "We'll do what we have to do."

Arrant continued to hover over the layout, Vin lingering at his shoulder for the best view. "When I first arrived here and the killings were beginning," Arrant said, "I was using a new map of the area, but thanks to Ms. Travis I got hold of this older one. Seems the newer version leaves something out." He ran his fingers up over the clutch of squares marking the town to an area to the north. There he had circled something neither Chris nor any of the others had even heard about, an old mineshaft. "Apparently some small measure of gold was found here but it dried up quickly. That old mineshaft is a perfect nest for vamps."

A few grumbles and grunts of nervous uncertainty went around the table, and Buck's more abstract mode of thinking considered retrieving that bottle from the bar. "So how is it done?" the tall man asked, inching his way in beside Vin for a better view of the map. "If they're in the mineshaft, and it's darker'n hell down there, how do you fight 'em?"

"You go in at mid day," Arrant explained. "Set up mirrors to reflect light into the shaft. You need plenty of men, some to go in, armed with spears, harpoons, and plenty of rope. Others stay outside on horseback."

Chris caught on, putting these elements together. "You spear the vampires and then use the horses to yank'em out into the sunlight on the rope?"

"Precisely," Arrant beamed. He seemed pleased that they still had their wits, considering the amount, and nature of, the material they'd had to swallow today.

"So you said there are ranks among them?" Buck pressed on, and Vin nodded his interest in this as well.

"Yeah, masters and slaves, as I said." Arrant rolled up the map and scooted it to the side as he sat down. "Slaves are the goons we killed in the cemetery. They're pretty mindless, though you encounter one now and then who manages to keep some of his wits even after the change. They can blend in with humans for a short while, but they give in to the bloodlust. Usually though, you find several goons under the control of a master in a nest."

Vin waved one hand gently for a moment to speak, recalling the exchange in the cemetery. "You said somethin' about an exchange of blood to make a master."

"Yeah, one master creates another, he drains a human's blood, then feeds his own blood to the initiate. It's uncommon. They do this only when they want to build their numbers. They're very particular though. New masters are dominated by their sires." He didn't explain this any further, but he went on to explain that it was a rule that hunters did not go after a master at night. "You just can't kill them at night. Not to say it can't be done, but it's just too damned hard. There's a superstition that crosses ward them off. They don't really work, though it's said a man of pure faith can pull it off wielding a cross." He shook his head and shrugged. "I've never seen it work."

"Hell of a test of faith," Josiah commented.

As if their troubled minds didn't already bear enough.

The night began to drag on, measured out for them by the slow, sleepy tick of a grandfather clock recently added to the head of the saloon under the balcony. A few other townsfolk had joined this gathering and spoke softly amongst themselves, some drinking for their nerves but keeping count, remaining as sober as possible.

"Well, it's time Nathan and I got back to the church," Josiah said. They were assigned first patrol, and were to finish it there, keeping the sanctuary open. A few townsfolk were already there, and Josiah didn't want to leave them unattended too much longer. At least there was also a full moon present and along with the torches along the street, the town was decently illuminated. Were gunshots to sound, the remaining five would be out of the saloon or the church and on the alert to aide their comrades. It seemed a workable system.

Over the course of hours, Buck and Chris ran the next patrol. They checked in on the church, the other saloons, and the boarding house. A single faint light issuing from the windows of the Clarion Press caught Chris' attention, and he sighed to himself, knowing it was Mary up late, at work no doubt trying to cover the story on the cemetery. He imagined that she was, like everyone else, finding it all difficult to describe.

Back in the saloon, the clock ticked on, hypnotic in its rhythm, and the eaves above creaked as they settled, putting some of the patrons that much more on edge.

"I sure wonder if Casey is all right," J.D. murmured as midnight drew near and his bored mind had wandered into avenues normally avoided due to sheer lack of nerve.

"She's fine, I'm sure," Vin coaxed from where he leaned against one of the supports for the balcony overhead. "Miz Nettie was wise enough to get her out of here before all of this."

"Yeah, they're lucky." J.D. scratched his head and resisted the urge to lie down right there on the table. Humming nerves or not, he was dog-tired. "I half wish I didn't know about all this, and these. . . these. . . vampires."

Vin only shrugged off a soft chuckle at the young man's frustration. This whole thing was so different than anything the Seven had been up against before. Not just because it was not a man, or a gang or any of the villainy they were used to dealing with. Not even because they had been introduced to something that belonged in myth. . . in a child's nightmare. . . the monster under the bed.

It was that this was so strange, so hard to comprehend, that all of the Seven completely understood each other now. If one of them was a little confused about it, the others knew why. If one panicked, they all related.

Scared. . . they were all that, and Vin deduced that they would be stump stupid not to be. The tracker had heard Indian lore about such creatures, and once while accompanying a small wagon train, he'd listened to a Londoner traveling west read from a pile of old yellowed newspapers called Penny Dreadfuls and the story of Varney the Vampire. Vin had just taken the stories as spine-tingling silly fun, but now they seemed more prophetic than anything.

The tick of the clock began to lull him to sleep in his chair, along with the few others who had elected to stay in the saloon proper rather than go up to their boarding rooms. Except for that clock, the silence of the later hours began to bring chills with it. Patrols went out and returned one after the other, and the town seemed peaceful as ever in the wee morning hours. But that peace was merely an illusion as all soon discovered.

It was right before dawn when history changed for the Seven. Right in that little crack of time when the moon descended and dark was darkest and the sun was just a breath away.

Everything changed.

Forever.

Chapter Three

Santiago, Mexico, Present Day

Buck had split off from Chris and gone deeper into the crowd, J.D. not far behind. Josiah and Nathan had gone further up the street scouting for other goons roaming about.

Vin and Chris were on the girl before she could attack and draw blood. It caused quite a scene in the square, and sent a ripple of screams through the crowd. But as realization set in, the screams died into curious murmurs. The people of Santiago had known for some time what roamed the dark, preying on the outlying towns and ranches. Whispers of "esclavos del diablo" swept around the two hunters.

The devil's slaves.

The Seven had heard this term before, though rarely, and it never made them feel any better. Chris' eyes threw a stung glance at Vin who looked away, indicating that he, too, felt his heart twist.

The girl lay in a pool of blackened blood on the sidewalk, a bullet hole in her chest. Glossy void eyes stared up into the muddy night sky. Her auburn hair swept around her head, saturating with blood, and her mouth was opened, revealing long, sharp canines.

The crowd began to chatter back and forth, vocalizing their worry. . . bullets wouldn't be enough. . . her heart had to be staked. . . and so on. Chris just smiled to himself at this. They had no clue what kind of bullets the Seven used.

Vin knelt beside the body, drawing a machete from the sheath strapped to his thigh where he used to wear a sawed off shotgun, and calmly decapitated the unfortunate girl.

Three short blocks down, Buck had caught the scent of the young man once more and followed him into the sparser flow of foot traffic. Ahead, silhouetted against the orange-ish glow of a flickering streetlight, he saw the blond head, its owner stumbling into an old man who freaked, shouting and pulling back. Buck quickened his pace, even as he saw the kid let the old man go and stumble away, moaning miserably before he disappeared down the nearest alleyway, which Buck knew led back behind the hotel and the mission.

The old man stumbled into Buck with labored breath, spitting out a string of Spanish warnings and pleas.

Buck reached out, grasped at the man's sweat-stained shirt, and pulled him back and away from the alley. "Shhh," he soothed, and in his best Spanish ushered the frightened individual on.

Moving on toward his current purpose, Buck paused at the mouth of the alley then, looking down the corridor of old stone and cracked pavement, past gleaming puddles of run off, shreds of garbage and cardboard boxes. The passage was actually wide enough to qualify as a street, and Buck knew there was a parking lot back there. He had seen Santiago grow, after all, seen it develop from what was once a Mexican bandido town into a quaint little homey tourist trap. He knew the place like the proverbial back of his hand, and he knew the kid had nowhere else to go down that alley. It was a dead end.

J.D. appeared at his side, looking down the passage then up at Buck with eyes that had once been the epitome of innocence for the taller hunter, but that innocence had long been erased and replaced with dark intensity. "You got him?"

"Yeah, he's down there," Buck replied. He hesitated, smelling not just the creature into which the kid was changing but the fear that radiated with that change. "Stay here," he said softly. "I don't expect him to get around me, but if he does, you be ready to plug him."

J.D. nodded and moved over to the side of the alley, just out of sight, listening as Buck moved on ahead.

It didn't take long to find the kid. Buck took careful, slinking steps that made no sound despite the clunky boots he still favored to this day. All tension over the hunt began to seep out of him, though, when he found his quarry huddled up in the parking lot, leaning up against the wheel of a beat up old Jeep, sitting there bathed in full silvery streetlight, shivering.

This youth had had his whole life ahead of him. Perhaps he had been a college student come down here with the girlfriend on break. That was Buck's guess. For a moment, huge blue eyes stared up at him, blinked out large tears, and then the kid shuddered. His hands thrust down to the pavement and he braced himself as his body shook, bowing back against the tire. Perhaps some part of his biological makeup actually tried to fight the infection. But it was a losing battle, and there was no cure for it.

The blue eyes squeezed shut and the kid whimpered, breath hitching. When next he looked up, the blue had been replaced by black orbs shimmering from the continuous rise of tears. That look, so helpless and haunted, so pain stricken, clutched at Buck, who slowly began to reach inside his coat.

"W. . . w. . . what's hap. . . happening to me?" the kid groaned, gritting his teeth. His lips curled back over lengthening canines that literally reached all the way down into his lower gums, the points drawing blood that marbleized into his saliva.

Calmly Buck drew out his modified Beretta equipped with a silencer and thumbed off the safety. "What's your name?" he asked softly, figuring it wouldn't get him anywhere to make the kid's last few seconds on Earth anymore frightening than they had to be.

The youth stumbled over his own breath, and the beginnings of a predatory growl issued low from his throat. His hands curled, fingernails raking over the pavement with a gruffness that made Buck's skin crawl as if listening to nails on a chalkboard.

"Jes. . . Jesse," the kid managed to spit out between groans. He began to convulse then, and Buck recognized that as a sign the hunger pains were gnawing at his insides. Soon he wouldn't even know himself, only the hunger, and all human rationality would be gone.

"I'm sorry, Jesse," Buck said, then without any further hesitation, he aimed the Beretta and fired three graphite tipped bullets, two into the heart, one into the head.

Jesse's body jerked with each slug entry and he coughed out a cry at the first shot to his heart, but the second two finished the job so swiftly, so thoroughly, that no more noise came from him. His tortured spirit escaped with his last breath.

Buck swept back the side of his coat and eased the gun back into its hidden holster at the back of his beltline. "J.D.," he called in a partial whisper but he knew the other hunter had heard him. He knelt next to Jesse and reached up to close those blackened, dead eyes, his fingertips just barely glancing off the cool skin.

After a moment, J.D.'s leather clad figure appeared walking down the passage and into the little parking lot, his own Beretta drawn and on the ready, but when he saw that the situation was settled, he holstered it quickly inside his jacket. He stood over Buck in silent observation for a long time before the other rose to his feet and turned away.

"Do you mind finishing this for me?" Buck asked, brows furrowed sadly as he drew the machete sheathed on his hip.

"Uh, sure," J.D. said and exchanged his motorcycle helmet for the blade. He blinked, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a weak, sympathetic smile.

Buck didn't look back as he made his way down toward the mouth of the alley, J.D.'s helmet tucked under his arm like some object of comfort.

Victims. . . he kept thinking. They're all victims. . .

. . . we're ALL. . . victims. . .

-7-7-7-

The uproar in the square had forced Chris and Vin to get out of there quickly, and soon they met up with the others in the side street where they had left their vehicles:

Two Harley-Davidsons, two Big Dogs, a Kawasaki Ninja, and a black Suburban SUV. The only thing missing was Ezra's latest obsession—and he went through one every other month—which was on custom order from a Jaguar dealer in El Paso. This defined their next series of destinations en route to Four Corners.

They were all temporarily rendered silent by a plethora of foul moods, their own growing hunger—which would require cautious sating within the next few nights—and agitation that there were only two more hours until dawn, and they needed to get well away from town to find trustworthy shelter.

The two Harleys belonged to Chris and Vin, while Buck and Josiah laid claim to the Big Dogs, and J.D. had, for reasons Buck could never understand, found an interest not in the classics, but in an import. Buck liberally used every demeaning term he could for the Ninja—rice burner, crotch rocket—and occasionally he also liked to tease Chris that he better keep a tool box handy.

At least they all agreed on one thing. The sound of the engines growling, the hush of tires on pavement, and the open night air on their faces, compensated for the warmth of a horse or the soothing clomp of hooves over bare ground. It helped to diffuse the tensions that arose in them all on nights such as this had been.

Nathan, practical minded and also in charge of a great deal of technical equipment as well as the weapons stash he and Vin had been developing for more efficient hunting, chose the Suburban with its deeply tinted windows and vast rear compartment which could also serve as emergency shelter should the need arise. Ezra, short of a means of transport at this time, rode with the former healer.

They did not always stay together on the road. Sometimes Buck and Chris took a route of their own to whatever destination the group was headed. Or J.D. might zip on ahead of everyone and get there first to be standing with a smug grin on his face aimed right at Buck. Vin would purposely lag behind, enjoying being on his own for a briefness, forgetting the world around him—and the past—and only believing in the road, wherever it led. Josiah often stayed near the Suburban. Only J.D. bothered to wear a helmet, and as far as helmet laws went, if the others were pegged by a patrolman, they simply killed their headlights and rode off into the night, playing phantom.

Tonight they rode no further than a mile apart from each other, the Suburban bringing up the rear. Time and experience had taught them that dawn would not immediately affect them. They still had that gray moment to look forward to, when the sun was just about to crest and the sky to the east shifted into soft shades of orange and purple. Such was the case when they reached the tiny Middle-of-Nowhere Motel—the Seven's name for it—just across the Texas border and just southeast of El Paso. It was a common stop for them in any of their travels along this route, and they always took the same series of rooms that were interconnected and situated on the far end of the strip of building with its flaking stucco, away from most of the other lodgers.

They enjoyed only a short glimpse of the rosen sky as they unloaded some of the gear into the rooms, leaving the SUV strategically parked with its rear doors facing the designated escape door of the hotel. A quick security check was made and Nathan began to set up door alarms.

It was all so routine now.

Ezra considered himself the lucky one, able to stand distanced from the buzz of activity around him that marked settling down for a long day's nap. He had other duties within the group, and fortunately none of them involved developing new means to turn a wooden stake into a bullet, or to more efficiently decapitate goons, nor was he ever on security detail.

For the moment he simply stood against the frame in the open door, the lightening sky and gray desert floor a backdrop to the silent parking lot now filled up with motorcycles and the hulk of the Suburban. He watched, his mind fluctuating on various moments lost in time, comparing what each of the Seven had been to what they were now. In some ways not much had changed, but on the other hand. . .

He found himself focused on Buck's now clean-shaven face and features that seemed softer now than then, in that long-ago-whenever, and yet that softness was completely overruled in times when Buck's eyes acquired a strange and hardened stare, and there was plenty of reason for it. The man did the most work of them all and carried the heaviest of weights on his shoulders, a thing that was just not discussed.

Ezra continued to watch as, in a moment, Buck gestured subtly for Chris to follow him into the other room.

Larabee gave him a quick gesture to wait, then turned, scanned the outer room with its worn shit-brown carpet, rust-and-white-swirl bed spread, and brass lamp fixtures that had probably not been replaced since the 60s. They all knew the motel lacked taste, and the smell of stale cigarette smoke burrowed in over the years gave it a slightly less than sanitary atmosphere, but those things didn't matter. The place had been turned into a fortress with portable alarms wired to the doors, the curtains draped over with the added strength of black tarps that completely cocooned the rooms away from the sun, and DO NOT DISTURB signs firmly in place.

"All right," Chris said as he concluded the night's dealings and prepared to turn in. He looked about at the others, determining that they were set as well.

Josiah had already laid claim to the bathroom and was splashing cold water on his face, running it through his mane of steel-gray hair. Nathan was waiting for Ezra to get out of the doorway so he could finish wiring the last barrier, and J.D. had flopped on the bed, leather and all, his helmet chucked into the cushions of an adjacent chair.

"Good day, Chris," Nathan called over to their leader while he attached a small box unit to the wall at the level of the doorknob. "I'll be finished up here in just a moment."

Chris nodded. "We're up at eighteen-hundred hours tomorrow. Get into El Paso, take care of business then get back here. Everybody sleep well."

"I'll finally have my own car," Ezra mused happily to himself. Then he perked up at Nathan, "You will drive me into town, won't you?"

Nathan rolled his eyes and finished the set up. "Move, Ezra, you make a better door than a window."

"I rather like watchin' the sunrise, thank you very much."

But his eyes were following Chris and Buck as they disappeared together into the dark and the door closed.

"Careful you don't go blind," Josiah called from the bathroom as if he knew, and was following, exactly what was going on.

The gambler ignored the remark. Then his attention slipped toward some movement on the other side of the room.

Just at that moment, Vin came out of the opposite door. He had stashed away his coat and boots in the other adjoined room. Barefooted, in little more than jeans and his black tank shirt, he gave the others a wave and started out the door.

"Have a good'un," came out more like a soft curse than well wishing.

Ezra's thoughts leapt from picking up his new Jaguar and cruising, to the sight of Vin's shoulder-length hair, windblown from the ride and cascading around his face. The tracker paused in the doorway, right where Ezra could admire his precisely chiseled profile. Vin's chin was down but his eyes focused up and out, beyond the parking lot at a sparse spread of wild shrubs and small trees. Just enough cover out there, the sunlight low enough that to walk out there now wouldn't harm him.

"Sure you won't stay in just once, Vin?" Ezra asked softly.

Vin started to turn and look at him, just the tiniest tilt of his head bringing into greater perspective the sharp slant of the jawline, a sideways glance from an eye, then he gazed back out into the dust-swept landscape and shook his head. "Have a good sleep, Ezra." The deeper drawl that had laced his voice a century ago leaked out void of emotion, tired.

It touched a nerve in Ezra who suddenly found himself swallowing a chunk of his own heart. This was also routine. Every year at this time, just days away from the anniversary of the Seven's rebirth and their scheduled return to Four Corners, tension and moodiness reigned supreme.

The gambler nodded vacantly, smelling the pain radiating out of Vin Tanner. Old pain strung like thick cobwebs across what remained of the man's soul.

Vin took a breath and then strolled out into the daylight, taking his own sweet time, even while a ray of sun fell across the far hills and crept toward his path, inch by agonizing inch. Flecks of mica ground into the soil caught the light and reflected it, or beads of dew clinging to the taller grasses along the roadside sparkled like diamonds. He all but dared the light to take him, his pace signifying that he was in no way afraid of dying.

He had already done that.

Unable to bear the sight of the departing figure, Ezra closed the hotel door and turned to lean against it, staring at the floor. Sleep time always filled him with an unexplainable emptiness, and watching his progenitor walk into the dawn as if challenging it to a duel did nothing to lift his spirits.

"You know, you could go sleep out there with him, Ezra," Josiah said. His deep purr of a voice intoned gentle understanding. He stood wiping his freshly washed face with a towel and scratching at some of the scruff that had begun to sprout on his chin.

Ezra smiled back at the giant of a man, the dim light from the room reflecting back a subtle red from within his eyes. "Nah, you know the man likes to be alone." He scooted aside, giving Nathan full access to finish up security on the door.

Then with a yawn, the conman began to remove his silk jacket and prepared to turn in for the day.

Chapter Four

Outside Four Corners, 1877

The sun teased the sky but had not yet risen to full rosy blossom across the thin patches of clouds on the eastern horizon. It was enough light to define the dusty ground flashing by beneath Peso's pounding hooves, to lay little pools of shadows into the indentations of prints Vin followed, trailing the fiend who had escaped.

It had been almost completely dark when he rode from town, leaving Ezra and the others behind. He'd had only the shadow of the fleeing creature to follow, losing it at one time against the darkness of rising stone ahead, and then the first light filtered up through the black sky, shifting it down to a softer blue, then a smear of purple bled in. Vin saw the tracks then. Saw them clear. Not full tracks but the balls of naked feet, the toes spread, grabbing the ground for traction. The prints were widely spaced, indicating the creature was sprinting at amazing speeds for a thing that had once been human.

Vin was practically standing in the saddle, his capote tail trailing in the wake of the chase, his hat brim threatening to fly up and pull the cover from his head. His heels dug into the sides of the panting horse, forcing the animal on at full speed. Not much longer, he kept thinking, before first light would fry the creature's body. And then yards ahead to the right he made out the shadowed fortress of rock rising from the flat land, its edges just kissed with orange light. From that ridge, the sun rose, achingly slow, reaching thin fingers of light across the sky. Vin's keen blue eyes narrowed as he looked down to find the tracks suddenly disappeared. His mind did a flip on this, instinct telling him to rein in Peso, but the stubborn horse had already made his own decision.

Peso bellowed out a high-pitched objection to going any further, dug in his front hooves, and came to a skidding halt that sent Vin flinging forward. Vin shouted as he saw ground moving up toward him, before his body completed the turn that would land him flat on his back several yards ahead of Peso, who then reared, whinnying to the sky and stamping backwards. The reins hung unevenly off the side of the horse's damp corded neck, slinging around like a banner as the frightened beast turned tail and ran.

Vin hit the ground with a dull thump that knocked the breath from his body, and he felt strangely as if the entire inside of his chest had flattened from the impact. All sound in his ears reduced to a distant echo and all he could manage was a grunt when from that distance came a triumphant screech as hunter became hunted. The goon he had been chasing erupted out of the ground that had lain in Peso's path, spraying dirt and tiny shreds of root. It came at Vin in a flying leap, spidery claws reaching out, fangs gnashing and trailing a stream of spittle along its chalky pale cheek.

Eyes wide, mouth bobbing open as he fought for breath—and his wits—Vin attempted to scramble backwards across the ground, but the goon was closing in. Some part of Vin realized the thing had hidden in the ground, and like the infected graves in the cemetery, his horse had refused to trod across that patch. He could only reach up flailing hands to stop those vicious teeth as they came down close to his throat, the vampire pinning his upper arms and straddling his body. His heart pounded, his mind pleaded for the sun to finish its climb above the rocky ridge.

If only. . .

But from behind the towers of rock, more of the creatures emerged and scurried like rats down the incline.

With a burning burst of air, Vin breathed, the hot gust crystallizing in the cool veil of early desert morning. His body bowed up, and he attempted to throw off the creature pinning him. Its rank breath hushed across his face, and yet he staggered over the fact that it did not rip into his throat. None of them did as they converged upon him, cold, clawed hands grabbing his wrists and dragging him up to a half stance. He kicked and let out a hoarse yell as others snagged his feet and he was swept up and tossed on waves of vertigo. There were too many to count, carrying him kicking and struggling toward the rocks, deeper into the shadows. His hat fell from his head and dangled by its cord around his neck and he locked his jaw, gritting his teeth as he fought, desperation telling him he must get back down to the open ground, where the rays of the sun would save him.

He had broken a hard sweat that matted map lines of soft brown hair to his face, and the veins in his neck protruded from the strain as he continued to pull in with his limbs. At one point he managed to rip one arm free, but it only caused his captors to almost drop him on his head. Quickly those supporting his upper half snagged his coat sleeve and steadied him, and another wove its chilled fingers into his hair and clenched in, pulling his scalp until he gasped. They growled at him, hissed and seethed, particularly when he felt one boot heel make firm contact with someone's unguarded belly.

Why weren't they brutalizing him? He wondered. Why, with so many of them, had they not already torn him apart? And where were they taking him?

This last frenzied question became clear as the darkness of the rock consumed the clutch of undead and their struggling burden, and ahead Vin saw the flickering lights of hundreds of candles. They danced before his vision, in and out of view through the forest of rag-clad bodies around him. He craned his head back to look in the other direction and saw the mouth of the cave disappearing, and beyond it the morning light, gray and gorgeous and soon to be lost to him completely.

At that moment he managed to vocalize the only word one in his situation could. It ripped hoarsely from his throat and built up louder, echoing around him and over the mewling and hissing of the vampire brood.

“Nnnnnnnoooooooooo!”

Then with a grunt the cry was cut off when they dropped him. Briefly stunned, he looked up into their pale faces, heard them growl soft warnings as they looked down at him, sharp fangs bared and glistening in the flickering light of all those candles. Their claws readied to slash him if he moved any more.

He moved regardless, scooting backwards and fumbling at his belt for his sawed off Winchester in its customized holster, finding that in all the confusion of the chase and his capture it had been lost. They leered, appearing amused by his helplessness. . . the strong, sure bounty hunter. . . reduced to fumbling about in the dark . Never had his heart pounded so heavily in his chest, not even when Eli Joe almost had him strung up by the neck that time that now seemed not only so long ago, but a completely different world away.

How could these things exist? His rational mind tried to cast them out. . . tried to wake up. He swallowed down a hard lump and blinked away the dizzy side effect of his racing pulse.

Then in a frenzy of growls and hisses they moved in again. He expected to feel their claws ripping into him, first through his clothing, then down to his flesh, opening gaping wounds that spilled blood and ribbons of sinew. But he heard only his capote ripping, the leather splitting with a loud wrack of a noise as it was torn from him and tossed to the rock floor. The hat was snatched from where it hung at his shoulders and cast aside. Next came his shirt, pulled away from behind with a force that sent him bungling into the arms of the creatures lingering before him. He began to grunt and shout and pull against them again, attempting in vain to keep as much clothing on as possible; it proved just that little bit more protection between him and their cold touches, the pricks of their talon tips. Many of their claws did scratch him, and he snarled back, thrashed and kicked, all to no avail. The last piece of shirt came off and was stamped beneath the rabble, bearing Vin's chest and abdomen to the cool air.

He pulled in, attempted to curl his body and guard his increasingly vulnerable state, his mind heated with anger that he had fallen into their trap. They had led him here, tricked him into separating himself from the other six regulators without whom he was at this moment completely helpless. Forced to his knees, he felting the rock grinding beneath him. The ridges and uneven levels in the floor tore through his trousers. His arms were flailed out and held in place, literally as if he were being crucified.

They were coordinated as if under some silent command, and soon Vin realized this was exactly the case. Those before him stepped aside, allowing the light of the multitudes of dripping candles along the ridges of cavern wall to cast more golden light upon the scene. The place proved vast, every hiss and scratch from the horrid inhabitants carrying over boulders and stalactites and into the deeper crevices. No telling how many goons were down here, Vin realized, and with that he knew his fate was carved in this very stone, in this natural tomb.

Until this point he had only heard Michael Arrant talk of masters and slaves, and only actually seen the slave-class goons. Now he stared past the gathering of salivating goons at a figure lingering near the cavern wall, teasing the flame of one candle with a long, elegant finger. A six-foot-something figure that turned with fluid ease to stare back at Vin with milk-blue eyes, the pupils two tiny black pits that bore intently into the captive.

The chiseled face was framed in disheveled waves of long black hair, and the lips parted just slightly, opened by the crowding of long canines, and yet the effect molded those lips into a full, attractive purse, as if their owner were ready to bestow a kiss. Unlike the goons crowding around Vin, this one stood out as an individual, clothed in a long flowing robe of matte black silk that draped and curved over muscle and the V-form of broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist tied round with a sash. The head tilted, observing the captive with a pleased expression, and in the eerie dancing light of a hundred tiny flames, dark veins appeared to slink down from his hairline, contour around his high cheekbones, and seep in around those lush, ashen lips.

“I do not know your name,” the master said, his voice a casual and deep lilt as he approached, the flittering material of the robe trailing behind him.

Frozen to the core in the presence of this being, Vin found he could only gape, his own pale blue eyes hazing with involuntary tears.

“It was a wise strategy, wasn't it?” the vampire rasped, pacing to one side before Vin, looking down over his shoulder at the captive and giving a warm smirk. “The attack came right before dawn. You and your comrades had all but given up waiting, you were relaxing, letting your guard down.” He purred this out and waited for Vin to admit that, yes, it was indeed a remarkable strategy.

“W-what?” Vin stammered.

“You thought you were safe coming out here. You thought that the dawn would save you.”

Slowly, more in shock than anything else, Vin began to shake his head. After witnessing the dispatch of the Jenkins girl in the cemetery, he had not given any consideration as to whether vampires were capable of strategizing, setting traps. And despite Arrant's explanation of the ranks, masters and slaves, or goons, Vin had only witnessed goons, who seemed mindless, driven only by their blood thirst.

“Of course, we had to kill the hunter,” the master continued. “Another day and he would have taught you more about us. We had to move quickly.” He turned to face Vin full on. “You and your friends are efficient, we couldn't risk you learning more.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Vin asked miserably, his thoughts on nothing but his friends now. Especially those whom he had left back there in the saloon. He wondered if Chris and Buck had managed to dispatch the attacking goons, and then there was Ezra, wherever he had gotten off to. There had been no time to think in the chaos, only to act, and he had chosen to chase down the goon who had bolted out before him and run from the town into the remnants of night.

These thoughts and concerns fleeted, for he found the master vampire stepping in closer, leaning down and examining the stretch of the captive's arms out to either side, seized in the shackles of goon hands. One finger came up, the tip ending in a sharply pointed claw, and the master traced the blue river of a vein along the inside of Vin's upper right arm out to his wrist. The little dagger stung, slit a tiny cut along Vin's bicep, and then suddenly the same finger came up, a tiny tinge of blood on the tip, and pressed under Vin's chin, forcing him to look up.

“What is your name?” the master whispered.

Something about the eyes, perhaps that the pupils were so small, pinpricks in a colorless void, compelled Vin toward speaking. In his fatigue and fright, he found it easy to answer, especially short as that answer was.

NO! he inwardly snapped at himself. Don't tell him a goddamned thing!

“Vin—“ he croaked out.

“Ah, for Vincent, I presume.” The master continued to press the point of his claw up under the captive's chin, threatening to break the flesh there too. “I,” he said then, “am Selvik.”

The low purring growl of one of the goons drew Vin's attention upward, glimpsing all the teeth baring at him, eager.

“It's important, don't you think,” Selvik persisted, recapturing Vin's attention, “that we be on a first name basis.” He looked up, eyes softening as he appeared to admire the clutch of beastly slaves huffing impatiently for blood.

Vin stared, wondering exactly why Selvik should be concerned with his name. His sandy brown brows knitted, his lips parted as he tried to keep his panicked breath under control, and then that same breath jarred from his body when Selvik moved.

The vampire reached in, seized the captive around the waist and literally tore him out of the grasp of the goons, pulled him to his feet. One hand came up from behind, grabbed Vin's hair, and forced his head back, exposing the full length of the neck.

With a roar like an attacking cougar, Selvik opened his mouth wide and plunged his fangs into the lower side of Vin's throat.

Vin screamed at the burning pain that resulted as his attacker snagged skin and pulled out, opening a gash that immediately began to spit hot red liquid. He flailed about, got his arms up and his hands pushing at Selvik's immobile shoulders that remained locked around him. The barrier of flesh removed, the blood flowed freely, escaping in a sticky trail down the course of Vin's collarbone to the cleft between his pectorals. Some of it shot out into the floor, sending the goons into a fit of snarling and hissing, diving toward the stream, clawing at each other to get at it. Selvik spat aside the chunk of skin and closed his mouth over the wound, securing the flow into his mouth as he suckled and drank hastily, moaning his pleasure.

Vin's struggles were short lived, his extremities weakening quickly, fingers and toes growing cold as circulation petered down to nothing. Soon he sagged, his head a heavy chunk of lead hanging onto a neck that felt no stronger than a fractured twig. His hands fell away from Selvik's shoulders and he draped in the master vampire's arms, the world around him spinning, all sense of caring dying as his soul began to demand only one thing—release. A veil of frosted glass fell across his eyes, and his lids drooped, the darkness so close, teasing him, and just when he thought it would come, the fiend killing him drew away.

Selvik clamped a hand over the wound, stopping any further blood flow as he lowered Vin to the ground, a broken doll smeared with deep ruby stains. He gave a silent gesture and a snarl to one of the goons, who had crouched down, watching the spectacle and awaiting the chance for a share in the feast. With care Selvik transferred the blockage of the wound over to the goon, who while holding a cool tight hand over the gash, couldn't resist leaning down, sniffing the tangy aroma of coppery blood.

“Do not let the blood flow anymore,” Selvik warned the creature. “Hold him.”

Vin's head came to rest in the goon's lap, and he stared up into the dark recesses of the cavern ceiling, the muddled glob of his mind attempting to drift away up there, while his body lay spread eagled on the hard, frigid ground. He was aware of his own heartbeat, slow and heavy as the organ pulled hard to pump what little blood was left in his system. Some fluid still leaked through the cracks in the goon's fingers, and others scrounged about on the floor near Vin's head, sniffing and rasping pitifully for a taste.

Hands now free to roam, Selvik stroked his way down toward the buttons in Vin's trousers and began to pick them open. All the time his eyes peered over the rise of Vin's chest, watching the shallow breath draw in and escape, each successive breath weaker than the one it followed. Then he dipped a long, blood slicked tongue into Vin's navel.

The sensation, strangely, reached up through Vin with not cold but warm fingers, partially pulling him out of his stupor so that his eyes widened and he managed to grunt out an objection. He barely felt his trousers sliding free of his legs which in their weakness cooperated with Selvik's wishes. The vampire master molded his chosen victim carefully, spreading Vin's legs and caressing up between his thighs. He nipped and kissed at the nest of curls around Vin's limp member, provoking minor sensations of arousal but there was little to no physical reaction for the lack of blood to fuel any such fire.

Selvik delved lower, spreading Vin's legs even wider, bending them at the knees and reaching under to part his buttocks and lift at the firm flesh, exposing the tight ring of muscle within the cooling crevice. Vin grunted, eyes narrowing as he opened his mouth wider, hefted out a long breath meant to carry with it a fresh scream, but all that issued was a weak drawn out murmur. He forced out a groan when Selvik's tongue lapped around the edges of the puckered entrance, teasing it, relaxing the muscles.

Selvik smiled greedily to himself, tasting the salty remnants of sweat and the sweetness of the soft petal-like skin of the scrotum. He massaged at Vin's balls with a thumb while continuing to slather wetness into the passage, smearing the bloodstains around his mouth between Vin's ass cheeks.

Utmost, it was humiliation that gnawed at Vin, along with the clammy, heart-sinking weight of regret. Tears swelled up in his eyes and spilled over, matting his lashes together in little gleaming juts. Hallucinogenic dark circles rippled out across his vision, mercifully obscuring the sight of so many mouths, all baring their long pointed teeth near his face, but he still smelled the reek of decay that came on each goon's breath.

Satisfied with his preparations, Selvik pulled back and untied his robe, parted the silken collar and smoothed his languid hands down his own torso, revealing hardened stomach muscles, and a rosen cock gorged to full mast. He leaned over Vin and stared down into the chosen's deadening eyes. Then without warning he plunged his cock forward, sure to its mark.

Vin's body involuntarily bowed up at the entry and the pain, the expansion and tearing of muscles that, despite the lubrication of Selvik's tongue, were not prepared for such forcing. He groaned and spit out a gasp, hotter tears flooding his eyes, and he tried to look away. But Selvik grabbed the sides of his face and forced eye contact, a vicious grin spreading across his lips, his eyes piercing through the hallucinatory shapes dancing before Vin's vision and stabbing into his mind.

“Look at me!” Selvik commanded gruffly.

Vin's lids fluttered, moist and rimmed with red from the salt of his tears. His lips worked open, the dull slab of his tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth, forming his response in a whisper. “N-n-n-n. . .” But the rest did not make it out. His eyes closed as his only means of defense, and with that he felt Selvik's anger.

The vampire let go of Vin's face and leaned back, thrusting his hips forward with brutal force, grabbing Vin's legs and holding them in place wrapped around his waist.

The pain deepened with each thrust, Vin's body jerking into the arms of the goons, then pulled back toward Selvik, who gritted his teeth, blood and saliva glossing his lips and gums as he hurried his pace, fucking his chosen faster, gripping claws tearing treads in Vin's hips. Forward and back, Vin drifting ever more away from it. He was vaguely aware of the icy shots firing up into his ass when Selvik came. The waft of decay washed over him and he murmured as the master's last two thrusts gained in ferocity then stopped suddenly.

Vin thought it was over with that. Broken, torn, and eagerly waiting to see the Reaper himself appear, he slipped just that much more into the darkness. No, tried to clamor his way into it, but then before he could seal his own eyes forever, something pressed into his mouth.

His cock still firmly sheathed in Vin, Selvik had leaned over the sprawled and taut body and bitten a chunk out of his own wrist. Thick blackish-red blood flowed out of the wound, dripped across Vin's flat belly as Selvik brought the flow up to the chosen's lips and wedged his wrist in.

Vin jolted at the sweet and sour taste, his instincts congealing just enough for him to attempt to refuse it, but it flooded his mouth, tickled his throat and forced out a pitiful cough. Selvik reached up with his other hand and began to massage Vin's throat just under the chin, working the muscles, manipulating them into swallowing. With a loud gulp, the first current went down, and Vin's body shook as if struck by lightening. His hand closed of its on volition on a clump of rock, but slack fingers failed to capture it. His mouth filled rapidly again and down that went, swirling into his belly, which convulsed, almost sending the foul juice back up. It stayed down.

It was then that Selvik removed his wrist, and also allowed the goon holding the side of Vin's neck to let go, let the rest of the blood flow. It leaked out onto the rock, pooled around Vin's head and saturated his hair.

The last thing he heard as his death finally came was the ravenous licking and slurping of the greedy goons lapping up the rest of his blood.

Chapter Five

Outside El Paso, Present Day

The sun had just dipped below the craggy ridge of the western hills, smearing the sky with pinkish orange. A few rays broke past the rolling approach of premature storm clouds and fingered the sky like a lover's caress.

Some fifty yards out from the Middle-Of-Nowhere-Motel, beneath the skeleton of a lifeless tree, lay a patch of soil that had been disturbed the morning before. A hand slowly wormed its way out, fingers emerging first and curling away the top layer of sand and brambles. A moment later a second hand emerged, reaching as if to touch Heaven from behind the confines of prison bars. Then all at once Vin Tanner sat up out of the ground, clumps of dirt spilling from his hair and face. Patches of crusty sand clung to his shoulders, rendering the image of an earth spirit escaping, transmogrified into something that looked human but wasn't.

He shook his head, spilling more dirt around his little "bed" and dusted lightly at that clinging to his shoulders and chest. Then he got his feet under him and stood up, still buried to the knees, before he stepped out of the pit and stared head on into the remaining light.

He'd chosen a place near a rocky jut that provided a perfect perch when he climbed up and sat crouched and gazed at the sunset, felt it mask his face in heat. The more intense ring of blue that encircled his irises had sharpened, standing out against the bloodshot backdrops of his eyes. His vision took in the tiniest of movements from a desert mouse beating a path into the miniature cavern of a prickly pear patch, and his hearing, equally keen, noted the minute scuff of tiny haired feet on the rock at his side.

Vin looked down unfazed at the tarantula creeping its way toward his bare foot. It tickled across his arch and then moved on, scuttling down into a wide crack in the jut. A soft breeze stirred his hair, swept the lingering sand from his cheeks. Vin closed his eyes to it, envisioning the earth riding by beneath him and the steady, rhythmic tromp of Peso's hooves. Damn but he missed that stupid horse. In the end the nag wouldn't have anything to do with him, just the way the horses in the old Four Corners graveyard had refused to gallop across an infected grave.

He opened his eyes. Forget that, he told himself. Peso's long dead. . . and so are you.

As the last rays descended from the sky, so did Vin from his perch. He headed for the motel and discreetly crossed the road, enjoying the peacefulness of the approaching night. Outside the series of secured rooms, he took note of Chris' Harley still parked, light from a nearby post reflecting off the chrome fixings. All the other vehicles were gone, which meant the others had already gone out to hunt. It could take any number of hours for each of them to finish and return, depending on the individual's methods, and almost anything went. The only rule was that they never hunted the innocent, and they cleaned up their messes thoroughly afterwards. Fortunately the need only came roughly once a week, twice for Buck who had specific requirements to follow.

Vin padded up to the door and listened, hearing the hollow voices of the local news issue from the television.

The traffic of seven men flowing in and out was so common now, that Chris Larabee didn't bother to look up from the television set. They all recognized each other by other factors. . . smell, sound. Right now Vin, of course, smelled particularly earthy.

"Evenin', Vin," Chris said. He was sitting with his bare feet propped up on the room's one small table. The sight conjured visions of a saloon surrounding him. . . hard wood floors. . . a bar with an elaborately decorated mirror behind it. . . shot glasses glowing with amber light on the table. . . gruff voices discussing ranch life. . . the tinish melody of an old battered player piano recycling Camptown Races. . . The vision died on the fact that Chris was not dressed for the occasion. He was shirtless, in jeans, one long sinewy arm relaxed on the tabletop.

Vin all but reached up to tip his invisible hat. Old habits died hard. "Chris," he replied solemnly and made his way to the bathroom. "You didn't go with Buck?" The idea gave his heart a little turn as he took only glances at the other man. Being alone with Chris. . . even for only a matter of seconds. . . meant so much to him that words could not define it.

"Nah, he's better off without me in tow." Such alien words from a man who was in most cases completely self-confident and controlled. But his reasoning ran deep, and Vin didn't dare broach the issue.

The tracker stuck to other topics. "Nathan pick up any more reports from Clarion?"

"Nope," Chris replied. "No more recent mass attacks. Just seems they're moving north. . ." From the tone of his voice, he was about to elaborate, when he stopped short, raising one hand to his temple. He cringed and closed his eyes, bowed his head.

"Shit," Vin whispered. He started for the table, concern furrowing his brow. There really was nothing he could do to help, an issue that instantly churned up every possible frustration. His gaze played along the soft rims of Chris' pale lips as they curled back, baring gritted teeth, and for a moment the canines extended, just slightly, tiny sharp points emerging. Then they retracted and the beast went back into hiding.

Chris raised his head, eyes still closed as he took long deep breaths.

Vin's tongue probed over the tips of his own canines, finding sharp tips that tore the tender tissue with a minute sting and for a moment he tasted his own blood. "You okay?" he asked.

Chris nodded.

"Was it. . . her?" Vin asked this cautiously.

Chris nodded again, still dealing with the remote intrusion on his senses. "I've got it," he insisted then. "I'm okay."

"Chris. . ."

"Goddammit, Vin, I'm all right." He opened blazing angry eyes, pupils fine pinpoints wreathed in pale green.

Vin raised his hands as if to call a truce and backed away. Best to let it go at that. With a vacant nod, he turned and walked as unperturbed as possible into the bathroom. The door closed firmly behind him, he practically ripped one of the fresh towels from the rack and deposited it on the back of the toilet next to the tub before he stripped down and wadded his clothes into a dusty bundle.

In the shower, he allowed his emotions to swirl down the drain along with the dirt from his body, his desires, his personal needs. He fingered absently at his flaccid cock, washing underneath, and felt nothing from it.

The water massaged the back of his neck, drowning out the ravenous pulse within his veins, and sending a veil of drenched hair down over his face. After soaping and rinsing, he banked his hands on the wall and hung his head under the current, luxuriating in the white noise of the water pounding his skull, and lost track of time until he realized the steam had dissipated. He shut off the water and dried, then with the towel around his waist and his mound of dirty clothes under one arm, he left the bathroom.

The room outside was silent, the television turned off, Chris nowhere in sight, but Vin sensed the other man in the next room that he had shared with Buck for the day. Beyond the walls, the growling putter of the latter's Big Dog approached, grew louder, until it was right outside the door, thunderous as the engine revved once and then killed.

Vin hurried into the room where he had left his trappings, donned a clean pair of jeans and shirt, and pulled on his cycling chaps. From the outer room he heard the clack of the doorknob as Buck entered, then the soft hush of boots over carpet.

Looking at the glow of the bedside clock, Vin cursed to see that it was already nine o'clock. Time to beat it the hell out of here, he figured. He still had to feed, but finding the right mark could mean hunting all night. Jacket slung over one shoulder, hair still damp, he left the room and started straight for the way out when he stopped dead in his tracks.

Buck had already crossed this room and disappeared straight into the next. . . man with a mission.

Vin heard further movement beyond the far door, which had been left cracked. He swallowed as his heart attempted to rise up into his throat at the thought of the two men in there together. He could smell them now, the clean earthy aroma of Chris, and then Buck. . . warm, coppery-tangy. . . the scent of satiety. It lured Vin closer, toward that little crack in the door. . . closer until he could make out the movement beyond. And then he was close enough that peeping Tom became an understatement.

The crack line framed in one figure—Buck, who had just removed his shirt and stood a tall, almost willowy, figure against the long chest of drawers that also served as a TV table. The man had fed thoroughly, and his skin cast a soft glow in the light, his cheeks flushed, healthy, living. Buck's attention was directed into the room, beyond Vin's scope.

Vin stopped breathing and didn't even notice. To breathe now was really just an automatic function, easy to shut off and turn back on. The one eye that peered through the crack narrowed wolfishly, harkening back to the time when he used it to site through the scope of an assassin's rifle.

Then his heart leapt as Chris stepped into view completely naked, silhouetted against the room's single light that contoured around the sharp chisels of his shoulder blades and down his panther-slim back to the cleft in his ass.

The two eyed each other, Chris inching up closer until his half erect prick nuzzled the crotch of Buck's jeans. He ran fingers through the thick wavy mass of Buck's dark hair, a gesture to which Buck replied by tilting his head back along with the flow of the other's spread hands, relaxing into the sensation. He looked up again to watch Chris examine his throat with a soft and hungry sigh gusting from the slightest part in his lips. Buck inhaled, close enough to taste his partner's wanton breath. He waited. Chris sniffed at his throat, nipped softly, and then began to kiss his way down over the collarbone to one hardening nipple. The gleam of a tongue flicked into the light, painted at Buck's abdomen. As if tickled by the wet touch, Buck sucked in his tummy and a faint smile ghosted along his lips before he grew solemn again.

Vin cringed, felt his cock stir as he imagined what it must feel like to have that tongue touch him instead. But he knew he didn't have Buck's strength. . . didn't have the will. . . to do what came next.

Chris sank to his knees, hands resting on Buck's narrow hips as he sucked on the other's navel with an anxious groan, and then worked his way along Buck's beltline, followed by groping hands finding not the button for his lover's jeans but the flesh of Buck's outturned wrist.

Gripping the lower arm held out before him, Chris sniffed at the vein pulsing beneath, heating the skin, and then ferociously drew that skin into his mouth. He bit. . . no, dug. . . into it with his teeth extended to full razor sharpness. The sound of skin splitting like ripe fruit reached Vin along with the salty, delicious aroma of fresh blood. Some of the thick, red-black liquid spilled free to stain Buck's pant leg, carelessly wasted on lust, as Chris sucked ravenously.

Buck winced at the initial piercing and stared down at his mate, brows knitted sympathetically as he endured the pain of Chris' ferocious appetite drawing the life fluid from him. The hands on his arm and wrist clutched with desperate, vise-like strength. Short but deadly sharp talon tips dug out little bleeding trenches on the back of his hand and his inner elbow. Chris' head leaned in more deeply as he began to gnaw, sucking and slurping, and something that might have been a sob of relief sputtered into the bloody mess as he gulped harder, faster.

It looked so damned painful, Vin reflected, and yet it aroused him further, his mind adapting to the sight, imagining the feeding ritual performed upon himself. A long stream of spittle and blood dripped like molasses from Buck's wrist, the smell growing more intense, too fresh, too perfect. The tall man laid his free hand on Chris' head, strung his fingers through the soft blond hair and caressed at the gentle indentation of a temple with his thumb.

Then mechanically Buck's eyes shifted, drew up from the man feeding on him to stare directly at the crack in the door. He didn't budge, didn't speak up to scold the watcher. His eyes, livened to a jewel blue from his previous feeding, only bore into Vin's.

They held each other's gaze for a moment, any possible silence shaken by the murmurs and shudders of Chris' tance-like focus on feeding off of his friend, his lover. . . his keeper.

His breath jump-started, and Vin blinked, breaking contact. Immediately he stepped back from the door, giving it a nudge so that the crack closed up. Aroused, frustrated, and his body humming for sustenance of its own, he turned and left, telling himself again—God how many times had he had this conversation with himself?—that this was how it had to be.

Outside the night had come to life.

Beyond the road and nearly empty parking lot, the landscape shone before Vin's eyes as brightly as if it were day, and he absorbed the sounds of insects whirring and chirping, the slither of a snake, and the flutter of owl wings. He had to pull himself away from the reverie of listening and feeling, and to help him there sounded the drone of a car engine racing in from the north. Eyes panning in that direction, he found the offensive vehicle and watched as a deep red Jaguar with pitch-black tinted windows sped into the lot and slowed down to a gentle cruise. It pulled up to the end of the motel strip and wheeled on around to the side of the building off the corner where it parked under the streetlight on the very secluded end of the building.

Vin walked casually to the corner and waited as Ezra got out of the thing and stood behind the open door, his arms spread as he presented his prize. Smug satisfaction curled up the ends of the gambler's lips.

The man probably jacked off the moment he crawled into the car, Vin figured, and stared across the slope of the hood from the chrome front and insignia, up to the windshield. It really was quite classy, one of Ezra's better choices, but to compliment it was too easy.

Vin cocked a brow. "Nice," he said. "Does a mechanic come with it?"

Ezra's smile drooped and he stepped around the door and closed it, strolling up to the corner. "Ha. This coming from a man who drives a Hog." He stood beside Vin, arms banked proudly on his hips. "The new S-series with V6 engine, navigational system, and CD player, in carnival."

"You mean undead-red," Vin said dryly. He could smell that Ezra had fed, and he conman's cheeks bore the same rosy hues as Buck's had. "Ezra, what the hell do you need a nav system for? It's not like you don't know these roads."

Ezra shrugged, actually stumped on that question. "Accessories are. . . essential," he recovered and crossed his arms quickly as if to shield himself from Vin's sarcasm.

"Yeah. . . right." Vin turned and looked the other straight on, eyes quickly roaming over Ezra's choice of clothing for the evening: a black silk chenille sweater with a V-neck that showed off just the upper cleft in Ezra's pectorals. Complemented by a pair of charcoal slacks, the sweater conformed to the other man's upper body, and Vin took complete notice. The tracker was already horny as hell and in an ornery mood, all from watching Chris Larabee on his knees, feeding in such an ecstatic state. This was a perilous combination for anyone near him, particularly the conman.

"Are you all right?" Ezra asked. He looked over Vin's pale face, his vision just brushing along the slight part in Vin's lips. "I see, you haven't fed," he deduced quickly and with concern. One hand gently raised, the index finger out as if it intended to trace along the hollow of Vin's cheekbone, but the touch never reached its destination.

Vin dropped his jacket to the concrete and grabbed Ezra's shoulders, clamped down hard on the muscle and spun him about, steering him toward the hood of the car. "Let's take it for a test dive," he hissed almost viciously.

The motion jarred all eloquence out of Ezra. "Hey!" He fell back over the hood, hands up and out forming a firm barricade. Technically speaking, he should have been stronger, fueled by the blood in his veins, but with little effort, Vin Tanner grabbed his wrists and slammed them down each to either side of Ezra's head as he used the Jag's front bumper as a step to maneuver his weight up over and then down on top of Ezra. Pinned beneath the cool body above him, Ezra glared and huffed to get his breath back under control.

"Come on, Ezra," Vin rasped and tilted his head in an eerily animalistic way, eyes intent, lips parted so that the tips of his budding canines barely showed. Purplish hollows had formed beneath his eyes, and the tiniest little accents of dark veins could be seen gradually creeping out of his hairline, along his temples, and down his neck.

"Vin, you need to feed," Ezra said more critically.

"Thought I'd have a little. . . appetizer," the other growled. Then in one swift motion he let go of Ezra's wrists and swept his hands up, gripping the edges of the V-neck and pulled out, ripped the sweater open as far down as Ezra's navel and sending little fuzzy fibers of chenille whirling into the air.

"Shit!" Ezra snapped. "That'll cost you," he said through his teeth and started to bow out, to push against his brutal lover.

Vin swiftly grabbed the gambler's wrists again and slammed them back down on the hood before surveying the damage he had done. Ezra's well-toned chest and belly were bared up at him, the flesh warm and ripe. While his captive tried to push him away, baring teeth and glaring, he smiled wickedly and leaned down, clamping his mouth to the side of Ezra's neck and kissing forcefully. The thrum of warm blood beneath the skin beckoned him to just take his sustenance here, steal it from the conman and have done, but he resisted, playing a little game with himself. He nipped at the vein with his incisors but didn't break the skin.

Ezra's warmth alone tasted good. Vin lapped his way down between the pectorals, observing the hardened muscle with only his tongue tip, until he side tracked to take a nipple between his lips and draw hard on it.

Ezra moaned and shuddered, immediately taken by the sensations, his anger at the damage to his sweater petering out. Vin felt the gambler's cock stir where it was pressed against his belly. His own swelling organ strained against the barrier of his jeans, begging for release. He could already imagine sheathing it in Ezra's tight little asshole.

For the moment he persisted in working on that one nipple, toothing and tonguing it until it stood at perfect attention, a dusty-pink bud of flesh like a radio knob. Vin moved on to the other, gradually feeling Ezra's body succumb, resistance melting out.

"Not on the hood of my new car," the gambler murmured futilely.

Without a word Vin released the nipple and leaned up, covering Ezra's mouth with a harsh kiss and shutting him up completely. He surmised then that he could let go of the conman's wrists and danced his fingertips along the spread arms to reach the split in the fabric again, finding those peaked nipples and keeping them erect. Vin's nails extended slightly, just forming the premature tips of claws, an involuntary response to his passion and desire for nothing but a good fuck. He kneaded and massaged at Ezra's abs, tickling his fingertips along the beltline, until he began to fumble it open, all the while keeping his mouth firmly locked over his lover's.

Ezra murmured incoherently, the sound vibrating up into Vin's throat as their tongues played against each other. For a second the point of one of Vin's budding fangs raked over Ezra's lip, tearing free a stream of blood. The tracker almost lost what control he had left. The taste of warm coppery-salty-sweetness teased his senses and he immediately abandoned the kiss. Too tempting to just bite off the end of Ezra's tongue and expose the vein there, to suck the sanguine flow directly out of his lover's mouth. . . to gulp it down voraciously and let Ezra be the one to worry about the consequences of having to feed all over again.

Vin stared wide-eyed and all but frightened at the new levels of brutality he discovered within himself even after a century. Ezra gazed back at him calmly, liquid green eyes hazed and blissful.

Vin took a deep breath, held it to ease the sinking feeling that swirled into his gut. His eyes watered, bloodshot, seeking. With a sigh he gave himself only to the lust, not the thirst, and leaned back down, licking at Ezra's navel while his hands worked the clasp on the slacks open.

Ezra reached up, hands grasping either side of Vin's head, fingers tangling in the long hair as he allowed the other to unzip his fly and remove his pants, shoes and socks. Freeing his lover's gradually rising cock, Vin leaned down, kissed it, fingered at the nest of curls surrounding it and subtly ran the tip of one talon across the delicate skin of the scrotum. Not enough to break it, to draw blood or cause pain. For Ezra the result was a biting tingle that began small then ramified up through him.

The conman gasped as Vin rolled the head of his cock against one cheek, smearing a glistening circle of pre cum. Hands working in unison, Vin spread Ezra's legs, exposing the deeper crevice that guarded his opening. The aperture of flesh pulsed at the contact with evening air, and Vin tabbed at it with a fingertip, made little circling motions. His hand wrapped around Ezra's cock and pumped inconsistently, while he leaned in, licked at the anal opening. The skin there was clean but moist, tasting of musk and copper. Vin dipped the tip of his tongue deeper, probing, his nose tickling as it brushed Ezra's sandy-brown pubic hair. His hands coursed up and down the backs of the gambler's thighs, while Ezra's hands never left off gripping at little catches of Vin's hair. The gambler's upper body bowed up, the torn sweater falling away from his shoulders even while the sleeves still sheathed his arms.

Vin worked harder, eager to finish preparations as the pressure in his pants grew and pulsed, causing him to gasp wet breath. Overcome, blinded and needy, he slid down off the car, dragging Ezra with him and flipped the conman over on his belly.

Ezra coughed out a startled, "Ow!" as his swelling prick hit the chrome grate inset on the hood and all sense of pleasure fled. "Tanner, 'the hell are you. . ."

Vin's cupped hand reached up from behind and clamped firmly over Ezra's mouth, while his other hand fumbled with his own belt buckle and fly. Frantically, gritting his teeth, he worked the button then unzipped, his fully gorged cock bouncing free. He pulled Ezra in closer, spooning against him, and positioned his head up between the firm and smooth cushions of the other's ass cheeks. With one quick and merciless thrust he drove up into Ezra's moist channel, filling him. Ezra hissed air into the fingers banded across his lips and stiffened at the pain spearing up into him.

Eyes closed, his focus only on his own dick, Vin pulled back and thrust again, barely nudging at Ezra's prostate, a cheap tease that failed to renew the conman's arousal after having his own pecker half crushed into the car hood. Ezra's eyes watered and closed tightly, squeezing out tears. Vin shoved up into the passage harder, felt Ezra sputter a new objection into his palm. Ezra tried to reach behind him, to pull himself free, but to no avail, his arms flailed, made no purchase on his lover-captor. The fabric of Vin's jeans and the creases in his chaps scuffed at Ezra's bare skin.

At last Ezra found sense enough to reach up and pry Vin's hand away from his mouth. The ability to cry out proved temporary release from the pain. Just as he almost managed to escape, pulling sideways to twist free, icy cum shot up into his guts.

Vin persisted, shooting his load inside Ezra, feeling it wash back down over his cock head. It drained out behind him as he withdrew, streaming milky wetness from his gleaming shaft. Abruptly he released Ezra and deposited him onto the car hood.

The humiliation was enough to fuel the conman into full retaliation. Before Vin could tuck his thing back in and zip up, Ezra was on him, spinning around and getting his feet under him with lightening speed and a rock-hard right hook.

"Son-of-a-bitch!"

The fist that connected with Vin's jaw sent him flying back up over the sidewalk and into the motel wall. The back of his head slammed into the surface, breaking away chunks of old stucco and exposing brick. He hit the ground, landed on his feet and fell back into a prop, dazed, one hand absently reaching up to massage behind his skull.

Ezra stood on the ready, teeth bared and canines budding to full length, the green of his eyes crystallizing to a more yellow hue reminiscent of a pissed off rattlesnake. Seeing that Vin remained stunned, he reached down, scooped up his pants, and hurriedly slipped them on. With a grunt of disgust at the condition of his sweater, he straightened and sniffed indignantly. "Let me guess," he spat. "Chris and Buck are havin' a party and, yet again, you weren't invited."

Vin slowly raised his head, eyes glaring out through a cascade of disheveled hair. His shoulders visibly tensed, the effect like that of a puma recoiling to spring, and then he did, diving forward, tackling Ezra, and grabbing him around the throat.

Both went flying onto the hood of the car, Ezra pinned once more but no longer receptive. One hand clamped firmly around Vin's throat, pushing him back, the other grasped a wad of the tracker's tank shirt. A rumbling growl issued from Vin's throat and spittle drained over his bottom lip. For a long moment the two clung to each other, Ezra merely holding his own, Vin struggling with something more terrifying within. The whites of his eyes were almost completely webbed in dark-red vessels, the blue so pale and his pupils narrowed to angry pinpoints.

"Vin," Ezra whispered more calmly then. Though he didn't state it directly, his tone bore the most crucial component to ending the confrontation: immediate forgiveness.

Vin snarled, his reddened eyes watering. He shook, fighting the urge to just snap Ezra's neck. So what if he did? The conman would survive. But the thought of it put him completely in check. His grip loosened on Ezra's throat, and slowly he closed his mouth.

"It's okay, Vin," Ezra whispered gently, his own grip slackening. He let go of Vin's shirt, leaving a clump of wrinkled black cotton. "I'm sorry."

As if he were the one who should apologize.

Vin's brows knitted, his vision flitting over the gentle reserve in Ezra's face. To Ezra it was both pitiful and gorgeous, those storms in Vin's eyes. The hand that had gripped Vin's throat crawled up to caress at a cold cheek, the tip of the thumb wiping away the spittle from Vin's lip.

Slowly the tracker eased up and slid off the hood of the car to stand, his shoulders heaving. He tucked his now deflated cock back into his pants and zipped up, took one last bitter glance at Ezra. Then in a hurry of clomping boots he went up onto the sidewalk, grabbed his jacket, and turned away.

Ezra sat up, staring after him as he disappeared around the corner to the front of the building. A moment later Vin's Harley revved, puttered angrily, and then roared off.

Shaking his head, Ezra climbed down and began to inspect the car for damage.

Chapter Six

Caverns outside Four Corners, 1877

He was hungry.

It was the only thing he recognized at first. A yawning, feverish hunger that reached out from his center and captured every vein, every little nerve, fiber, and particle. This hunger defined his body as he awakened, crawling up through the sludge of his own mind and finding the last barrier of his closed eyelids. Stirring softly, he attempted to recall himself. But that failed as he felt a gentle caress at his temple, fingers through his hair.

Vin opened his eyes to look up into a familiar, chiseled face touched on the sides by long black hair. Blue eyes, that seemed exceptionally brilliant peered at him warmly. He struggled to remember exactly what it was about that face, but it didn't seem to matter. He felt warm and languorous and utmost. . . hungry. Yet the thought of any of the foods he loved. . . buttered biscuits. . . smoked meats. . . provoked a sickening churn in his gut. No, there was something else he wanted, something. . . he could smell here in this very place.

His tongue snaked forward slightly, tasting along the inside edges of his lips and met twin obstructions to either side. Teeth. Long, pointed canines. He felt the tips of them and encountered a tiny sting at each light tap. Undaunted by this change, he settled again. It seemed only natural, and he focused on the face hovering near. Some part of him remembered this being touching him, drawing him near, and then as his senses began to blossom open, he drew in a deep breath and with it smelled the heady, earthen scent that permeated off the black silken robe, and Vin remembered the master's name.

“How do you feel?” Selvik asked.

He didn't answer, hadn't found his voice yet, for his mouth felt dry and stony, and his throat even worse. He merely blinked back, suddenly finding deep fascination in every little line on Selvik's face, the creases at the corners of his mouth, the crystalline spokes in his eyes, the raven hue of his hair glistening with the slightest iridescent shimmer in the flicker of candlelight. The master reached down and slowly helped his newborn brood sit up on the stone slab. As he was lifted, Vin reached up with a hand, touched that cool, alabaster face and offered back a quiver of a smile.

“Stand up,” Selvik said, not commanding so much as coaxing, and he helped Vin get to his feet, find balance.

Standing naked before his creator, and still captured completely by Selvik's presence, Vin tilted his head, leaning in closer, his eyes wandering along the symmetrical clefts of the other's prominent collar bones. He reached up, touched at the ridges and ran eager hands down Selvik's chest, caressing the silk lapels on the robe, parting them. He could smell the master's own scent on himself, and when he looked down at the dried crust of semen on his inner thighs, he realized where that scent came from. He had been marked, possessed. Some part of him understood this in a strange way, accepted it. He didn't even stop to think how he was now also whole, all wounds healed. As he raised his head and looked up at Selvik again, he exhaled a longing breath, and it didn't even occur to him that he hadn't even begun to breathe until that moment.

And at that he felt so. . . alive.

A charge of new energy crackled down through him from head to toe, and utmost in his stomach, that continued to churn and beg for something he couldn't define, and yet he lingered in the euphoria of his awakening. Something hissed and shuffled about in the shadows around him, but his focus remained on Selvik, quietly questioning.

“How do you feel?” Selvik repeated, asking the question again as if fishing for a specific answer.

Vin leaned in closer, lips parted, ready to nip at the bare chest in front of him, his fingers roaming over each nipple with a voracious appetite for texture alone, the sense of touch heightened and captured by the hard and soft sensation of peaked and rosy flesh.

Then that other scent touched his senses again, something rich and coppery and sweet. He sniffed the air, eyes rolling toward the source, which he realized must be behind him somewhere. Looking back at Selvik, who waited expectantly for an answer, Vin worked his mouth a bit, managed to produce some saliva to coat his parched tongue and whisper.

“Hungry. . .”

“But of course you are.” Selvik caressed one cheek, then took the young one by the shoulders and began to steer him around to face the other direction. “And I have something for you.”

Vin's vision darted across the humanoid shapes of Selvik's other children crouched back from the central scene in the cavern, their dark eyes watching with glee, faces pale and almost appearing to glow to his new eyes. Details like every little crease in the ragged clothing they wore, or the slightest sheen along their ghostly lips, stood out. He was almost distracted by this, but as he sniffed the air, he kept following that wonderful scent to its source and there on the floor found the huddled figure of a warm body.

The man had been dropped to his knees, his hands bound in front of him. He wore stirrup pants and boots, and his dirtied white shirt, lined with frills at the collar, had been torn open, exposing a bare chest taut with muscle, and a hardened stomach. The candlelight haloed soft brown hair and danced over the more prominent planes of a soft face patched with bruises and cuts. Other bruises were visible through the part at the front of his shirt, and he looked up with distressed, liquid green eyes. Clutches of the slave brood gathered around him from behind, holding him in place, forcing his head up to watch. Compared to them, his flushed complexion beamed back at Vin, and it seemed the infant vampire could make out the lustrous threads of red veins beneath the skin, down the sides of the neck. They pulsed, emanating an ethereal flame along the edges of each tiny crimson river. . . beckoning. . . and Vin took an impassioned step closer, sighing at the realization of what he needed and that it was right here, provided for him.

But there was something wrong.

“Vin. . .” the captive husked out as he focused.

Vin stopped, frowning as the name, his name, stirred him, the soft drawl in the voice familiar. He padded closer, smelling the air as he went, sorting out the dustier smell of the slaves from this creature, warm and rosy and ripe for tasting. Dropping to his knees before the man, he reached up, took that handsome—almost pretty—face between his hands and stared into the eyes, reading the shock and fear there, smelling it too, as piquant as piss and vinegar.

“No. . .” the other whispered. “Oh, God, no. . . Vin. . .”

Tears swelled up in those jade eyes, and something in Vin struggled to remember exactly what it was about this man. He had to fight past his own hunger, his lips parted and desperate, to understand why he hesitated.

Ezra.

Vin drew back just so, examining the bruised face, noting the little creases between the brow, and yet still basking in that warm, coppery scent.

For Ezra it was the most terrifying moment of his life. He remembered being brained by one of the goons outside the saloon, only to awaken in this dark hellhole, bound and guarded by other goons. Clueless as to where he was, or why they even kept him alive, he had spent the day dealing with their retched breath accosting his body, his throat, their fingers exploring him, and all that while his heart hammered in his chest, eventually wearing him down. To see one of his best friends kneeling before him, completely transformed and fervent for his blood, was like a betrayal, the final blow. . . and still he knew that it was not Vin's fault.

Something was different too. Vin did not seem to be one of the slathering, condemned and desperate goons baring his sharp teeth at all times. The tracker's eyes were not glossy and completely blackened in. They were as crystalline as they had been before, only the dark ring of blue that had surrounded his irises before was more prominent, and his pupils were a finer point, blazing from within with some new fire fueled by blood hunger. Ezra cringed when Vin's cold hands came up to grasp either side of his face. He sensed, rather than saw, the claws on the ends of the tracker's fingertips, and he whispered pleas for release. His vision ghosted over the face close to his, illuminated on one side by the hundreds of candles kept alight on the natural shelves of the cavern walls. Some of them had been dripping for a long time and coated the walls with a cascade of white wax, like some eerie decoration for a morbid wedding. This seemed to be the case. Vin had been married into the world of the undead, and here before Ezra, he seemed childlike, caught in some spell. Ezra breathed out his friend's name again, hoping against hope to reach him. He looked down at the inviting part in Vin's lips, saw the fangs that protruded just so, and he found the look of that mouth, savage though it was, beautiful.

But it was no ordinary kiss Vin was preparing to bestow on him. That was evident in the dried bloodstains persisting on Vin's face. They were more black than red, and suddenly Ezra understood everything based on what Michael Arrant had told him and the others. Vin had been made a master. That was why his eyes were so clear, why his complexion was not nearly as sallow as that of a goon. And it was also why he did not go straight for Ezra's jugular right then. There had to be some self control in there somewhere.

Understanding this, Ezra thought there might be hope yet. If he could find the old Vin, coax him into resisting.

“Vin. . . this isn't you. . .” he drawled out. “Remember. . .” His thoughts jittered for some groundwork, some moment he and Vin had shared. Unfortunately nothing of particularly positive recollection came into play, and so he resorted to a reversed method. He was a conman, he could keep his wits here, scared though he was. “Remember when you had that poem in your head?” he whispered. “You came and asked me to write it down. . .”

I was wonderin'. . . if you would write it down for me all nice and purty-like.

Vin's icy breath touched Ezra's cheek and a soft rumble issued from his throat like some warning growl that Ezra cease this game.

Ezra gasped, attempted to cringe back from it, and found himself tearing up even more. He had to make this work somehow. “I laughed at you,” he continued, still rasping out that moment in the saloon when he had been too damned drunk and riled up over that Lester Banks for cheating him. He'd looked right at Vin and sputtered out a gale of laughter that was a complete affront to the tracker who was proving suddenly more sensitive than usual and stormed away in disgust.

I knew I was wastin' my time with you. . .

“I'm. . .” Ezra choked. “I laughed at you. I didn't know you couldn't read, Vin. . . I shouldn't have laughed. . .” Tears spilled over at this last pitiful attempt. He was going to lose this one, Ezra was sure of it. In the end he apologized not just for that moment when he had hurt Vin's feelings and injured his pride, but for all those times. . . those little moments. . . those little sins. . . the ones that were so easy not to notice. . . the ones that hurt his friends.

“I'm so sorry. . .”

Vin's brows knitted at this, his eyes softening, the ice crystals melting the tiniest iota, and he cocked his head curiously, one thumb moving in such a way that it practically caressed Ezra's jaw line.

“Ezra. . .” he uttered.

He remembered now.

It came back as if casting away an opiate haze. Everything. . . how he had gotten here, how Selvik had raped him and bled him. It all felt an age ago, and yet Vin could guess that, judging from Ezra's condition, it had been no more than a day. With that came the recognition of the thing that he had become. It jarred him from within and he drew in another long and laborious breath, as he understood what he was about to do.

Behind him, he heard Selvik's footsteps stealing closer, almost soundless, and around him the goons crept in, anxious to see the latest addition to their hierarchy commit the unthinkable. Ezra was not intended to become a master. He would be confined to the eternal mindlessness of a slave. Vin gritted his teeth at the thought. That they would find so much glee in watching him destroy one of his friends, his family. His fangs bit into his lower gums, drawing out a thin blackish fluid that he swallowed down.

“Vin, do it,” Selvik ordered in an impatient hiss. “Take him.”

There was little Vin could do. He shot small glances about him, seeing that all routes were cut off by the ring of undead watching and waiting. There would be no way to get Ezra out of here alive, and if he tried, he would likely get himself ripped apart. Vampire master or not, he would be slain for insubordination by the one who had created him. There were just too many of them, and as his body shuddered from within, reacting of its own accord to the wafting scent of Ezra's blood, he realized he could only do one thing. His eyes gave a silent apology of their own, boring into Ezra, pleading for forgiveness.

Then with an unnatural hiss that came from some untapped venue of his new being, he opened his mouth wide and dove into Ezra's neck. His fangs plunged into the flesh, felt it split under the fine points and tap into the vein. The slightest taste of blood ensnared him and without thinking about it he tore back, teeth dragging the skin, ripping a long, deep laceration that bore the spurting vein to the open air.

Ezra screamed and bucked against him, but Vin grabbed on tight, pulling the other man in close to him. One hand grabbed a handful of Ezra's hair and pressed the other's face into his own flesh as if to smother him, end his pain. As Vin suckled ravenously, his tongue dipping deep into the well of blood to savor it, he felt his entire being heat up as though he were drinking the finest whiskey. Ezra's chest, pressed against his, shared the thinning pound of a heavy heart.

He could vaguely hear the goons around him leering, and he could sense Selvik's approval. Drawing the flow into his mouth, each loud and gluttonous swallow built his strength. It tingled down into his fingers and toes, into his cock until it throbbed and he thought he might come against Ezra's belly. All the while, Ezra began to sink into him, all resistance fading with his life's blood, until Vin relented and pulled away with a loud, satisfied smack of tongue on lip.

Ezra fell over backwards, his head lolling to the side, exposing the raw wound that still oozed in small slow streams. Vin caught him by the shoulders, gazing grimly at the curve of Ezra's cheekbone and the soft fringe of his fluttering lashes as he fought to remain conscious.

Selvik smiled as he approached, looking down over Vin's shoulder at the wilting body, at the exposed chest running up to the mutilated neck that still curved upward gracefully. . . and then he noticed the thing that shocked him into stillness.

Ezra's bloodstained lips.

Blackish blood. . . Vin's blood. . .

It was smeared all over the gambler's mouth, over his teeth, which peered gently through the slight part in his lips as he drew his last breaths.

Slowly Selvik's gaze roamed up along the curve of Vin's tightened bicep, to his shoulder, and up the corded slope to the junction at his neck, where the small gleam of a self-inflicted cut began to heal quickly.

Selvik drew in a breath to speak, staggered over this occurrence which he could never have expected, that his own newborn could have made such a decision. “You. . . insolent whelp!” he snapped in a gravelly voice. “I'll rip your heart out!” He started to move toward the young master, his robe whipping along behind him.

Fueled by the feeding, and his own anger, Vin allowed Ezra's body to crumple to the ground and bounded to his feet, spinning, one hand flowing out before him. It was only instinct that drove him, and perhaps the knife fighting skills he had used as a human. He didn't charge into Selvik. Didn't even move, for that matter. He simply let the master fall right into the sharp knives of his own claws.

Selvik gave an ear-raking shriek as he halted in his attack, eyes wide and clouding over with swirls of red that encircled his irises. His mouth was open in a fierce growl that cut off into a gurgle.

“Like this?” Vin asked shakily as both looked down and there in the tracker's open hand lay the glossy black mass of Selvik's heart.

Vin hesitated, risking precious time as he marveled at his new abilities, before he closed his fingers around the meaty organ and clenched it mercilessly. It was still beating. The sensation of the gooey pulse within his palm almost made him drop it out of revulsion. Selvik stepped in closer and swung his body around, back handing Vin. The force cracked Vin's lower jaw and lifted him off the ground, sent him flying across the cavern and up against the wall where he slammed into a veil of candle wax. The dripping formations shattered and splintered down over him, while some candles fell from their ledges, their flames snuffed by the gust of wind and flailing vampire limbs.

Half-senseless, Vin hit the floor with a hollow thud and a grunt, but his newly altered body began to heal itself, resetting his jaw, refocusing his mind. He looked up, eyes narrowed bitterly as Selvik came staggering toward him, spitting up blood and baring his fangs in pure, unadulterated rage.

Vin simply gritted his teeth and held up the heart still clutched in his hand, presented as if on a silver platter.

The master vampire halted, one hand reaching out, claws curling at Vin.

Perhaps for a brief moment Vin felt the connection to Selvik again, felt the strange unnatural dream state that had consumed him just moments ago, after his awakening. But it was mercifully weak, and he easily broke the grip of Selvik's imposing will again. Lifting up the heart higher, he formed his grip into a vise, closing his claws in on the meat. The organ itself tried to fight him, the beat strong against the inside of his palm, until his talons pierced the inner chambers. Inky gore spilled down his arm, but the beating stopped. The heart collapsed in his hand.

Selvik hovered over his wayward prodigy, the rage on his face melting out into an anguished look of betrayal. “How?” he sputtered ruggedly and coughed out more blood. Then he collapsed, his body rolling into the shadows.

Vin lay shaken for only a short moment before a shrill cry called his attention to the air above him as one of the goons sprang from across the room and straight at him. He leapt to his feet and slashed forward with his hand out flat, again using his claws as though they were the edge of an outward-turned blade. The effect worked to cleave the goon's head from its neck. More gore sprayed the young master, but Vin simply side-stepped and let the body hit the ground. Another goon sprang, mindlessly attempting to avenge its master. With it came another three, all shrieking at the top of their undead lungs. Vin stabbed one straight on with his claws and opened its body up. Another scratched him across the back while he was distracted by the first, but then he turned and reached out, captured the thing's head in his hands and ripped it from the neck, finding revelry in the sticky texture of blood caking between his fingers. He took out the third easily and gained more practice on three more, littering the rocky floor with carnage. When he had done, he looked about, finding the rest huddled around him, the dark orbs of their eyes lost within the shadows beneath their deeply furrowed brows.

They didn't know what to do, he realized.

Without the master who created them, they were lost, ants with no queen to return to. He straightened up, oblivious to the splatters of black painting his bare body, and started over toward where he had left Ezra lying. His hands hung limp and empty at his sides, his fingertips dripping. Halting, he glared at the sight of two more goons hovering over Ezra, near the conman's head, one threatening to slit his throat with a single, extended claw.

Vin simply pointed a finger at the creature and hissed through his teeth. “Get away from him, you piece of shit.”

The goon practically let out a yelp, and scampered along with its companion into the shadows. Vin padded slowly over to Ezra, pausing when he saw that the other man's chest was still rising and falling, slowly, but still holding on to every last breath. A surge of hurt and excitement flushed Vin's own heart, and he dropped to his knees, leaning deeply over Ezra.

Green eyes, hazed with melting terror looked up at him, and he listened to the raspy breath that emitted through the blood-stained lips. Carefully he situated himself, folding his legs under his thighs and laying the conman's head gently in his lap. Had he made a mistake, he wondered, in feeding Ezra some of his own blood? It was the only possible way he saw out of this that could result in both of them surviving, even if it had to be as vampires. Both had been forced to the point of no return.

The gambler's mouth opened as if he had read Vin's thoughts and tried to answer, the gleam on his lips a reminder that he could have chosen to spit the blood out, to not accept what Vin was trying to do.

“I'm sorry, Ezra,” Vin said softly. He sat there, cradling his friend, watching the conman drift into the death sleep. When Ezra's stare became still, gazing up at nothing, and his chest fell and didn't rise again, Vin felt hot tears flush his own eyes and spill down his face.

So, he realized, it was still possible to cry, even for the undead.

Wondering what he had created, goon or master, the tracker bowed his head and waited.

Chapter Seven

Outside El Paso, Present Day

Buck stared back evenly at the single azure eye observing him from the crack in the door. His stomach squirmed a little at that hawk-like gaze, and he inwardly cursed himself for not being sure the door had been closed.

Good goin', shitbird. It had been a long time since he'd made a mistake like that. Not only had he not shut the door, but he hadn't bothered to make sure the entire place was cleared out, and leave it to Vin Tanner to come out of his mouse hole at just the right time.

Buck's somber exterior remained intact even while he tensed, jaw set as he waited for Chris to catch the tracker's scent. Talk about a prize-winning fuck up. Chris's ego would take yet another bruising if he noticed, as he'd grown increasingly sensitive about these matters over the years.

When the watcher backed away and the crack closed, Buck clamped down on the sigh of relief that threatened to explode out of him. He returned his attention to the sweet pain pulling on his wrist, at the suction of cool, soft lips and the gnawing of sharp teeth. Chris was apparently too enraptured in feeding. The only scent arousing his senses was that of freshly processed blood.

A tiny grunt squeezed out of Buck's throat as his charge bit in a little harder, preventing the wound from closing up. He felt warm wetness wash down into his palm, pooling into the cracks, and leaking between his fingers. The head of blond hair bowed before him, and the naked man it belonged to, further fired his protective nature.

This manner of feeding ensured Chris' freedom, and yet it bound him to Buck. The shackles were invisible, or rather it could be said that Chris was like a horse that had been given its head to roam as it pleased, but with the security that the rider could rein it in at any moment. There was no denying what an undignified predicament it was for him, a vicious nip in the man's pride, but he gave into it willingly, knowing that the alternative was unthinkable.

Vin knew this, Buck reminded himself. They all knew it. A long time ago, the others, including the tracker, had tried to remedy the problem and take turns feeding Chris. It worked marginally but proved such a strain on the others, particularly when it came to feeding twice in the same night. One-by-one they began to volunteer less, especially as Chris grew pissier with sharing his vulnerability around the group. Pure human blood did nothing for him. He got hungrier, and more alienating. From there on it was decided that only one of them deal with the matter, and plenty of reasons elected Buck the best candidate. The ritual was carried out in secret, often while the others were still out on the hunt, granting the couple privacy while Chris bared his soul.

Buck considered having a few words with Vin later. Nah, he decided then. No sense stirring up more hostility. The tracker already worked diligently to damn himself. A slap on the hand for spying was nothing compared, and the important thing was that Chris never know about it. Vin was naturally tight-lipped—that certainly hadn't changed in over a century—and that was good enough for Buck.

The former gunslinger closed his eyes, balancing against a strange euphoria that hit him every time Chris sucked out a long stream and paused to gulp it down. Like sinking and rising, sinking and rising, Buck swayed with it, smiled tenderly to himself when he felt Chris' cheek brush against his inner arm, and he ran a fingertip around the kneeling man's earlobe. At last he couldn't stand to give any more. He had to pry his wrist free, gently massaging the back of Chris' neck to bring him around, while pulling the feeding hand away.

Chris let go with a loud and satisfied slurp and looked up, eyes more focused and clear than they had been earlier in the evening. He stood slowly, slinking up Buck's body. His spread hands probed up radiating newly infused warmth, and spidered around Buck's waist as he leaned in, pulling the taller man closer to him.

Buck examined the mouth before him, smeared with red, open and waiting, lips poised as if to cast some dark whisper. He could smell the blood lingering in that mouth, and he probed for it with lips and tongue, tasted it mingled with tangy saliva and noted a piquant aftertaste that was undeniably Chris Larabee. He followed up with a series of little sugar pecks and licks, and allowed Chris to manipulate him around and toward the bed

"Well then," he breathed between kisses, "I guess you're feelin' much better now."

Chris backed his lover up until the edge of the bed pressed into the backs of Buck's knees, forcing him to sit, bouncing gently on the mattress amid covers still disheveled from the day before.

Reaching down, Chris took Buck's hand in his, turned it over and examined the inner wrist. His thumb brushed over the last smears of blood, revealing freshly healed skin. An uneven blotch of pink scar tissue stood out against the paler skin of Buck's forearm, then gradually even the scar faded, literally appearing to absorb back into the surface. Chris always wanted to make sure the skin healed. Didn't want to leave behind some remnant of his weakness, Buck figured, though the tender circle of Chris' fingertip over the skin implied something more. Concern, perhaps? Did he worry that one night that wound wouldn't heal?

Buck looked up at Chris standing over him, eyes roaming across taut skin and shapely pectorals, pausing on the little shadows cast by Chris' sharpened nipples. He slid his hands up the lean belly before him and caressed each little knob, rolled it around and pinched it, listening to Chris' breath hitch. Then the other leaned down, cupped Buck's face between his hands and brought his face up and close, their lips just inches away from each other. Sometimes that little tiny distance seemed so far. Like the eternity that had become their lives.

In one graceful and swift motion, they switched positions, Chris sidestepping onto the bed, releasing Buck, who stood. Chris panthered across the covers and turned over to lie against the pillows, one leg bent, his hand resting across his pelvic bone. His thumb absently maneuvered up and down dabbing at his cock.

Buck stood to slip out of his jeans and left them a wrinkled denim puddle half kicked under the bed. Then he crawled on all fours onto the mattress, slinking along the same path, first meeting Chris' foot. It was like following a trail of breadcrumbs, he mused, and feeling suddenly playful he scooped Chris' heel up in his palm.

Chris chuckled dryly, eyes narrowed and suspicious. "What are you doing?" His fingers curled around little clumps of blanket to either side of him.

Smiling, Buck sat back on his haunches and lifted the foot higher, presented in both of his hands as if on a platter. He rubbed the calloused pads with his thumbs together, then up the center under the arch, gripping just a bit tighter when he felt Chris start to pull back with a murmur of an objecting snigger.

"Shhhhh."

His warm breath swept across the toes, prompting them to spread wide. From this perspective he could peek through the part in the big toe and the second and see Chris' face, masked in anticipation, eyes narrowed. Like sighting down the barrel of a rifle.

"Don’t you kick me now," Buck warned huskily. Then he stuck out his tongue and ran the tip up along the inner arch. Tension seized the muscles in the foot, the toes spread wider, and Buck held on a little bit tighter. Lowering his hands, bringing the foot down, he swept his tongue around to the top arch and up to circle the ankle. All the while his thumbs still rubbed back and forth beside each other, massaging the heel and the ball, then in between each toe.

Chris let out a sigh, gradually relaxing, letting his lover work on him slowly and efficiently as only Buck Wilmington could.

Unfolding his body, Buck began to work his hands up the leg, stretching himself out as he went, stroking underneath Chris' calf muscles, lingering on the back of his knee where the skin was softer and more sensitive. He bestowed light kisses, lips intentionally snagging on silky sandy-brown leg hair. He straddled that outstretched leg as he crawled further up, dipping his pelvis down so that his own cock slid along the warmed skin and hair. He draped himself completely across Chris' lower body, his head at waist level and face to face with the other man's cock. He gazed past the thick rod of pink flesh and up the course of the body beneath him.

Chris spread out his hand, reached at Buck's face. His green eyes captured reflections of red from the one dim bulb glowing in the room, as if to illustrate a fire roaring inside his head, viewed through the windows of his eyes. Buck felt like he could crawl into those eyes, find his own safe haven in there with the flame. He laid his cheek against the hand beckoning to him, smelled the musk and earthy dustiness that marked Chris.

He suddenly tensed as another scent wafted up to meet him, one that amid the others was most unwelcome, like the faintest odor of rot and sickly sweet perfume. This scent, too, was familiar and never ceased to vex him, for he knew that it absolutely did no belong to Chris.

No, it belonged to another, and Buck had vowed never to speak of its foulness.

"What is it?" Chris whispered, his brows furrowing as he clearly sensed that something was up.

An echo from the past stirred at the back of Buck's mind.

A dark cavern barricaded at the entrance by pure, unfiltered sunlight. . . trapped. . . still frightened and adapting to what they had become. . . and Chris suddenly looked down, distracted. . .

. . . I can smell that bitch on me!

Yeah, Chris knew all about that scent and that somehow after all this time it still clung to him, immune to any amount of scrubbing, and he didn't need any small reminders of its presence.

"Nothin'."

Buck had gotten good at distractions. He turned and kissed the inside of Chris' palm while one hand crept in and captured the base of the reclining man's pole, gently pulling upward.

Breath hissed through Chris' teeth at the tease.

Then abruptly Buck bowed his head and took his lover's cock fully into his mouth. Scores of years had taught him to turn off the gag reflex. He sank deep on Chris, felt the thick head nudge up into the back of his throat, until the tip of his nose met the coarse curls around the base.

Chris's body stiffened, his hips thrusting up, and his hands once more grabbed at the blanket. "Ah, God. . . Buck. . ."

Buck moved up and down slowly, his tongue curled underneath the shaft like a kitten's around its mother's teat. He came up to lick around the rim of the head and the oozing slit. One hand snaked underneath and cradled Chris' balls, undulating with them so that they rolled back and forth in their silken sac.

Pressing his hips up higher, Chris rammed his prick back into the tunnel of Buck's mouth and groaned out his approval. Buck began further preparations by reaching his other hand up Chris's body, two fingers finding a nipple and pinching it hard en route to Chris' mouth. And such a mouth it was as Buck plunged the digits into it, past those blood-warmed lips to the bed of the tongue, feeling past the hard edges of teeth. Chris sucked on the fingers, slathered his tongue up between them. When he was certain that he'd captured enough saliva, Buck withdrew his fingers and pulled his mouth free.

Chris shuddered, on the verge of coming right then, but he held it, sinking his hips back into the mattress and taking his cue to straighten out both legs so Buck could completely straddle him.

"Don't move," Buck whispered. He positioned himself over the other's hard, fleshy staff carefully. Then he reached down behind himself, up between his ass cheeks, found his own opening, and worked at it with the two fingers wetted by Chris' mouth. Just around the puckered entrance, he massaged gently in widening circles, smearing on the spittle, and up inside. It was not nearly as pleasurable to perform this task on himself, but he enjoyed the heady smell of Chris' eagerness as he was forced to watch and wait.

From Chris' perspective, Buck's long slender body took a dancer's form as it bowed backward so that he could reach up inside himself, his head thrown up and back, exposing a corded stretch of neck and the nub of his Adam's apple. His lips pursed slightly, the tip of that treacherous tongue of his creeping out at one corner and then withdrawing. Dim golden light pooled around the little dip above the upper lip where an age ago Buck once sported a lush mustache. It tempted Chris to sit up and dive right into that mouth. . . or order it go back to sucking his cock.

Buck took his own time, torturing his lover. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths as he probed deeply enough to find his own touch zone, just the minimal tip of one finger jabbing it and setting off the chain reaction within that stirred his cock to full muster. He smiled to himself when he felt Chris' hand take the organ and pull down on it.

"Careful, pard," he whispered. His other hand probed down beneath him to more accurately locate Chris' cock, and then gradually he began to lower himself. The thick head made penetration just as Buck slipped his fingers free, and with ease he dropped down onto Chris. He then looked down at his lover who watched with that inner glow still in his eyes.

Chris thrust against the weight coming down on him, until he was fully sheathed in Buck, and the other man's cock came to rest along his belly. He cupped hot damp hands over it and pumped gently toward himself, then toward Buck.

Leaning back, Buck adjusted the angle of entry and wriggled his ass until he felt Chris' mast stir up against his prostate wall. Perfect. He moaned as he rocked his hips forward meeting Chris' thrusts. They settled quickly into a rhythm. Each pulled his hips back or down, then thrust forward or up, so that they met somewhere in the middle. Chris' hands formed a little tunnel for Buck's own cock to navigate each time he rocked forward. The rougher texture of his palms, including calluses and tiny scars from long ago, triggered every nerve in the blushed skin.

Gradually their mutual moans rose, and the strange utterance of an otherworldly purr, just on the verge of a growl, issued from Buck's throat. He never really understood how such a sound came out of him, even given the creature he was. His anatomy was still human and only partially capable of preternatural change in moments of passion or stress. This was one of them. His eyeteeth started to bud as he clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to cry out too loud.

Chris did the same, pushing up harder with his hips, his head tossed to the side, teeth gritted, growing sharper by the second, until it all ended simultaneously. He pumped one last time and came, spewing cool semen up into the slick passage, while Buck spurted out milky streams into Chris' hands, onto his belly.

Buck pulled back his hips one last time and eased them forward, feeling that last little inner tickle to his zone, forcing out a shiver of pure bliss as he leaned down and kissed Chris full on the mouth. Chris shuddered, breath hissing through his teeth and into Buck's mouth, his eyes closed tightly as the last of his seed shot into Buck's ass and tension slowly began to bleed out of him.

Patiently Buck drew away and propped up on his arms, looking straight down at his lover, until jade eyes blinked open and looked up at him.

"Hi," he all but chirped.

Chris' lips cocked at the corner in a wry smile that died quickly. "Hi yourself," he rasped back.

Buck smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling, then with care he boosted up to his knees, slowly separating from the organ lodged up inside him. Creamy wetness spilled out of him and down the insides of his thighs as he hiked one leg up and over Chris, dismounting to lie down and stretch out beside the other man. He laid a hand on Chris' chest, tucked his head against the little nook where shoulder and body met.

After a century, they never asked questions like How was it? They read each other too well for that. They lay quietly, listening to each other's heartbeat, the slow steady tempos nearly lulling them both to sleep, their naked bodies exposed to the air, cum drying into crust on Buck's thighs and around Chris' navel.

Buck used that time to quiet his own mind, turning off all thoughts and allowing only the existence of that eternal drum beat to which his ear was pressed. Somewhere within himself he imagined a dark web in which he could recline, a hammock that swung back and forth, a pendulum set to that heartbeat. He was almost asleep when Chris' voice rumbled softly.

It was the statement that snapped Buck to, instantly abandoning his reverie.

"I had an attack again tonight."

Buck raised his head and propped on his elbow, looking Chris in the eyes. The other man remained in eerie calm, like he was too tired to care about the implications.

"How long has it been since the last one?" Buck asked.

"I don't know. Three weeks?"

Buck counted back in time in his head and nodded. "They're getting closer together," he observed aloud, voice dropping as new concern stirred him. He sat up, scooting closer and leaning over his lover. "What do you think it means?"

Chris only looked at him, eyes hazy.

He didn't want to try to answer that question, Buck realized. The possibilities were endless and frightening. Nevertheless, Buck deigned to press the matter. "It's going to come to an end somehow, Chris. If we're getting close. . ."

"I'll know when we're close," Chris interrupted. "And I'll tell you," he assured.

Buck accepted this and nodded, though his brows had lowered into an unbecoming frown and his lips drew out into a thin and bitter line on his face. He laid his head back down, sighing. Then suddenly he was seized with the urge to curl his body around, draping one arm across Chris' middle and tuck his hand underneath the other body, enshrouding it in his own. He nuzzled his cheek against the hard pillow of Chris' chest.

Where before he had tried to escape into the silence, he now sought to flee it. "Come on," he said softly. "Let's go for a walk."

-7-7-7-

It was three in the morning when Chris and Buck dressed and came out of their nest. Neither J.D. nor Vin had returned, but Josiah, Nathan, and Ezra were out in the main room. Josiah and Ezra played cards under the hanging globe lamp over the table. Nathan had his laptop out and situated on a bedside table, using a satellite connection to get online. The television was on but turned down to a murmur.

"Ya'll goin' somewhere?" Nathan asked casually, looking up from the computer screen where he sat propped on his knees on the edge of the bed.

"Just a walk," Chris informed him but strolled over to stand close, looking down past their tech man's arm at the computer screen. "Any word come in tonight?"

"As a matter of fact, Clarion Group reported evidence of goon activity near the Arizona border," Nathan replied. "Attacked a priest in a small church outside Lordsburg. They're probably led by one master." Nathan looked up from the screen that displayed the Clarion Group logo with its crossed trumpets on a medieval heraldry shield, and below it a chat field.

"That ain't far from Four Corners," Buck thought aloud and moved closer to peer down over Chris' shoulder.

Nathan shrugged. "Can't be sure. We also got a warning, there's a Vatican hunter group on the roam. Led by some pro called The Italian. They've been hunting along the Mexican border. Cleaned up after that slaughter near Vasquez."

"Okay, keep tabs," Chris replied. "We'll steer clear of them as much as possible, let them do their job." He looked over his shoulder at Buck, then a quick glance at Ezra and Josiah completely absorbed in their game.

Buck gave a gesture with his head toward the door. "Let's go."

"All right," Chris replied and threw more glances around. "We'll be back in a little bit."

Mention of the Vasquez attacks had immediately plunged Buck into melancholy, thinking about the kid. . . Jesse. . . and about those frightened eyes, and the fact that he was still coherent enough to ask what was happening to him, and to say his own name.

However, melancholy didn't stop him from noticing the Ezra-scented black chenille sweater slopped into the waste can near the door. He cocked a brow and glanced at the gambler who now wore a clean white Oxford shirt with the collar turned up. Ezra's eyes were so clearly focused on his hand of cards, he didn't notice he was under scope.

"I don't wanna know," Buck grumbled and went out the door, Chris right behind him.

They looked up and down the parking lot and then out into the open desert, at the ridge of mountains on the horizon, and the field of stars above. A head nod from Buck determined that they cross the road and wander out near a grouping of rocks jutting toward the sky near a bony tree. Low on the horizon, an almost full moon became their sun, so bright that neither of them could look straight at it.

"Vatican hunters," Buck mused aloud over the current information. "There's some mean sons'a bitches."

"Yep." Chris shoved his hands into the pockets of his black Levis and intentionally dragged his heals.

Buck could have sworn for a moment that he heard the sound of spurs ringing softly with each dust-scuffing step, but realized it was actually the keys to his Big Dog jangling on his belt loop. An uneasy feeling stirred under his skin, radiating into his middle, like the gravity of flying his bike over a rise and down into a sudden dip in the road. He huffed out a grunt, turning the Clarion Group information about in his mind.

"What?" Chris asked, sensing his partner's agitation.

"It's just. . ." Buck started, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops and hanging one hand over the keys to silence them. "I don't like it."

"Like what?"

"I think we need to get back to the ranch, lay low for a while. We've fed, right? We can go another week clear before we need to go out again. We could shack up then hit Phoenix later."

"Buck, we can't hide from every other hunter group that comes along."

"I'm not saying hide, just. . . you know, take a break. Hell, maybe even a full. . . . vacation?"

Chris stopped and turned toward him, eyes shadowed in a glare. "You know there's no break for us."

Buck always figured that Larabee somehow had break and vacation mixed up with call it quits. Maybe he was afraid of losing sight of their mission, but most likely, he was just afraid that he would never have his revenge. Buck sighed, hands flying up in the air in a gesture of immediate surrender before that dog could even start barking. He went straight for honesty then.

"Okay, thing is, it just scares me those guys don't know we're on the same side. And hell, would they care, if they did know?"

The deep furrow in Chris' sandy brow loosened up. With an understanding nod he turned and wandered ahead, stopping near the tree, his head bowed as something caught his attention.

His question unanswered, Buck followed, still tangling with that feeling of dread and stopping at his companion's side to look down at a stretch of churned up dirt: Vin's daybed.

"Just like back in the day he slept in his wagon," Buck mused with a forced sweetness in his tone. "Can't stand the sight of four walls for more'n a few seconds."

Chris stifled a chuckle at the comment. He knelt suddenly, reaching out and taking up a handful of the dirt in his hand. Then he turned up his palm and allowed it to filter out, pooling into a little pile beside the greater heap.

Buck could sense the walls going up. Perhaps the man was reflecting on the attack he had spoken of earlier in the evening. Could be anything. Buck stood looking down on the other's inclined back sheathed in a tight black tee, and he watched Chris' head tilt in that animalistic way that they had all managed to pick up being what they were.

"You all right?"

Chris stood, dusting his hand off on his hip and looked out across the night. "You ever think it's like we're. . . like we're just lost in time?"

The question made Buck more nervous than his thoughts on the Vatican hunters. "What're you talking about?"

Standing so still that he might turn to stone, Chris only drew breath to speak. "You know what scares me?"

"What?"

"In another thousand years, we'll still be here."

The statement pulled Buck forward a couple steps, and his hands rose to grip his partner's shoulders from behind. "It ain't like that," he whispered, holding down the little strain of desperation that tightened his throat. This kind of conversation came along once every thirty or forty years, and Buck realized. . . yeah, it was about that time now. He hated it. He wanted to think that it all came down to recollecting their failure to finish what had started a hundred and twenty-five years ago. But it ran deeper than that, like some nasty little shard of glass still wedged down inside a cut. . . the sting constant, the flesh festering around it.

Buck hated it.

"Things ain't always gonna be the way they are, Chris. You have to believe that." He felt his lover's arms tense beneath his grip, and he roamed in closer, sealing his body up against Chris' back, embracing him from behind. To his relief the other didn't pull away.

"We're not lost in time," he whispered into Chris' ear.

Still gazing at the foreverness of the sky and its speckling of stars, Chris drew in a breath, held it for a long time, then released it. Then he leaned his head back against the shoulder behind him and tilted his face to the side where his forehead pressed up against the hollow of Buck's cheek.

"I am," he said.

Chapter Eight

Four Corners, 1877—Amanecer del Terror

Mary Travis caught herself about to fall asleep again for the tenth time. She looked up to see that the crystal reservoir in the oil lamp was almost empty. Her hand had slipped, causing her to smear ink on her dress sleeve, and she groaned softly at the stain and hoped that Borax could handle it.

All night she'd been trying to scribble down a basic article with quill and parchment before she started typesetting, but getting her thoughts on paper was not so easy. There were no words to describe the scene at the cemetery, and even if she could get it right, what difference did it really make? She had never questioned herself like this. If it was news, especially something as big as the existence of such creatures—vampire was a particularly ugly-sounding word to her—as the regulators had dug up and killed that day, then word needed to go out. However, a good portion of the remaining townsmen had been there watching, they knew already, they had been educated in dealing with the matter. Chris Larabee's words came back to harass her.

These people know they're being killed, they don't need to read about it in the paper!

And who would bother with that paper tomorrow? Chris was right, and now no one would want to read about what they had already seen with their own eyes. She had to find another approach. More research on vampires would contribute to a more useful article, something that would help further educate the remaining townspeople and reach the broader community on defending themselves and their homes, and surely the number of witness accounts would bring some credibility. She would also be sure to interview the slayer Michael Arrant in the coming day.

Should have done that already, she thought, but then like everyone else she had been a bit too frazzled by the truth. Now she was tired, her body ready to sleep while her mind buzzed, and along with that, she was in all honestly, scared as hell.

She set aside her quill and stood, pulling a shawl around her shoulders and sweeping a loose lock of blonde from her temple to tuck it back behind her ear as she picked up the oil lamp and went to go pick up an emergency lamp sitting on her file cabinet. The shadows in the room danced as she moved. The massive black bulk of the printer and its mechanics presented the image of a fat blocky spider sitting in the middle of the room. Fatigue did render one irrational, she mused as she walked carefully, annoyed by the creak of the floorboards.

From outside she heard the clomp of three sets of horse hooves going by and glanced out through the glass to see Vin Tanner, J.D. Dunne, and Ezra Standish ride by on patrol. The street sconces still burned, highlighting the shimmer of the horses' manes and tails, or the white accents like Peso's blaze.

"Think I'll stay up at the church this pass," J.D.'s young voice said, just loud enough to be heard muffled through the pane.

Ezra responded, but his softer lilt was lost to little more than a mumble. One of the horses snorted restlessly, another gave a sharp whinny but they stayed under control and moved on with their riders.

So the town knights were still on the case. Mary smiled to herself and looked down at the elegant ladies' watch hanging around her neck. Just shy of five-thirty in the morning.

Her smile melted. Had the night gone by so quickly? In that case, she thought, perhaps she would turn in, if only for a couple hours. Surely she could find sleep in the safety of the coming dawn, and as far as she knew, there hadn't been a single disturbance. She could rest, and then at midmorning she would freshen up and go down the street to find Michael Arrant. Perhaps the Seven and Mr. Arrant would even allow her to witness the hunt.

At the file cabinet, she set down the lamp that was running out of oil and reached up to get the one that was still full, figuring on doing a quick change out just to be on the safe side.

She didn't hear the footsteps on the porch, but when the door suddenly opened, the knob issuing a loud, wood-breaking CRRRRRACK, she almost jumped out of her skin.

"Oh, God!" she cried, dropping her watch, which caught on the chain, giving a little jerk to her neck as the weight of the disk came down. She clamped a hand over her racing heart, and turned as the door creaked open, the bell jangling. Slowly she began to get her breath back when she saw that the figure standing there in a black silk, tightly corseted dress was a woman.

A pale profile, partially veiled by neatly groomed long black hair, stepped into view past the door panel itself. The figure it belonged to gazed around the room, the face slowly turning toward Mary.

Mary felt a chill lay in a T pattern across her shoulders and down her spine, and she inadvertently pulled her shawl tighter, guessing the woman had let in a draft.

"Excuse me," she apologized for shouting and smiled nervously. "You just startled me." She inched forward, every part of her shaking, particularly her hands, and she thought what a good thing it was that she had set the lamp down first. Next her rational mind tried to put an identity to the woman standing there, or why she was here at this time of morning.

Then something hit the floor with a heavy thud behind the shadowy figure, and the brass of the broken doorknob gleamed as it rolled into view. It occurred to Mary exactly what that thing was, and that the door had been locked. She'd made sure of it.

The sound she had heard was not the door merely opening suddenly, the hinges and panel grating against the frame. That had been the sound of the knob being turned with such force, such strength, that the bolt and knob broke completely out of the panel. But how had such a graceful and slender woman done that?

"Excuse me, can I help you?" Mary asked, regaining her composure. "You know, you really shouldn't be out. . . yet. . ."

The face turned, half remaining in shadow, the other half defined in golden light from the lamp. Black eyes beamed purposefully at Mary from a harshly chiseled yet feminine face. Full, rouged lips spread wide with a venomous smile.

"You?" Mary whispered.

It was the last word to pass her lips.

-7-7-7-

J.D. dismounted to go up the church steps and knock on the door while Vin and Ezra remained on their horses keeping watch until the youth was tucked safely inside. The windows had all been completely covered over from within, hopefully making it more difficult for the night terror to enter not knowing what kind of reception it would receive.

"Password?" Josiah's deep purr asked from inside.

"It's me, J.D."

"That ain't a password," came back unimpressed.

Vin turned his face away to avoid smirking at the kid's expense. The remaining light from one of the sconces marking the path up to the steps illuminated his breath as it gusted against the chilled air.

"Aw, come on, Josiah, you know we didn't make up no password."

The door cracked and a single blue eye, leveled off on top by a heavy slate brow, glared out at J.D., then rolled to look at the horses and their mounts waiting at the foot of the steps. Josiah opened the door with a softly relieved grin on his face. Warm light from inside silhouetted his head. "Anything new?"

"Nah," Vin said, "quieter'n an angel's fart out here."

"Such locution, Mr. Tanner," Ezra remarked.

"We heard the horses around back get a little unsettled, but they calmed again," Josiah informed them. "Could have been anything."

Vin glanced toward the eastern sky, noting that the black veil had softened to more of a dark indigo and the slopes and peaks of the mountains were gaining definition. "Guess it's just about over for now. We still got a busy day ahead."

"I'm staying down here for a bit," J.D. said, slipping through the door and past the big preacher. He turned to peer around the barrier one more time and his baby browns drooped drowsily. "Sorry fellas, I gotta grab a bit of sleep. Meet you at breakfast?"

Vin gave a tip of his hat. "See you soon, Josiah," he called as he was already steering Peso away from the foot of the steps. Ezra followed on Maverick.

"Careful, ya'll," the preacher called after them then closed the door. The loud clank of the bolt setting sounded through the wood.

The two rode on more relaxed, slowly beginning to breathe easier, too tired to talk about much. Even the horses seemed to be dragging their feet, weary from being put on the alert all night long and expressing it by cocking their ears back and snuffling with indignation. They obviously wanted to be nowhere but in their boxes at the livery.

Vin slowed, noticing a light flickering within the Clarion News, and dipped his head a bit for a better look. He narrowed his eyes to peer through the window and barely made out the head and shoulders of Mary Travis lying hunched over on her desktop, her cheek resting on the back of one hand, an oil lamp on the corner. "Hmm," he mused aloud. "I see Miz Travis didn't let up trying to get something on paper."

"Rightly so," Ezra replied, "but at this desperate hour, information travels faster by mouth than by paper. I see she lost the battle against sleep."

They were just picking up the pace again when they heard the first shots fired somewhere within the vicinity of their meeting point. The peace-shattering explosions were followed by the shrill nickering of distressed horses.

"What the—“ Ezra muttered, while Maverick gave an uncomfortable whinny.

"The saloon," Vin said under his breath, and nudged Peso into a full run toward the building in question.

Ezra followed, both men feeling that instant sickness that swirls in one's chest when a dreaded moment finally comes to pass.

More gunshots cracked through the pre-dawn darkness. As the riders drew closer, they could see the other horses, tethered outside the saloon, pulling back on the hitching post, tossing their heads regardless of the discomfort from their bits, hooves stamping the dust. A flicker of struggling shadows appeared in the light falling on the porch through the windows and the saloon doors.

Vin was reaching the edge of the porch, ready to throw himself clear of the saddle and bolt through the doors, when the loud crystalline tinkling of shattering glass exploded toward him. The body of a young man, forearms flung up over his face, came through the rain of shards that left cuts and long gashes, as he landed firmly on his feet right in front of Peso and his rider. Peso whinnied, stumbled back a few feet, and stamped.

The horse's mane slapped Vin in the eyes and he gritted his teeth, focusing past the sting to see that what had leapt into his path was no mere man. The creature hissed up at him, its hands hooked into claws. Glass wedges cascaded across the porch and into the street. Vin felt a hard lump slam up into his throat as he thought he recognized the goon. Was that the son of one of the farmers who lived just north of town?

In the same instant, the creature sprang, taking off around one frenzied horse and almost up against another.

Ezra barely saw the thing coming before Maverick reared, tossing his neck back, and unseating his rider.

"Shiiiiiit!"

The gambler's voice rose and fell with his descent as he toppled over Maverick's rump. He hit the ground in a hard roll that sent him up against a ground support for the porch, where the back of his head slammed into the wood. Sparks rained down on his inner vision and he lay stunned, one hand groping across the cool, dusty ground.

Maverick came down on all fours and then reared again, but the goon had already veered away and taken off on foot down the street, leaving prints in the dust, Vin spinning Peso after it.

Focused on the goon, Vin prodded Peso's sides with his heels. "Heee-Yah!" he snapped viciously, and broke the gelding into a charge, following the figure, while Maverick took off in the opposite direction, his breath huffing before him like the steam from a locomotive.

As the thunder of horses hooves faded down the main street, Ezra climbed just to the surface of consciousness, some instinct in him telling him to wake up, get up. . . survive. His right arm stretched out, attempting to release the little Derringer rigged on its track up his coat sleeve.

It wasn't enough. Paralyzed by the pain in the back of his skull, the last thing he registered at all was the blood-curdling screams of the horses at the hitching post fighting against their tethers, and the pale faces of three goons moving in closer.

From inside the saloon above him, the cacophony of gunfire and shouting heralded the coming hell.

-7-7-7-

There are things that stand out in one's mind no matter what.

For Chris it was not that vampire goons had suddenly started birthing out of every shadow in the saloon, or that for every one he managed to stake, there were three more coming at him. It wasn't that in the chaos of the attack, he had turned to what was most familiar, his gun, as had Buck. As had every man in the building.

All of that was a mere haze. . . the voices shouting curses. . . the gunfire. . . the snarling goons.

What came to the forefront of his thoughts had been the very beginning of it all. . . the vision of Michael Arrant standing in the doorway that led back into the bar's storage room. Just standing there, first speaking of how his father had been a hunter before him, and his grandfather, too. How the Arrants had miraculously managed to live longer than any family of hunters out there. He was proud of that fact, said that many hunters rarely lived to see their twenty-fifth birthday.

Arrant paused to turn his head to the side and yawn, cupping a hand over his mouth, when he stiffened and his hand dropped away. His eyes widened with surprise and rolled toward Chris, and his mouth gaped. It was a look of awe, really, like he had suddenly thought of something else impressive that he had forgotten to mention before, but he didn't speak after that.

He only stared.

"What?" Chris asked from where he sat back at the Seven's favored table, feet propped up. He was on about his third wind for the night. Buck sat across from him, head bowed over folded arms, fighting the onslaught of sleep.

Arrant's lower lip bobbed up and down a little, but no words came out. He stood there with that glassy gaze aimed at Chris, and then blood welled up and poured out of his mouth as neatly as if it had been dispensed from the lip of a water pitcher.

Chris bounded out of his chair, rousing Buck and nearly toppling over the table.

From behind Arrant came the sound of flesh tearing, bones and tendons breaking. Then he collapsed to his knees, arms hanging slack at his sides.

The creature standing behind him still had its talon-tipped hand spread out before it, fingers caked in blood, torn skin and muscle from where it had ripped into Arrant's heart through his spine. Death was instant, certainly, but that blank look on Arrant's face penetrated Chris most.

This was what Chris saw first in his mind as he reached for consciousness.

His temple throbbed from a blow he had taken in the attack, the blow that felled him. It was like dropping down through a tunnel of darkness, and now, confused as to the passage of time, or where he was, he climbed back up through that tunnel, and behind the barrier of his eyelids he met the face of Michael Arrant.

It haunted him, so alive and vibrant one moment, dead and blank the next. He had seen men die in front of him before, and been responsible for many of their deaths, but this was something completely different, something that clearly defined the threat that the people of Four Corners were up against. The ranch and trail slaughters had been a warning, yes, but this had taken place right in front of Chris Larabee's eyes and so fast, so silent, he hadn't known until it was too late for the little hunter.

With a gasp he snapped into full wakefulness and found himself lying in bed. At first he thought he was in his own boarding room, in his bed.

It was all just a nightmare, he guessed as he stared up through faint light at a vaguely defined ceiling. But that didn't explain the throbbing pain remaining in his temple. Cool air enshrouded his skin all over, and he looked down the course of his body to realize that he lay spread eagled and naked. Chris slept naked most of the time, purely for comfort reasons, so he was not at all surprised. It was when he thought to reach up with his right hand and rub the bridge of his nose that he realized he was bound.

His wrists were each tied to a bedpost, the same with his ankles, by twisted lengths of cotton sheets. His nudity jumped more readily to mind then. With a grunt he moved his head from one side to the other, attempting to survey the situation, but the pain stabbed at his temple more rapidly. No telling what kind of a bruise he had there, but it hurt like the original sonofabitch. Taking long, deep breaths, he forced the pain to a more tolerable level.

And then abruptly a curtain opened somewhere in the room, letting in a shaft of indirect light just bright enough to splinter Chris' vision. He winced and turned away from the sensation of needles stabbing into his eyes.

"Over time, the light is not so frightening," a feminine voice said softly.

Chris' stomach did a sickening turn, and he forced his eyes back open again, slowly rolled his head on the pillow and looked at a figure in black standing before the window. The rest of the room began to register with him as well, like that it was too large to be his boarding room, and the furnishings were too fine. This was a room in the hotel across from the boarding house, not his own little box.

And that figure. . .

A miserable groan wormed out of Chris' throat as he recognized the precise profile, the sharp jaw line, the shoulders and torso tapering down to a tiny waist.

She turned, revealing herself completely in the half-light, a warm glimmer in her eyes. . . euphoric insanity. She wore a black silk corset and a dressing gown tied loosely at the waist with a sash.

"Ella?" he rasped, and the throbbing in his head expanded, turned into a whirling pool of anger-hatred-remorse-fear. He was beyond words then, stricken silent as his throat constricted and all he managed to get out was a pitiful gurgle. Like choking on his own tongue.

"Hello, Christopher," she said evenly. One slender arm reached up and she closed the heavy curtain again, folding away the shaft of light and bathing the room in shadow once more. "Not so frightening," she repeated, "but still a problem." She strolled gracefully over to the nightstand and water basin and there picked up a matchbox. She struck a match and lit several candles placed along the stand. Then she took one candle in its little brass holder and moved across the room with it, trailing the scent of wax and jasmine perfume as she went.

Chris opened his mouth, prepared to snarl curses at her, but still nothing happened. He grated out a miserable groan.

"I have so yearned for this moment," she said casually as she stopped at the mantle to a tiny fireplace and lit a row of candles there. "We were always destined, and finally you will understand everything I did for you, and what I'm going to do for you." That done, she set the last candle down and turned to approach the bed, her steps silent, the flowing edges of her gown a whisper. The frills on the black lace sleeves fluttered with her movement.

Chris shook his head. This couldn't be happening. This was a nightmare. The vampires, the attack on the saloon, Ella here with him. It was all even more unbelievable than before.

"Ah, darling," she crooned, coming to sit on the edge of the bed and tilt her head to examine his grimacing face. The candlelight caught up to full illumination, casting warm golden hues on the edges of polished wood furnishings. It masked her face, and he saw how dark her eyes had become, how sinister and yet still glittering with inner warmth at him. She smiled, crimson lips curling back over two generous rows of perfectly white teeth. Her hand crept up to his stomach and lay flat over his abdominals.

He grunted and sucked in his gut at the cool touch. His wrists turned in their bonds, pulling uselessly. A single bedpost creaked at his efforts, but the bonds and their foundation held.

She traced over the contours of his muscles with a fingertip, finding the blotch of scar in his side, just below his ribs. Her eyes widened, recognizing it, that place where he had taken a bullet because he had hesitated to shoot her over a year ago. "I saw you get hurt," she whispered gently, and yet with an undertone of complete control. "And I swore it would never happen again. I'll be sure nothing, and no one, can ever harm you again."

Swiftly her hand slid up over his chest to his neck, up to his cheek. The caress was enough to finally jolt him out of his speechless shock.

"Get away from me, you bitch!" he spat and turned his face away, teeth gritted, and once more his throat tightened up on him.

She glared back at him and leaned over further, more prominently exposing the soft swell of her bosom above the corset. Then her hand gripped his chin and with strength he had not imagined in her, she forced his face back to her. "Chris, I saved you from that life, and I'm going to save you again."

He stared back with rage-reddened eyes. Lower lip trembling, he managed to whisper out the great question looming in his mind.

"How?"

It sounded as if he asked how she planned to save him, but she obviously understood the context in which he meant it. The corner of her mouth quirked up, and she ran a tickling fingertip down between his pectorals.

"Fowler," she said breathily. She leaned down yet further, letting the long silky hair falling over her shoulder brush against his navel and near his cock.

His brows knitted in confusion, his memory accessing the name easily enough, but not finding what it had to do with this situation other than that Ella—the human Ella—had hired the man to kill Sarah and Adam Larabee.

"You never would have guessed it, would you?" she said and smiled. "The fact that he only confronted you at night?"

"No," he uttered. He closed his eyes to this and shook his head again. "He's dead. . . I saw him walk into that fire. . ."

Even as he said it, he realized what it really indicated, that Fowler had not died in that barn fire. In fact, there had been no evidence left, no bones, no piece of jewelry, nothing to prove he had indeed died. Everything had been completely incinerated.

Further clues began to pour forth, clues that Chris had missed because back then he had no idea that vampires existed.

The brutality with which the assassin Cletus Fowler operated. . . there was one clue. First Fowler had cut the throat of the bartender who had spoken to Chris while he was investigating the case, and hung the man up in the closet of Chris' hotel room. In connection, there had not been nearly enough blood on the scene of discovery, a fact that easily indicated the bartender had simply been killed elsewhere. Now it sufficed to guess that Fowler drank that blood before depositing his warning "present" in Chris' closet. Second, Fowler had eviscerated John Black Fox for attempting to make a witness statement on the Larabee family murders.

Then there was that particular point Ella had made, that Fowler only made his appearances at night. The only time he had appeared at all during the day was in a photograph, which had been taken indoors, and even then he stood back in the shadows. And as Ella had demonstrated, apparently vampires could stand minor exposure to the daylight as long as it was not direct.

It all made so much goddamned sense, Chris could only attempt denial. "No-no-no. . ." he uttered through his teeth.

"Do not be afraid," Ella whispered. "Cletus made me like him, a master." She swayed her head serenely back and forth, causing the fall of her hair to move over his skin, tickling, soothing. "He owed me, you see. Remember the hidden passage under the storage shed on my ranch? I gave him shelter there. I helped him find sustenance among the immigrant workers whom no one would miss, and I paid him well to deal with that whore wife of yours."

"Shut up," Chris hissed. Every muscle in his body cinched up, recoiled with all the fierceness of a rattler ready to strike. His wrists turned purple around the edges of the ties. Hot tears pooled in his eyes and lingered there, hazing his vision.

It was obviously the reaction Ella wanted. She remained icy calm as she drove the verbal dagger deeper. "He drank from her, you know, from her and that boy, then he made sure they would never rise by burning the house with their bodies in it."

"You bitch!" he shouted and the curses poured free. The tears spilled over and down the sides of his cheeks, leaking into his ears. "You goddamned fucking BITCH!" He thrashed as he shouted, pulling until the skin of his ankles and wrists was raw and burned, until the bed creaked as if it would collapse, until his head throbbed so much and his face was so red and hot that he could have passed out again from sheer exhaustion.

Ella simply eased off of the bed and backed away while he finished out the tantrum.

It continued for several minutes.

Tossing his body from side to side, wrinkling the duvet beneath him, he visualized being able to simply break free and dive for her, break her neck, pound on her face with his fist. Such imaginings, conflicting with the reality of his immobilized limbs, only served to fuel his frustration-rage. When finally his stressed body could take no more self-abuse, he broke down coughing and sobbing. Spittle gleamed along his lips, and sweat on his brow.

"You bi. . . i. . . i. . . i. . . tch. . ."

Ella walked to the door and opened it upon a darkened hallway, giving a gesture to someone outside.

Chris stared after her, his mind a muddle while he panted with all the raspy and worn breath of a dog dying in the desert heat, his lungs burning. He shuddered again when three goons entered, all women, young, perhaps once pretty. Their lips were slightly forced open by the crowding of their fangs, and he could swear he heard one of them purr like a sated cougar to its mistress.

Their ashen faces made their black and glossy eyes seem all that much more sunken, and they didn't so much as look at him as Ella stepped back into the middle of the room and held out her arms from her body like a ballet dancer, allowing them to undress her. One goon caught the dressing gown as Ella shrugged it off while another unlaced the corset.

"I understand your anger only so far, Chris," she spoke to him casually as she stood poised and waiting for the last of the laces to come out. "It is time to move on. I told you in my letter that we belong together. Soon you will see the truth. We were always destined to be, and now. . ." She stepped forward as the corset came free and her bare breasts shone round and milky in the light. Her nipples, dark red and hardened to fine nubs, seemed to stare back at Chris as intensely as her eyes. "Now we will be together forever."

Completely naked, she stepped forward, leaving her slaves behind. Her words made her intentions all too clear.

Chris panicked, summoning one more piece of strength to commence thrashing again. "No! Noooooooo! Don't you fucking touch me! DON'T you fucking TOUCH me!"

Somewhere between his incessant shouting, another voice answered him. It came from outside the room, somewhere down the hallway, and he heard the unsteady stamp of approaching feet.

"Chris!"

Ella and her goons turned toward the voice, all hissing their disapproval as the lanky figure of Buck Wilmington bled into view in the darkened doorway.

"Chris!"

Buck drew up short at the sight of Ella, his eyes darting from her to the bed and back. He was flushed and sweaty, wearing only his trousers and suspenders.

"Oh, God. . ." the tall gunslinger said under his breath and stared in complete shock, his hands reaching out to brace either side of the doorframe as if to keep from falling over.

"Bu. . . Buck. . ." Chris stammered, trying to lift his head and see his friend more clearly.

Buck bore some cuts and scrapes to his chest and arms and a minor bruise on his cheek. His wavy hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead and temples. Regardless of Ella standing there, completely nude, pale skin glowing like some vile moon goddess barring his way, he stumbled forward, one hand reaching out toward the other man stripped and helpless on the bed.

Ella pointed at him. "What is he doing here!" she shouted and her voice shifted to something demonic, strained like two shrieking voices crying over top of each other. "Get him out of here! Kill him!"

"No!" Chris shouted, pulling at the bonds, his body bowing up and then dropping down, his ass bouncing on the mattress and causing the floorboards to creak.

All three female goons dove at Buck, grabbing him by the arms, pulling him back toward the door. He thrashed against them, focused eyes full of nothing but concern for his friend.

"Chriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis!"

The bed rattled under Chris' persistent shoving to and fro. One hand spread, attempted to turn out, quivering fingers reaching in vain.

Buck's captors dragged him toward the doorway, their claws tearing more gashes in his arms and chest. The darkness sprouted arms as more goons arrived, reaching in after him. They hissed and growled, feet scuffling over the floorboards. The whole hotel had apparently been turned into what Arrant called a nest, and Chris had to wonder how Buck had managed to even get into the room.

"Buck. . ." he whispered one last time as his oldest friend and his last hope was swallowed away into the dark. He could still hear the shouting. It turned from calling his name to cursing the vampire brood, growing ever more vicious yet further away until there was silence.

Dead? His energy drained, Chris' grasping hand went slack in its harness, as if he'd felt Buck's very life slip through his fingers. Dead? Buck. . . dead?

The thought wrenched at his soul, the regret unbearable that he had blamed Buck unfairly for so many things gone wrong in his own life—Sarah and Adam's murders, and how he had resented Buck's skirt chasing antics. But the life that had just ended had not deserved that. It had been rich and vibrant and fun-loving, and Chris had sneered at Buck's determination to enjoy whatever came his way, whether it be an adventure or a pretty girl. Chris now cursed himself. His cries had brought Buck running only to have Ella's rage condemn him. Hell, maybe all of this wouldn't be happening if a year ago he had listened to Buck's cautions on getting close to Ella. He had been so short-sighted, so stubborn, so stupid. . .

The sensation of sinking into the pit of his own personal darkness crept up.

And maybe, he wondered.

Just maybe. . .

He deserved this.

Whatever came next was for him to face, his punishment for all the piles of shit he had heaped on his friends and anyone else who tried to get close to him. . . for never taking responsibility for his actions, especially those that hurt Buck or any of the others who had done nothing but show him support and respected him as their leader.

Yeah, some leader. . .

Alone with her captive, Ella sauntered toward the door, her ebony hair spilling down her sculpted back, and closed the barrier with a simple and graceful turn of her body. Her hand still resting on the knob, she turned back, head tilted flirtatiously as she smiled again.

"Now," she said huskily, "where were we?"

Chris swallowed a glob of congestion. His tears left a web work of patterns over his cheeks that slowly dried. He recalled how he'd never expected to go up against something worse than Ella, until early one fall morning—yesterday morning, to be exact—he'd learned that there were worse nightmares roaming the earth, and the night. That realization was intensified here in this room, as he saw two evils merged together in the body of this woman.

He could see her strategy now, and how it had worked. She'd dug at his feelings for Sarah and Adam to get him to wear himself down, and Buck's desperate appearance had added to the friction working at every nerve and muscle.

She had simply let his own rage tire him.

Watching her cross the room and back to the foot of the bed, he pondered some way to take his own life. Like how? Hold his breath? He almost laughed at himself over that bullshit wish.

Then he cringed, arms tensing and pulling him as far toward the headboard as possible, when Ella climbed onto the bed at his feet.

"As I said, darling, there's nothing to be afraid of," she murmured and laid her cold hands on his inner thighs, massaging her way up to the patch of coarse sandy hair around his balls and slack, completely withdrawn cock. Her thumbs slid under either side of his sack and teased gently, while her fingers touched at his cock head.

At first the touch did nothing. No way in hell she could possibly arouse him, he figured, not after what she had done, and certainly not being what she was now, a dead thing still walking and breathing and preying on blood.

But then somewhere down there, a fingertip stroked over a nerve and tickled. The tickle branched out, became a warm quiver. Chris' eyes widened at the shock that his body was even remotely beginning to respond.

"Ahhhhh," Ella purred, "just let it happen, lover." She leaned over and slid herself up between his legs, hands still working. Her thumbs lifted his balls up, massaged deep into the scrotum, working the orbs within around in a circling motion, and then she leaned in, wrapped her lips around one side, and pulled inward.

"No, please. . ." Chris whispered as his groin began to crawl with a life all its own. The lips sucking on that one ball seemed excruciatingly frigid, and yet began to warm, as if absorbing the heat off of him, adapting to whatever surface they touched.

Ella moaned, and the vibrations it produced sent a ripple of pleasure from his sack up into the base of his cock.

His own lips formed the word no again, but no sound came out, only a weak stutter of breath. He felt the silky touch of her hair on his inner thigh, the slight rub of her shoulder, and turned his head away, closed his eyes tightly and tried to shut her out.

It didn't work.

While the vision of her went away, her touches and her kisses did not. She moved from sucking and kissing on one ball to the other, pulling it in, applying enough pressure to torment him, then gently letting it slide out. She lifted his cock in one hand and licked the underneath side, up to the head, and there waggled her tongue back and forth near the slit which began to ooze clear fluid.

The result appalled Chris as his body betrayed him and blood began to flush into his member. He shook his head slowly, kept his eyes closed tightly.

Ella hummed softly into his skin, pleased that it responded as she wished. "That's it," she coaxed and repeated, "just. . . let. . . it. . .happen." Then her mouth came down on him, took him in all the way to the hilt. As she drew off, she tightened her lips into an "O" stimulating him from root to stem.

Chris felt the smooth curve of one of her breasts brush against his leg. Her arms stretched out and her hands moved up over his torso while she kept his cock captured in her mouth and growing larger by the second. Now her fingers pinched his nipples, rolled them around. He attempted to maneuver his upper body from side to side and escape, but the movement only served to aid Ella in coaxing his flesh. He was at full hardness now, his cock completely gorged, and miserably he opened his eyes, stared out from between tear-sopped lashes at her head and its bridal veil mass of black hair moving up and down rhythmically over his hidden staff.

When at last she pulled off of him, she straightened and stared directly into his green eyes, her own murky orbs suddenly capturing him. It was like her pupils had opened up into deep inky wells, absorbing him into her. Unable to look away, he stared, experiencing something he couldn't figure out. Morbid fascination perhaps, or perhaps he was just giving up. If he couldn't control his body, what did he have left?

"Yes," she husked. "Just give into it, lover."

The voice, smoky and lathered with lust, sank in, spoke to every part of him, and he found he couldn't hold together one more coherent thought. She rose up onto her knees and straddled him, her fingers still playing with his nipples, while the dark little triangle of her pussy glanced along the underside of his cock where her tongue had been moments before.

She lifted up a little further, positioned herself, and in one neat and clean slide rode down his shaft. Her inner passage smoothed around him, velvety and moist. He didn't really notice that it was cool in there, only that it snugged around him perfectly and he gasped.

Ella sighed her own pleasure and smiled at him. "This is how we belong, Chris."

Caught in her eyes, he sighed back, and instinctively flexed his cock inside her.

She inhaled sharply, and her smile broadened as she threw back her head, closed her eyes, and rolled her shoulders forward and back, luxuriating in the little teasing pleasure he'd given her.

The eye contact broken, Chris blinked and suddenly realized what he had just done. He was about to voice an objection, find another curse to spit at her, start thrashing again, anything, when she skillfully rocked her hips forward. Her head was still thrown back, her hair cascading down her back, which arched in, her breasts thrust out like twin beacons.

She rocked again and erupted into intoxicated laughter.

Chris tried to arch his upper body, thus pushing his ass down so he could pull himself out of her, but her knees cinched in, tucked at the base of his ribs, and that supernatural strength trapped him. She raised her head and looked down at him, her lips parted, and for the first time he saw the twin tips of her canines as they lengthened. Gradually at first, and then they were at full bud, long and sharp and. . . hungry.

"Huhn-uh," Chris groaned in objection.

She snarled at him and rocked harder.

Air hissed through Chris' teeth as he almost came.

"Come on, lover," she spat, "show me you've still got what it takes." Another rock and she laughed again in that husky, pleasure-drunk way. "Come on."

Chris tossed his head to the side, right onto the temple that had the bruise, hoping that the pain would snap him out of it, force some control down into his traitorous dick. It hurt like holy hell, and perhaps for a moment he had some control, but then Ella reached down and seized his face in her hands, held his head still, all the while still rocking until finally, the friction of his shaft against her tunnel wall produced.

Chris cried out miserably as he came inside her, tried to pry his head free and look away, anywhere but at the creature riding him.

Ella's laughter caught between breaths, and then rose again to full force as her captive reached completion. Chris could have sworn he heard a deep purr slither out of her throat. He closed his eyes again, swallowed hard and nearly choked on it as his breath heaved and coughed back out. The disappointment in himself for not having more willpower was excruciating.

She leaned down, her lips close to his. "That just means you're mine, lover," she whispered into his mouth. Then she let him go, straightened up onto her knees, and slid off of him.

He didn't know what to expect next as she crawled backward down the length of his body and back to focusing her attention on his cock as it remained half erect and gleaming with a combination of his cum and her juice.

"And now. . ." she said, her eyes intensely serious. "Eternity."

Then she lay down between his legs and bit deep into the inside of his thigh, close in to his groin, and tapped the vein.

Chris Larabee screamed.

Chapter Nine

Buck recognized the hotel lobby as he awakened, finding himself sprawled on the settee in the lounge, face down, one arm dangling to the floor, the other cramped uncomfortably beneath his body. With a grunt at the little stab of pain in the base of his skull, he lifted his head and thought he heard whispering nearby, or the soft pad of scurrying feet.

The place was empty. . . dim.

Boards had been nailed over the windows, pinning the drawn curtains against glass and frame. It was sloppy. Not all of the boards neatly lined up, so there were a few little slivers of light around the edges, or where a curtain panel was wrinkled. It was enough to define the patterns in the Persian rug spread beneath the settee, or the lion-footed legs of a plant stand turned over on its side, dirt and pieces of fern scattered about like a twister had come through. Still, it wasn't enough light to be of any help to Buck.

The air around him was stagnant and touched his skin with a waxiness that made him feel immediately dirty, and then the smell of shit and decay hit him. It was faint yet powerful enough to turn his stomach.

Easing up into a sit and freeing the pinned arm to restore circulation, he massaged gently at the back of his head. He remembered the fight and seeing Chris get side swiped by one of the goons in the saloon. The blow sent Larabee spinning like a rag doll until he slammed into the edge of a table and fell backward, out cold. Buck had run to his friend's side, practically skidded in on his knees, and scooped Chris' limp upper body into his arms, his mind racing at plans to cross the room. . . somehow. . . and get out of the saloon. It was almost dawn out there. At least they might have the chance of being saved by the sun.

But how? All around him, the saloon patrons who had holed up for the night were dying. He cringed to see a decapitation on one side of the room, an evisceration on the other. . . blood ejecting everywhere.

Then something popped him at the base of his skull and he collapsed instantly, dropping Chris, falling on top of him.

Now here he was, in the hotel.

He listened, hearing only silence at first, then the creak of a board from somewhere overhead. Looking up at the ceiling, he rationalized that someone was upstairs, and he had no particular compulsion to go up there and find out who it was. But what if it was Chris? Buck took a deep breath and stood. If it was Chris, then that was another story. He stood slowly, fighting a dizzy rush and the little jolt of pain in the back of his head. Damn but those goons could hit hard.

Gripping the carved wooden armrest on the settee, he got to his feet and only when his bare feet were planted on the Persian rug and he felt its scratchy fibers under his toes, did he look down and realize that he was half naked. His trousers were still on, and his suspenders, though one hung lazily off his shoulder. No gun belt, no shirt, no boots or a single sock.

"The hell—“ he murmured and looked around, forgetting that his head hurt or that he was in a room that had been shut up to keep out the sunlight. He moved carefully, looking for signs of life, and found none. What he did find was the body of a young woman lying against the front desk in the expansive main lobby. The hotel owner too, lay sprawled in the corridor of the lower floor. That was where the reek of shit came from. Their bowels had spilled at the point of death. Buck clamped a hand over his nose and mouth, filtering out the smell as much as possible.

He thought he heard another creak overhead, and he stepped toward the central stairwell that led up to the balcony, which in turn gave access to the hallway and connecting rooms. Someone was definitely up there, but he wasn't going to go charging up.

As if to remind him what a pickle he was in, two goons, both male, suddenly stepped out of the darkened corridor upstairs and onto the balcony, looking down at him from the railing.

Buck tensed, instinctively backing slowly toward the front door, his eyes remaining fixed on the threat above. His hand felt for the knob only to find it torn off, the double doors also covered over and secured with a crisscross of boards.

He waited, but the goons made no move. Their breath rasped in the eerie quiet of the hotel, and their claws clicked on the railing, but they stayed put, watching him. Spine tingling uncomfortably, Buck kept his eyes on them while he eased toward the front desk and under the balcony, loosing sight of them as he slipped into the hallway there. He stepped over the owner's body, resisting the urge to look down. The faint buzz of a fly added its own element of death.

He wondered at the skill with which the vampire attack had been carried out. Nothing Michael Arrant had told him, or the rest of the Seven, could have prepared them for it. Hell, even the little hunter hadn't had a chance. Arrant was sliced and dead before most of the folks housed up in the saloon had realized what was happening.

Buck felt his stomach lurch harder, and again he covered his mouth as he padded down the hallway and past the dark mouth of an open door. A sharp and displeased hiss erupted from the dark and he nearly hit the ceiling. Clamping down on a yelp of surprise, he skirted the opening, seeing nothing but what might have been the gleam of black eyes. Floorboards creaked from inside the room, but nothing emerged. Why they were leaving him alone, he couldn't figure.

Hurrying on, he veered into the hotel kitchen. Ah, at least he might find some sort of makeshift weapon. . . a knife, maybe a broom handle that he could break off into a stake. Hell, a frying pan would make him happy. He scanned the kitchen, noting a mess of pots and pans scattered over the floor, and a single congealing pool of blood where someone else had been killed. There was no body, just a smear of a trail where it had been dragged away.

Another fly buzzed somewhere within the confines, and Buck realized what an immediate intolerance he was developing toward the little critters. Swiping a hand through his hair, smearing back sweat from his brow, he rummaged about, no longer so quiet as he pulled open drawers and cabinets, making his way over to the cast iron stove that still radiated minor heat from the previous night. Near the stove he spotted the back door, also completely boarded. The window next to it was boarded too, except for one minor ribbon of light that beamed in between two of the slats. It was a brilliant beam, and he realized he was facing out the southeast side of the hotel. He could be safe here, he thought, if he could pry those boards off and bring in the sun.

Movement through the crack caught his attention and he anxiously leveled his eyes to peer through. Out there in the brilliant daylight, he recognized the tall, broad-shouldered figure of Josiah Sanchez scouting the back streets of the town with a Winchester shotgun tucked under one arm. There wasn't much back behind the hotel, just the grounds for the miners' camp which had been long since leveled when the first massacres started moving toward Four Corners and it was deemed unsafe to sleep outdoors.

"Josiah," Buck said under his breath, and his fingertips wormed desperately through the crack, finding a gripping point on the board. He pulled back on it but felt no give, paused to take another glimpse. Josiah was about twenty yards out, too far away to hear Buck give a quiet call, and it was too dangerous to risk shouting to him. Even if the goons he'd encountered so far had avoided him, Buck didn't want to suddenly find the means to bring their wrath down on him. He pulled harder when he saw that Josiah was about to turn and head back down the side street. The board gave a loud crack as one side came free, pulling out a jagged arrangement of long nails. Buck pulled down, causing more wood to creak as the board gave and lowered, widening the crack enough that he could get his hand through and bang on the glass. He grunted as splinters drove into his skin, as the board, firmly nailed in place on the other side of the window frame, didn't give easily.

Little wonder it was a surprise to Josiah to hear a screechy-scratchy knock from nearby. The movement of the hand wedged between two panels of wood was not so easy to spot behind the sun's reflection on the glass.

Then from the inside, Buck gritted his teeth, made a fist, and jabbed. A patch of glass broke wide open, jangling to the ground, shards catching in his skin. He hissed air through his teeth as he withdrew his hand and shook it, raining loose some of the shards as he looked through.

"Josiah," he hissed a little louder, and was greatly relieved to hear the dusty footfalls hurry closer.

"Buck?" the preacher's voice said as he came to a stop a few feet away.

Buck could only guess what must have gone down at the church while the saloon was under attack. He hunched up, gritted his teeth as he had to pull one of the pieces of glass out from between his index and middle finger, then he dropped the bloody wedge to the floor. "Yeah, Josiah, it's me," he called back, still keeping his voice at a loud hiss.

Josiah's blue eyes attempted to focus through the blackened crack between the boards, only glimpsing Buck's own stare blinking back at him. Buck wormed his hand back through the crack, offering a pitiful wave.

Then Josiah closed the distance and reached up toward the hole in the glass, his fingertips barely touching Buck's. "What are you doing in there?"

It was a serious, and understandable question, but Buck had no time to really answer it. He withdrew his hand to open up the view a little more. "Josiah, you all right?"

"Yeah, well. . ." The preacher looked away, tossing the shotgun up to rest on his shoulder. "For now." He looked pissed off, and sad, and a variety of other emotions drifted across his heavy gray brow as he resumed firm eye contact.

"What do you mean?" Buck said, putting his lips up closer to the crack so he could speak louder. His hands came back up to grip the lower board, widening the gap a little more.

Josiah reached up and pulled back the collar of his shirt. Between his collarbone and the dip below his Adam's apple, two long cuts, wide at the top and tapering off, still oozed blood. "If what that Arrant fella said about getting scratched or bit is true, then I'm infected," he responded bitterly.

Buck's mouth bobbed open and he jittered nervously behind the panel before pulling back with more force, nearly ripping it completely out of the wall. "No," he uttered in denial. "No, it can't be that easy. . . you think you're. . ." He trailed off, another thought hitting him.

"Where's J.D.?"

The preacher still looked sad for a moment, but he responded calmly. "He's all right, but. . ." he looked away again. "Me and Nathan. . ."

"Shit," Buck whispered, and tears dampened his eyes. "They got us at the saloon, right before dawn."

"Yeah," Josiah replied. "Nathan and I been looking for survivors, but there aren't many. The telegraph lines have been cut so we can't send for help that way, and Lord God, what would we say anyhow?" He shook his head and looked down at the dust. "Don't know where Vin and Ezra are."

"They ran the last patrol," Buck recalled, and felt his throat tighten up. Everything was going to hell in the proverbial hand basket too fast for him to keep up. "But Nathan, he's like you?"

"Yeah," Josiah said. He appeared to be tangling with it inside himself, only calm as possible on the outside. "Took a bite on the arm when they attacked the church." No question what they meant. "What happened to you?"

"Got slammed on the head. Don't remember anything else." Buck glanced over his shoulder. "Don't know where Chris is."

Josiah's eyes roamed hastily over the window and the door then up the side of the building.

"Everything's boarded up," Buck explained. "This place is full of goons, but they haven't touched me, so for all I know I'm infected too. Don't know what the hell's going on."

"We gotta get you out of there," Josiah insisted and started for the door.

"No," Buck hissed. "There's something going on here, Josiah. I got a feeling these things chose Four Corners for some reason. Not just to feed. That Arrant kid kept talking about some master vampire running this gang. We need to find the master and kill him or this thing is gonna keep spreading."

"But how do we find him, and how do we tell a master from the rest?" His voice was beginning to rise with concern for his trapped friend. "We took these things to be just. . . mindless. . . but they still pulled off a scheme, attacked right before dawn. . ."

"After we let our defenses down. Yeah, I caught that too." Buck tensed as something banged on the floor upstairs and he thought he heard someone shout. It was faint, but startling enough that he backed away from the window to cock an ear and listen for more. After a moment of silence he eased back toward the crack. "Look, I think Chris is in here somewhere and I'm gonna find him before I go anywhere. You gotta get J.D. to leave town."

"Won't be easy. You know he's looking for you all over."

"Figure out something," Buck insisted. "This place is cursed, Josiah. We've lost this town. The only thing we can do is get the survivors out. You get J.D. to leave. Whatever survivors there are, you get them out and you send him with them." The thought of the kid dead or infected with vampirism ushered a sinking feeling into his gut and heated his head with every possible variety of worry. The hotel's confines suddenly seemed even more overpowering.

"I'll see what I can do. Buck, I. . ." Josiah's eyes now filmed over, but like Buck's his tears merely suspended along the line of his lashes but didn't fall over. "I don't know how long I have, or Nathan."

"Don't think about it, Josiah," Buck insisted with a harsh spit. The last thing any of them needed was to give up completely. "We'll figure something out, you hear me?" But he knew there was a tone of pure desperation seeping out in his voice. He felt like his point wasn't strong enough, and to enforce it, he pushed his hand back out through the crack and up to the hole he'd made in the glass. "You hold on, Josiah. You and Nathan both."

This time their fingertips did touch, but there wasn't enough reach for their hands to grip.

"Vaya con el dios, amigo," the preacher said softly.

"You too, buddy," Buck answered back and withdrew his hand. He lingered at the opening long enough to listen to Josiah's footsteps grind away, and then he knelt down, looking back across the kitchen floor at the pool of blood and the mess of pots and pans.

It was then that he heard the shouting begin upstairs. The anguish inflicted outcry of Chris Larabee.

"You goddamned fucking bitch!"

The ceiling might have muffled the volume, but the words were clear. Not only that, but something was banging on the floor above, scraping back and forth, like someone was pounding a headboard into the wall. Buck looked up, wet dangles of hair slapping his forehead. In the first few seconds he examined the outcries, focused on where exactly they came from. . . to the right or the left side of the upstairs hallway. . . near the front of the hotel or the rear. Then he bolted from the kitchen and started down the hallway, almost tripping over the body still lying there.

"You goddamned fucking bitch!" the voice from above still cried.

Stumbling into the central lobby, Buck shouted surprise when a huddle of goons near the lounge entrance hissed and recoiled as if ready to strike. But they held back, leaving him to wander backward, staring at them on alert. Damn, he'd forgotten to grab something from the kitchen. Another shout upstairs drew his attention. His gaze darted up along the step railing to the balcony, then back to the goons.

Then another figure stepped into view in the opening to the lounge.

Buck gaped for a moment.

The vampire was male, and to Buck's surprise handsome save for the features that distinguished him from a human: the tips of his fangs showing slightly at the part in his lips, the pallid hue of his skin. He was tall, his hair a honey-blond mass of long waves, and he gazed back with green eyes that appeared flecked with gold, much like the eyes of a wolf. In the partial light emitted through the uneven boards, they seemed to glow like amber pieces held up before a candle flame.

"So," the vampire said, the corners of his mouth turning up in amusement, "awake, are we?" He spoke in a strangely soothing, but certainly inhuman, growl that also bore an accent. Not exactly Hispanic, and not French. European something was all Buck could figure. Unlike the goons in their graven rags, this one also had Ezra's fashion sense, and sported a black waistcoat with silk accents, and a shirt with a cravat fixed at the collar.

Buck took a step back and unconsciously reached up to grasp at the lower stair railing where it dipped into an elegant swirl of oak and brass trim. "You sta. . ." he stammered. "Stay away from me." Of its own volition, his hand found one of the more narrow spokes in the railing, felt the smooth wood, and in desperation tugged at it.

"Heh," the vampire mused as it became obvious what his captive intended to do. Calmly he gave a gesture toward Buck. "Bring him here."

Buck saw them coming and shouted as he pulled harder, as if his very voice aided in the effort to pull the spoke free. With a snap it broke out of the fixture, one end more blunt, the other a jagged point. Not as sharp as he would have liked, but it would do. He held the makeshift stake up like a knife and made a jabbing motion with it. "Yeah, come on you pus bag," he threatened, but couldn't control the shake in his voice, or his hand.

One of the goons started for him then pulled back when he jabbed with the stake again. Then he completely lost focus on defending himself when the cries upstairs reached full volume.

"No! Noooooooo! Don't you fucking touch me! DON'T you fucking TOUCH me!"

"What are you doing to him?" Buck demanded of the tall blond vampire who remained watching, greatly entertained by the commotion. When there was no answer, Buck returned his own distress cry.

"Chris!"

He turned and ran up the steps, vaguely aware that the goons were on his heels. One scrambled so closely behind that he felt the minor scratch of its claws nearly snag an ankle. Climbing so rapidly he almost tripped over himself, Buck came down on one knee and accidentally dropped the thin stake. It clattered down the steps behind him, and he glanced back at the approaching goon. In a panic he kicked out, nailing the goon in the face with the ball of his foot. The feeling of hitting such cool flesh with his own exposed skin made him jerk his foot back like he'd stepped on a scorpion. With a shudder he turned and pounded his way all the way up to the landing.

All the while, Chris Larabee's voice poured out a tirade of curses and objections from somewhere near. Buck merely followed it as if pulled on a rope.

"Chris!"

One of the doors ahead was open, a panel of golden flickering light falling across the hallway from the passage. Buck veered into that lighted opening, sweat draining off of his brow and around the hollow of his cheek, and stopped short, stunned by the sight before him: his closest and oldest friend bound to the four posts of a bed, stripped to bare skin.

But it was the figure in the foreground who had Buck Wilmington's full attention.

Ella Gaines—Buck would never forget her name or her face—stood like an ivory statue, her hourglass shape turned about and poised with tension. Her face greeted him with a blazing glower and eyes as black as a lake surface at night. She was flanked on three sides by goons: her maid servants, Buck realized.

"Oh, God. . ." he gasped. What other words could have come out of his mouth at that moment? He gripped the doorframe to keep himself steady when he found Ella pointing directly at him. He heard Chris murmur his name, so week and frightened and. . . Oh, God, he thought again, what was that bitch doing to Chris! Remnants of tears glistened on the captive man's face.

"What is he doing here!" she raged, her voice an unearthly roar-shriek. "Get him out of here! Kill him!"

The women dove at him, reaching with their claws, hissing and spitting and growling like famished wild cats.

Chris cried out an objection and began to thrash on the bed, which explained the thumping and bumping noises Buck had heard all the way downstairs.

Tackled in goon arms, Buck stumbled backward, managed to get his feet under him, and pushed back toward Chris, blindly reaching now, frustrated as he got no closer, as more arms reached around him from outside in the hallway, and that last shout ripped out of him, some part of it laced with a plea that Chris forgive him this failure.

"Chriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis!"

He felt claws tear his flesh but at some point, pain like that meant nothing. His heart pounded to the point the blood gushing through his temples consumed him. He didn't even remember how hard he fought as he was dragged back down the hallway and stairs, only that his face was hot and sweaty, and he had a runny nose, and he was suddenly back down in the lobby. Cool goon hands shackled him in. They had pulled off his trousers, cast them into a corner somewhere, and he now stood completely naked, squirming with childlike squeamishness as their hands felt him, down between his thighs, behind his neck. They lifted him off the ground, and bore him onto his back, hovering above blood-stained carpet. His limbs flailed as they situated him then locked him in place as if lain out on a table, his head tilted back and his throat exposed.

Above his head, the goons opened a path for the blond vampire, who stepped into view smiling down at his captive.

"Let's get to business, shall we?" the vampire asked casually and reached down to stroke spindly fingers through Buck's hair, sweeping it almost gently back from his face so that it cascaded downward.

Buck had put a damper on shouting, crying, screaming. He didn't want to give this fucker the pleasure of hearing his cries. He bit viciously at the hand that gracefully traced around from smoothing his hair to stroking at his mustache.

"Mr. Wilmington, I presume," the vampire said.

It was no doubt a shock tactic, for Buck had no idea how the creature knew his name. He stared up at the underneath of the sharp chin and felt those gold and green eyes bore into him, the lids hooded and sinister. The hand on his face went to caressing his cheek, then massaging at his neck. Twin fingertips laid against his pulse and felt the hammering rhythm.

"I don't believe you understand exactly what you've been chosen for," the vampire said. "It's quite an honor, but there are. . . shall we say. . . precautions, that must be taken." He withdrew his hand and ran it down the front of his shirt, unfastening hidden buttons, loosening the cravat. Like acting valets some of the goons helped him out of his jacket, until his upper body was bare. He flexed his shoulders and tossed his hair back proudly. Then he wove one hand down inside the front of his pants, stroking himself, while he unfastened the clasps and folded open the tongue of material, freeing the growing length of his cock.

The organ hovered above Buck's face, and he could smell a strange tangy mix of musk and corrosion. Clearly realizing what was about to come, Buck flexed his arms and legs, attempted to get the goons to drop him, but the sudden motions were futile, and their hold on him grew tighter. He cringed to feel one of them drool on the expanse of his taut belly as he bowed up.

The vampire leaned in a little, swept the tip of his cock head through the damp silky spill of Buck's hair and smiled. "So strong, but I will only make you stronger."

Buck's eyes darkened, pupils dilating to let in more light. His mind shifted back in time, back to a whorehouse in Texas where his mama was beaten by a client. . . a client who then turned his rage upon her son and found instead of beating, a desire to bury his cock in the boy's fifteen year old flesh. Buck remembered the experience instantly, from the grubby hands fondling him, to the stabbing pain in his ass, to the warm muck shooting up inside him. And utmost he remembered thinking afterwards how he would never let it happen to him again. The vision of his rapist appeared above him and melded with the face of the vampire. His jaw clenched up and he spoke breathily through his teeth.

"You do this, you better just kill me. You better make sure I stay dead because otherwise I'm comin' back for you."

His tormentor only seemed further amused by this statement. "Ah, but I don't think you'll feel that way once you've tasted it."

Buck was preparing a retort when his captor's hands closed on the sides of his jaw and strong, hard thumbs bore into the hollows of his cheeks, forcing his jaw open, at the same time his head was pulled back and down. This time he didn't even have time to cry out before the fleshy rod forced into his mouth, deep into his throat. His gag response instantly kicked in and tried to expel the intruder. His eyes clenched shut, squeezing out tears, and he could feel the cool soft skin of the vampire's balls press into his nose and hold there, waiting cruelly until his lungs burned and his body bowed up of its own accord trying to pull in breath.

Then the organ was pulled out and poised at the dribbling edges of Buck's lips, giving him a pale moment to breathe.

The thumbs holding his mouth open pressed in a little harder, as his lips swelled and bruised from the abuse. Stinging tears ran into his hairline.

Then the cock plunged forward again, sliding over his tongue and up against the very back of his throat. . . and further. . . held there like a huge fleshy cork stopping his breath again. . . then back.

Then again.

And again.

He imagined being able to bite down, to inflict the worst pain possible, but even in his increasingly muddled state of mind, he had to wonder if vampires felt pain. They were dead. Dead wasn't supposed to feel.

After only a few more quick strokes that seemed like a thousand, the assault on his mouth stopped. The cock, now rock hard and gorged, pulled free, trailing a stream of spittle, and Buck's jaw was released. He immediately turned his head to the side coughing as regulated breath came back with scathing force to this raw throat. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the vampire had disappeared, and the goons had filled in the space.

Now they held the captive more upright, spread his legs further apart, and made a new path for their master. Buck coughed harder and more tears drained from his eyes, the loss of breath fatiguing enough that he had no more will left to really fight back physically. It evoked a conscious decision, the means to survive, the means to have vengeance not just for himself but for Chris, for Michael Arrant, for the people of Four Corners and the rest of the Seven whose lives were now changed forever. It was the most desperate decision he had ever made, and resolved to it, he waited.

He found the vampire standing before him, reaching between his legs and cradling his balls, massaging them, stroking deep under his ass near his opening. His cock stirred to life and he flinched from it, but the vampire had skilled hands that worked him with a gentleness he never would have expected. His arms and legs remained tense in the goons' grip on him, muscles tightened to the breaking point. They held up his head by the hair, made sure he watched the master inch in closer, until he was looking so directly into those eyes, and his own gaze traveled down to watch the lips move, and he found himself oddly fascinated as he got a closer look at the tips of the fangs, so precise and sharp, and slightly curved inward. Made not only for piercing, but for tearing.

"My name is Christobal," the vampire whispered to him and stroked a little harder.

Buck winced and his brows knitted. His cock flexed and he knew he was going to be stiff soon. Shit, some things just couldn't be turned off. The blazing sex drive for which he had been so proud was suddenly double-crossing him. Or maybe the vampire had some kind of snake-oil-magic-trick-evil-eye power over him, which was the only thing that really made sense, because the last thing Buck would have found arousing were those icy cold hands working his wand.

"Say my name," the vampire insisted, his breath a tickling hush into Buck's ear.

Buck worked his mouth gently, finding the corners of his lips sore from being stretched. He pursed up, shaped the first sounds of the name, and then let go with a bullet wad of spit that slapped into the vampire's cheek and fanned out in the perfect pattern of bird shit on a fence post. Tiny bubbles glistened in the spatter and began to run downward.

The vampire didn't budge at first. He froze, still staring deep into the captive's eyes, and then he let go of Buck's cock and reached up, smeared the spittle away in one neat stroke and transferred it over to Buck's cheek, where he slid it over the sweat-drenched skin. The sharp tip of his claw came close to the captive's lower eyelid.

Buck didn't blink. He seized that moment. With a snarl he lashed out and bit down on the vampire's hand, catching the heel at the base of the thumb. He felt the skin split and a thin wash of vile tasting blood rinsed through his teeth and onto his tongue.

The vampire held his hand still as if it were caught in the mouth of a rabid dog and to move would mean to stir the animal's ferocity. But he only smiled, remaining calm. "I like you very much, Mr. Wilmington," he crooned. "I like you. . . so very much." Then without warning he shoved his cock up full force into Buck's vulnerable ass. Uncanny how perfect his aim was. He didn't even need to line himself up and he was in, sheathed to the hilt.

Buck's mouth opened involuntarily, freeing the hand, and he bowed up. The burning, tearing sensation gripped him so tightly, cut off his voice, and he hovered on the edge of shock.

The vampire held the position, waiting it out as his captive shook and shivered, and Buck's eyes fixed on the ceiling, glazing over as all that existed was this sharp, fiery pain consuming him from inside.

Cold hands gripped at his ass hard enough to bruise, pulled his cheeks wider apart. The acrid taste of the blood lingered like rotten fruit. "Say my name," the vampire said softly into his ear.

Buck's mind fought to find a more proper response, some ultra scathing insult to fling at his rapist, but all retaliation went askew and he could only respond by bouncing back the answer. "Chris. . ." There was an instant of comfort as the first of it spilled out of his mouth. Then discord as he filled in the rest of the name. "Christobal," he whispered, eyes still gazing at the white void above.

"Very good, you win first prize."

Christobal began to truly fuck his captive then, pulling back and thrusting forward, putting more vigor into each successive shove, until Buck rocked up and down in the goons' arms, eyes rolling to stay focused, some part of him wishing so very much that this would be over. He didn't feel the tears now when they came. They were only his body reacting, finding some natural way to channel out the agony of violation by this very unnatural creature.

Buck almost didn't notice it when Christobal came. He was suddenly very cold inside, while simultaneously he felt the vampire's fangs plunge into the side of his neck, down low near his collarbone, tearing free a glob of skin and spilling warm blood down his chest. Buck dropped his head back, granting better access, vaguely hearing the goons begin to hiss and mewl anxiously for a share.

He didn't notice when the vampire pulled his dripping prick out of his ass, or that he had been settled upright enough to be cradled against Christobal. The master vampire fed quickly, allowing the goons to lap away the run off as it spilled over Buck's chest and down between his legs. Chilled and weak, he felt like his bones had melted, rendering his limbs useless. Then abruptly Christobal stopped feeding and took a hold of Buck's head by the hair and guided him, pressed the captive's mouth into his own cool skin at his throat.

"Bite," the vampire commanded.

Buck didn't really have the strength, and it was with the aid of Christobal's own claw that he made a gash deep enough to release the flow of the red-black fluid. He tasted it to the fullest now, found it both foul and wonderful, like a mix of salt and very strong and smoky whiskey, that settled into his belly and from there found its way into his own veins. Gluttonously he swallowed another mouthful and drew in another. . . and another. . . until it was so easy. . . so. . . very. . . easy. . .

He felt death creep up on him like millions of tiny worms wriggling around inside him, eating into him, becoming part of him. And right before he completely bled out, before everything went dark, he had one last moment of clarity.

I'm coming back for you. . .

Chapter Ten

Outside El Paso, Present Day

Nathan figured, after a century, he'd have adapted to his companions' quirky habits. It might no longer be necessary for him to look after their wounds, but that didn't stop the healer that still lurked in him from being concerned.

"Did everyone decide to sleep outside all day?" he demanded as a dirt-caked J.D. walked through the motel door and big brown eyes blinked at him. It almost melted Nathan's anger, except that he knew that was no longer just a boy in that young body. That was a man, an old man—even if they did still call him "the kid"—who had learned over the years how to use his boyish looks and charms to pull off all sorts of capers.

"Oh, jeez, Nathan," J.D. exclaimed. His cycling chaps and jacket were pristine, indicating he'd removed them before digging in, and he had his beloved helmet tucked under one arm and a crumpled McDonald's bag under the other. The smell of hot foot accosted all of them, and this they endeavored to ignore. "I had a slow hunt, and an awful cleanup, so I couldn't get back in time," he explained. "Sunup hit me on the highway back so I pulled over. I'm sorry."

"You didn't call in," Nathan scolded.

"That's because he left his cell phone here," Ezra replied casually from where he sat at the table with his own laptop opened. His fingers clattered mercilessly over the keys at the same time he spoke, a skill no doubt spun off from his ability to deal cards and watch for cheaters at the same time. "That infernal squealing concerto on the time setting went off in my room at exactly five-thirty this evening."

J.D. blinked again. "Oops." He looked around the room, noticed Vin, also dirt-smeared, lingering near the bathroom door, waiting and studying something on a clipboard. Josiah was nowhere in sight, and the hiss of running water and the bathroom fan filtered through the door. Country music murmured and twanged from a small radio positioned on the edge of the table. "Who's in there?" he asked, giving a head-toss toward the door.

Nathan opened his mouth to speak.

"Chris and Buck," Ezra replied, still typing. His focus faltered only for a moment as he glanced at Vin, who continued to study the clipboard.

"So," J.D. tossed out his arms in a shrug, the huge helmet gripped in his right hand, "when are we leaving? I thought Chris wanted to get back to the ranch by Wednesday night."

"In due time," Ezra said and with a graceful, one fingered motion, snapped at one last key on the laptop. The little speaker sounded a notice that an email had been sent. "Four Corners isn't going anywhere."

"I got news for you, Ezra, neither are we," Vin muttered, meaning it in both an abstract and literal sense. "Looks like Nathan and I have to cast more ammunition," he said, looking up at the former healer. "We used up a good three-hundred graphite slugs this go'round. Those things are a bitch to make, you know," his voice started rising with irritation at anyone who was listening. "Need to start using crossbows more often, least you can buy bolts at any sports store."

"Damn," Nathan said. "We're that sloppy?"

"I beg to differ, Mr. Tanner," Ezra replied dryly. "Crossbows are cumbersome, as I believe the nether regions of your anatomy discovered not long ago."

"Should'a been your anatomy," Vin argued.

Nathan threw up his hands. "I am not touching that," he remarked then repeated it under his breath as he went over to the other laptop he'd left on the bedside and buried himself in the news boards.

"I did warn you about stashing that catapult in your capote," the gambler still addressed the tracker. "It's not like you have some trans dimensional or quantum pocket storage facility hidden in there."

"Okay, Ezra," Vin snapped, "then how about you make the goddamned bullets from here on."

"Oh, sure, if you don't mind keeping our stock portfolio to fund this little crusade." Ezra calmly eased back in his chair and cocked a brow at the tracker, his green eyes even, cold. "I'm sure you can take trading courses online. . . If you'd be willing to learn to use a computer, that is."

J.D. shrugged. This was getting just a tad out of hand, but then it always did. They bickered, scratched, pinched, bit, but never really meant anything by it. After so long, how could they not and be in each other's company constantly? He crossed over to the bedroom door on the right and there deposited his helmet and leathers, stripping down to tee and jeans to wait his turn in line for a shower.

Vin took a deep breath and calmed. Then before he could move on, Ezra went from sarcastic to considerate.

"I could teach you," the gambler offered in complete seriousness, and his eyes warmed, their green growing the slightest tint more vibrant.

The hand holding the clipboard dropped to Vin's side and he twiddled a pen in his other hand, tapping one end absently against his chin. "Um. . . maybe," he started, his voice dropping to its more common soft drawl. "Maybe some time, Ezra."

Ezra smiled. "You're welcome, Mr. Tanner."

Vin blinked at that and went back to his inventorying.

Seeing that the storm had calmed before it could really get started, J.D. brought his McDonald's bag back to the main room and plopped into the chair across from Ezra. He opened the bag with a loud rattle of paper that caused Ezra to look back up at him and stare evenly, only his hooded eyes visible across the top of the computer's fold up screen.

J.D. clicked on the television remote and pulled a Big Mac out of the bag while he waited for the old set to warm up. The tube came on with a static snap, and voices from a local news station bled into audio. J.D. unwrapped the burger, took a big bite and chewed it loudly. Then he took out a napkin, spit discreetly into it, and took another bite of his burger.

Ezra watched him do this halfway through the burger until there were three napkin wads of chewed up and spit out food, before the gambler was forced to say something. "Mr. Dunne, would you mind too terribly not doing that in front of me?"

"What?" J.D. asked with his mouth full of burger, special sauce, lettuce, and cheese. He was midway to lifting the remote to change channels.

Lectures on this bad habit had ceased long ago, quite close to the advent of fast food with the automat, to be exact, and eventually it was just accepted that J.D. liked the stuff, even if he couldn't actually swallow it without getting sick. Liquids were different, they went right through, but solid substances. . . Ezra had stopped bothering to come up with fancy words to get across that it was just plain gross.

The gambler shook his head to himself and wrinkled up his nose at the smell and the sound of burger being munched with gusto. In fact, he could have sworn J.D. was chewing louder just to piss him off.

The hush of the shower continued to filter through the bathroom door, suddenly accompanied by a moan from within and a thump.

"Now we don't need to hear none of that," J.D. said with his mouth full and turned up the television louder.

Ezra went back to his stock reports and emailing. "Agreed there."

Sounded like Buck was raising his voice about something, but the ceiling fan and the television blessedly drowned it out.

The sound of footsteps moseying along the walk outside didn't even draw attention, nor an eye bat as Josiah walked in and closed the door behind him. Unlike those guilty of worrying Nathan's nurturing side, he'd slept the day secured inside the room, been up at precisely the moment of dusk, tidied himself up, and taken a walk.

"What'cha got there, J.D.?" he asked, sniffing the air. His hair had been smoothed back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck and he was ready to go in his duster and chaps.

J.D. spit his latest masticated bite of burger into a fourth napkin, folded the paper neatly over the wad, and started to answer when something on the television caught his attention. "Hey," he chirped, sitting up and slamming the last of the burger down into the bowl of waxed paper it had come wrapped in. "Hey, that's Four Corners."

The other four sets of eyes veered toward the television and the face of a young woman whose straight dark hair and pale skin gave her a look of Native American descent. She wore a khaki blouse that almost blended in with the dusty background. The string of old weather worn buildings behind her drew the team's attention to the far distance. The town was gray, stripped of life, much of it hollowed out. But most distressing was the sight in the foreground, a scattering of folks aged twenty to forty-something, all working with brushes and mini spades about the square of land that had been the graveyard.

". . . piece of little known western history that has been shrouded in ghostly legend," the young woman was saying. She gave a gesture behind her at the town, and went on with her microphone poised. "Nearly one-hundred and twenty-five years ago the town of Four Corners simply died. While most ghost towns underwent a slow degradation, usually related to the route of the railroad and economy, until they were abandoned, the citizens of Four Corners disappeared without a trace virtually overnight."

"Oh, this is rich," Ezra remarked.

"Shush," J.D. hissed at him.

The woman continued to speak while the camera zoomed in on the activities around the graveyard. "But now, an anthropology team has discovered a mass grave on the edge of town. Oddly, most of the bodies unearthed have been decapitated, and their skeletons all share. . ."

"Um, I think we should get Chris and Buck to see this," Vin interjected.

They all nodded vacantly, absorbed in the segment that had obviously been taped earlier that day when the sun was high in the sky.

"J.D. go knock on the door."

The kid shot Vin a glare that could have scoured the paint from the walls, and rightly so considering the tracker stood the closest to the bathroom. "You knock on it."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake," Josiah muttered and crossed over to bang on the door with a solid fist. "Chris!" he called. "Bucklin!"

Ezra actually thought about hiding under the bed.

-7-7-7-

Buck had been highly amused by the spontaneous idea of sleeping under the sun as they called it, even though there was about a four-foot layer of dirt between himself and Chris and any sunlight. It was a strange way to sleep, and one they usually left to necessity, unlike Vin who was just. . . well, Vin.

Buck was beginning to see the appeal in it, particularly in the way the earth conformed around him like a big black, grainy blanket, and yet he could feel the softness of Chris' shoulder against his chest, or a hand clasped around his side, a cheek against his collarbone and the soft sweep of hair woven through the grains and pebbles like roots of corn silk. The blackness was like a womb, and they could pretend, when they dug their way out in the evening, that they were being reborn.

But what really made it worth it was cleaning off afterwards.

His hands took on a mind of their own as they smoothed soap down Chris' back, between the solid wing plates of his shoulder blades, to the cleft in his buttocks, both of which Buck cupped in his strong hands. He leaned in his head and kissed at the shoulder before him, while Chris tossed back his head and let his face meet the spray from the spigot.

The bulb in the overhead light had acquired a flicker in the last few hours, annoying and yet atmospheric, along with the white noise of the fan. Like being underground, the bathroom closed the world away. Funny, Buck mused, how he was finding escape in the most minute of places. He turned his sudsy hand sideways and wedged it deep into Chris' ass crack, rinsing out dirt that ran down between the other man's legs in marbled swirls.

Chris' hands reached back behind him, gripped Buck's hips and pulled the other man's stiffening cock up against the small of his back. Buck slipped his hand free and around to Chris' front, first swirling a fingertip into his navel, then following the little trail of coarse golden hair down to the root of Chris cock. Buck spread his fingers and let them flow around the base of the shaft. He was just getting results when Chris murmured close to his ear.

"No. . ."

"Don't like that?" Buck asked and lightly kissed the earlobe closest to him.

Chris let go of his partner's hips and raised one hand to his forehead, the other reached out, hovered in the air, and pushed out on the milky plastic shower curtain.

Buck thought maybe Chris had gotten some soap in his eyes.

"Get. . ." Chris suddenly growled weakly up into the stream of water. "Get outta my head. . ."

The statement broke the spell, telling Buck exactly what was going on. With less than gentle speed, he grabbed Chris by the shoulders and spun him around and up against the tile wall. The back of Chris' head hit the porcelain with a dull thump and he moaned an objection, eyes closed tightly.

Buck's eyes narrowed viciously as he cupped the other face between his hands and gave a firm little shake. Chris braced himself, palms spread, claws extending on his fingertips. The spray continued to cascade between them.

"She's there, isn't she?" Buck whispered, hushing breath over Chris' suddenly flushed cheek. "She's trying to get in." He watched every little crease of distress in his lover's face, from the crinkled, tightly closed eyelids to the gritted teeth and the lips curling back. How Chris managed not to bare his eyeteeth was a feat unto itself. It looked like he was holding back an avalanche in his mind. "Don't let her in, Chris," he said harshly, putting some spit into it. "You tell that bitch she still can't have you." His hands gripped tighter, fingers threading into Chris' hair.

It seriously angered Buck as much as it struck Chris with pain. The attacks were rare, and in recent weeks had grown closer together, but this was the first time they had come two nights in a row. They were especially rare this close after a feeding, so something was definitely brewing. The seizure didn't persist for too long. Chris' breath caught up, held, then released in exhausted gales.

"That's it," Buck urged gently and leaned closer, coaxed his lover into a kiss, allowing the sharp tip of one canine to scrape over his own tongue as it made entry. The salty-coppery taste trailed from his mouth into Chris', evoking a tender response as Chris gradually came around, getting a grip on himself. He relinquished his hold on the wall to reach up and reassuringly drape his arms around Buck's inclined neck. Buck's tongue healed quickly under the little pressure of Chris' sucking on it. He pulled his lips away and dropped more kisses on Chris' cheeks, up to his forehead, tasting the drops of shower water. His thumbs swept aside drenched locks of hair, and he felt Chris' eyelashes brush his own cheek in an unintentional butterfly caress.

Then their lips met again, pushing harder. Pretty soon they might swallow each other up, like the snake of legend eating its own tail.

Buck's hard on was about to renew itself when a booming knock rattled the door and he heard Josiah's roar call his name and Chris'. The kiss broke off, leaving pounding hearts in its wake. The lovers stared at each other, Chris' eyes blood shot around intense jade irises, Buck's a blazing blue sharded with amber.

"Better see what he wants," Chris urged reluctantly. He didn't look happy, but at least he was in control.

"Shit," Buck hissed as the fist continued to pound on the door. He threw open the shower curtain, grabbed a towel off the rack, slung it around his waist, and stepped from the tub. Crossing to the door, he opened it right as Josiah was about to knock again and bellowed out into the main room, "Somebody better be dead!"

"Very funny," Josiah commented. "You and Chris better come have a look at this."

Chris pulled his own towel down, and dabbed at his hair with it, in no way modest about walking dripping wet and naked out among the others. He followed Buck out into the main room where the others had more tightly grouped around the television.

Buck was mumbling to himself about the interruption when the voice on the news and the words Four Corners caught his attention.

". . . it's cool, ya know, we're digging to solve a hundred-year-old mystery," a young man from the anthropology team was saying. "I mean there are ghost towns, and then there is Four Corners. . ."

"So what exactly is this about?" Buck asked since he and Chris had already missed half of the report. He stared into the background of the screen, picking up a few familiar details like a head stone from the cemetery, a tree, jags of the toppled roof on the old grain exchange, and the steeple from Josiah's church.

"An anthropology team is trying to solve the 'mystery' of Four Corners," Vin said with hush-hush sarcasm, flashing his eyes in mock amazement.

"Damnit," Chris murmured. "Can't people leave well enough alone?"

"Well," Josiah rationalized, "everyone loves a good mystery."

"Not me," Buck intoned and he and Chris looked at each other.

"So now what?" J.D. asked.

"They don't know," Chris said, and the tiniest wicked grin jittered at the corners of his lips.

The others caught on quickly.

"I'll get the truck loaded," Nathan said.

"Hell, I'm ready now," Josiah said and grinned.

Chris nodded. "We have a ten hour haul. We leave now, we can get to the ranch tomorrow night, deal with this mess the following dusk." He went over to the television and calmly turned it off. "Ezra," he said with mild command in his voice.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Time to get out the big guns."

Slowly a very happy and conniving smile crept across Ezra's lips as he replied with delight, "Yes, Sir."

Chapter Eleven

Four Corners, 1877

Josiah hadn't revealed the worst.

It was bad enough that he and Nathan were infected, but then it turned out Buck might be too. That, plus the other man was trapped in the hotel, which had apparently been turned into a nest. It was pretty clear to Josiah, from the look he could see in the two blues peering out through that crack, that Buck wasn't coming out. Not without running a thorough search for Chris. And then those blues had misted over and the preacher couldn't bear to say much more about the town.

He couldn’t relay that in addition to the telegraph system being downed, he and Nathan had found Mary Travis dead. She hadn't been bitten or fed on from the looks of it. Her neck was broken was all, and her body situated at her desk, her head resting on the crook of her arm as if she had fallen asleep over her work. Knowing what Mary meant to Four Corners, Buck would understand that the town he and the others had tried so hard to protect was officially dead. Literally. The ranchers who had long desired to see Four Corners leveled would have been celebrating gleefully were not most of them and their families already butchered.

When he had said there weren't many survivors, it was an understatement. They numbered less than twenty, which included himself, Nathan, and J.D.

Josiah shook his head as he surveyed the empty main street littered in the oddest places with bodies and thought of the kid. He and Nathan would have probably been among those corpses right now if it hadn't been for J.D.

The goon attack on the church had been so damned well timed. J.D. had stretched himself out along one of the rear pews, and Josiah had closed the doors and locked them. The big preacher turned, started back into the quiet sanctuary where some nine other folks were sleeping. Just then there was another knock at the door.

"Now what?" he grumbled, sure that it was Vin or Ezra, back to tell him one more thing.

The moment he cracked the door, the goon lunged at him, hissing with that wildcat shriek. He reached up to stop the fangs from closing on the side of his neck but they still scraped him, sending fire raging across his skin for such a small wound. With a cry he got his hands up before him, wrapped around the goon's neck and holding it at bay as both of them spun into the pews. The seats went over in a domino effect, shoving J.D. into the floor, a thing which probably saved his life as he went unnoticed at first by the other creatures that stormed into the sanctuary, turning over candelabras and tearing into the other citizens who were too groggy from sleep to have a chance.

Nathan was already awake enough to fight back, and learned very quickly how to apply his knife throwing skills to throwing a stake. But he still took the gnashing to the arm Josiah had mentioned to Buck.

It was J.D. who recovered and noticed the sun piercing the one stained glass window left in the church's eastern wall. It turned the plain red, blue, and golden stained glass panels into glowing shards of salvation. He grabbed a candelabra stand and smashed the glass, flooding the sanctuary with life-saving light.

Josiah convinced the kid to leave by assigning him to protect the other nine survivors. There were tears in those young eyes, and his lower lip trembled. The preacher had seen that look before, and like then it provoked him to pull J.D. into a huge bear hug, feeling his heart pound with a sickeningly slow tempo. He wondered if it was a side effect of the infection. . . if the infection acted that quickly upon the body.

He didn't tell J.D. that he'd seen Buck alive. Better to let the kid think the others were all dead or he'd never go. By early afternoon Josiah and Nathan watched the tiny caravan depart, two wagons carrying nine survivors, and J.D. on his horse, head bowed, silent rivers sliding down his face.

Then preacher and healer began to clean up, decapitating and staking the bodies in the streets. They took extra precautions and treated the bodies like Mary's that had no marks. They hunted the goons who had nested in the saloons and boarding houses, successfully killing some twenty-five of them, sometimes with the gut-wrenching realization that they recognized some of the faces behind the bared fangs and smears of dirt and blood.

Of all the places, they did not try the hotel. It was too well boarded up, and neither man could bear to think of burning it down, not with their friends inside. Josiah lingered near the place in the late afternoon, pacing by the little crack in the boarded window where he had spoken to Buck. But only silence came from within there now. Numb, hurting, he assumed it had become Buck's tomb.

The preacher shooed off the remaining horses that had been boxed up and restless as hell in the livery. They skirted him when he opened their stalls. They grumbled as if disgusted then whinnied wildly as they galloped away, free of bridle or saddle. Then Josiah walked up the empty main street, listening to the sounds of the other few animals that had been left behind. A dog barked somewhere at the other end of town. After a while the barking turned into a whimper and the sound died, leaving a most foreboding feeling. Chickens, scattered from their coops, wandered aimlessly with ruffled feathers, clucking and grating defensively until they too quieted down. They simply found some other place to be. All of this took place beneath a rapidly declining sun, and a sky washed with varying shades of red.

By evening, both men found themselves at a loss of appetite and consumed in cold sweats and shivering. They closed themselves up in the church and waited, debating about what to do if this really meant that they were changing, and Josiah wondered if a man could at least hold onto his humanity in knowing that he was going to turn into something inhuman.

They waited together on the altar steps until night fell, and they listened, haunted by how quiet the town. . . their dead little town. . . had become.

-7-7-7-

It was the voices that brought Buck up out of the death sleep. Vicious, angry, solid as lead and stabbing at his mind. All he could do was lie and listen, unable to move, his body cold, stiff, dead. Only the sense of hearing worked. That and taste. He could still taste Christobal's blood on his tongue, now turned sour like fermenting fruit.

"What is this?" a woman's voice, familiar and full of spite, growled from somewhere above him. "He is supposed to be dead! That was the agreement! Kill them ALL!"

"I may choose any companion I like, Ella." This male voice—Christobal's—was calm, bearing up an unearthly growl at the verbal attack. There was honey in that voice now. Its accent, still strange and exotic, bore into Buck, leaving an eerie and very unwanted sense of comfort. "And figuratively speaking, he IS dead. But these men. . . the men who protected this town. . . they are all exceptional. It would be a pity to waste their skills."

"Wait until Cletus hears about it," she replied in a hiss.

"Kleitos only appealed to me to help you take Larabee."

Kleitos? Buck's thoughts spun out a single thread on that name. Cletus. . . Kleitos. . . the same name? And then the name that meant much more to him. . . Ella.

Ella! Buck remembered then, seeing her in the room with Chris who was shouting bloody murder. That he couldn't reach his friend then, and could not now, chewed on his soul. He wriggled and squirmed inside, felt panic unlike any he'd felt before, not even that time J.D. took a bullet and nearly died on him.

"You have him now," Christobal's voice continued and there was a heated silence. Buck felt its warmth, his consciousness crawling a little bit closer to it, trying to comprehend what exactly was going on above him. There were only the voices in the dark, and he felt that if he could reach up he would pierce through some veil and find light again, but his heavy inert husk prevented him from moving one finger.

There sounded movement. . . clothing shifting, footsteps padding back and forth. Pacing.

"Kleitos recognizes your excesses, Ella, and he is not impressed. Now your failure to control your minions has put us in an awkward position. Explain THAT to him when we reach Dodge in a week. We have to hunt more widely tonight and waste precious time. You will have to feed Larabee if you expect to control him."

There was a sharp intake of breath, like someone readying to unleash a barrage of curses.

"You will regret this, Christobal," Ella spat back. "The others. . . they should be dead. They should not even be allowed to rise."

"We shall, see, Ella. Now you'd better go. You have to feed enough for yourself and your plaything."

"He is not my plaything," Her voice rose with frustration that her argument did not seem to be taken seriously in the least. "Chris and I were always destined to be together. Our love was always eternal, and now so are we."

"Whatever."

Yeah, I'm with ya there, Buck thought in spite of himself, even though right at this moment he suddenly remembered how much he hated Christobal. The argument died on the sound of footsteps padding away over floorboards that creaked and cracked and he thought he heard something scuttling along behind them. Then as swiftly as he had begun to hear the voices, he drifted again.

Death was not simple unconsciousness.

No, it meant being afloat in one's own mind, like a piece of wood on an ocean current, almost touching the shore only to have the waves sweep in around it and pull away again. It was like fucking and never reaching completion. Like feeling vibrant and happy one moment then sad and sick the next.

After so long, it was overwhelming.

Hate-love-remorse-happiness-fatigue-hurt-hunger-wanna-kill-warm-cold. . .

Unable to shake the first swelling then shrinking flood of emotions, Buck uttered a cry of protest. It slithered out of his stiff throat, met teeth and lips that were plastered shut, and came out as a miserable moan.

Sensation began to spread through his limbs, shedding rigor mortis, and slowly he opened his eyes, looked up at a ceiling and by some sensory means understood that it was dark in the room, and yet seemed as bright as day. And there was still some daylight. When he turned his head to the side, he could see it bleeding through the edges of the heavy curtains, golden and brilliant and if he could get to it, maybe it would be his salvation, but then a new instinct opened up inside him and the thought of that light suddenly became repulsive.

He stared at it, feeling weak and anxious at the same time, while also acknowledging that he was lying quite flattened into the soft, conforming depths of a feather mattress. Was it all a dream? He wondered briefly. Maybe he had gotten a little too drunk last night and dreamed a little too hard. He remembered Josiah once commenting on how a dream could feel like hours when it only took place in the space of a few minutes. That, the preacher had surmised, was indication to him that everyone went somewhere else unearthly in their sleep. Buck had shrugged it off.

He wished now he could shrug this off, but it had been too real, too there before him. The blood and violence, the gnashing teeth, the swiping claws, and finally his mind came around to that one jolting thing that clung to his memory even if his body, for reasons he didn't understand yet, did not feel any more pain.

So strange that he no longer hurt, not the way he should. Not like someone who had been dry fucked up the ass and then bled from a wicked gash in his neck. He was pondering this when a shadow whispered across the side of the bed and slowly his gaze rolled in its direction.

"That was rather quick," Christobal said as he eased in closer. He wore nothing but his trousers, his slim upper body no longer so pale but flushed and lively, and his long hair cascaded around his shoulders. "It's only been a few hours, you are anxious to get out in the world, aren't you." He smiled then. He bore no fangs, and while his eyes glimmered with an unnatural jewel color, he seemed at that moment most human.

It gave Buck every indication that there was no time like the present to fight back. He groaned as he surged up from the bed, shaky hands coming together to form one large clawing vise as he went right for Christobal's throat.

For a fleeting moment he felt the other's neck, the cup of his palm around the Adam's apple, the incline of the jawline along his index finger. But before he could squeeze, Christobal took hold of his wrists and leaned down, effortlessly forcing Buck's hands away, pinning him back down on the bed. They bounced together on the mattress, rocking the frame. Buck sucked in and exhaled frenzied breaths as he bared his teeth and snarled up at his captor.

Then abruptly he stopped as he felt something strange in his mouth, a slight soreness in his upper gum line and the tiniest sensation of teeth grinding as for the first time his fangs budded. He stopped snarling and stared in shock, feeling the sharp tips slightly touch his lower gums.

Christobal was extremely amused. "I know what you are feeling," he crooned. "It's frightening at first not knowing what you are." Still holding Buck's wrists, keeping them pinned above his head, he stretched himself out along Buck's body and tilted his head, observing the captive's reactions to the transformation that was still apparently taking place.

Buck still breathed with ferocity, still pushed against the body on top of him, and found himself too weak and uncoordinated. It was surprising now that he had even had that little bit of energy to attack Christobal in the first place. Must have been pure gut reaction. That energy spent, he shivered suddenly as a bizarre coldness streaked up through his middle and settled in his stomach. The cold turned into the most intense hunger pain he'd ever felt. Another miserable groan escaped him as he gazed up at Christobal with bleary eyes, looking for an explanation.

"Ah, it's as I expected," Christobal whispered lustily, "your eyes are more blue than before." He pulled Buck's wrists up beside each other over his head and clasped them in one hand, hence freeing the other hand to roam. It caressed down past Buck's neck, over his collarbone, to lie across his left pectoral, the touch sparking some minor response in that nipple.

Buck sought to toss his body to the side, to free himself, but he couldn't move from beneath Christobal's weight. He snarled again, and having not found his voice before, he was aghast at the unearthly sound that issued out of him, even if the words were stuttered.

"Get. . . get. . . off. . . m-m-meee. . ."

Christobal ignored the demand and leaned down, sniffed deeply at the expanse of Buck's throat. He kissed that spot, finding nerves that responded in ways Buck never would have thought possible as tingling pleasure filtered down through his chest and torso into his loins. Christobal propped himself up again, looking into his captive's eyes. "You will learn to respect me as your sire," he growled.

Buck wanted to tell the master vampire to go fuck himself, but then he figured Christobal would probably find some way to turn a comment like that against him. Then he made the mistake of acknowledging that eye contact. Christobal's own opal-flecked green orbs pierced him, drew him in. They were fathomless, the pupils illuminated from somewhere inside. Not like those of an animal's eyes, that reflected light, but more like they actually glowed from within. Like that simple kiss to his neck had given him the slightest arousal, he felt it again, this time building little by little. He gasped and tried to look away, but the effort was lost when Christobal simply cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowed intently, and recaptured the fleeing gaze like a cat nabbing a mouse.

"You're hungry, aren't you?" the master said softly and went to stroking Buck's hair away from his face, running skilled fingers comb-like through the longish dark waves. It made Buck's scalp tingle, the lulling feeling increasing like a weight on his brain.

There was no denying the answer to the question. Buck clenched his jaw, repressing that answer.

Then Christobal pressed his lips over his captive's, and as his tongue plunged into Buck's mouth, prying it open, the organ brushed beneath the sharp tip of a tooth, making a tiny cut that bled. The dark fluid drained into Buck's mouth, and over his own tongue.

It was as sweet as spring rain to one parched by the desert sun. He unconsciously sucked, pulling out more of the smooth flow, and swallowed it down, craving more. But the cut healed, and his head fell back onto the pillow as Christobal pulled free and looked down at him.

Buck sighed contentedly, understanding now that this was the way to get his sustenance. Like a potent opiate it consumed him.

"That's only a taste of what's to come," Christobal breathed into Buck's ear. Then he kissed and licked at the lobe.

Oblivious now, his memories vague, Buck focused only on the now, on the creature atop him, licking and nipping and kissing him, playing with a nipple, then caressing his balls. Unaware that his wrists were now free, Buck remained reclined, arms stretched up and framing his head.

Yeah, do that. . .

His upper body arched into Christobal's touch, his chest rubbing against the other. Despite that he felt neither warmth nor cold, the sensation of skin sliding over skin was luxuriant. Christobal leaned down and gave a teasing lick to the side of one testicle, provoking a moan out of Buck who slithered his hips to the side and angled them just right to receive more. The vampire's tongue nuzzled a little deeper into the crevice underneath the scrotum, and his lips sucked in gently. At the same time, he positioned one fingertip directly atop one of Buck's peaked nipples, the sharp tip of the talon balanced there, piercing straight down into the tightened skin with an ecstatic sting that sent Buck completely over the edge. It was as if an internal lightening bolt connected the points from his nipple down to those lips pulling at his left nut.

A shocking breath hissed through Buck's clenched teeth. He shivered violently as he reached orgasm without having achieved a full hard on or even coming. His body bowed up rigidly from the mattress and dropped back down.

Christobal danced the tip of his tongue free from the nook against Buck's inner thigh and ran it up along the submissive man's flat, quivering belly. "Much better, yes?" he crooned and looked up, observing that the daylight that had forced the cracks in the drapes was now dull and gray. He propped his arms across Buck's chest and rested his chin on the back of one hand as he smiled wistfully and waited for the orgasm to subside. When his new lover finally lay still, he said, "Dusk is here. I have to go now, but I'll return with more for you, understand?"

Buck stared ravenously back at him. A long lock of wheat-gold hair spilled past his sire's shoulder and tickled his cheek.

"Understand?" Christobal asked more firmly.

With a drowsy sigh Buck replied, "Yeah."

"Sleep some more. You're still weak. The change isn't finished with you." He ghosted gentle fingertips over Buck's lids, ushering them to close.

Without resistance, Buck drifted again, the experience lost in a dreamless void.

When next he regained consciousness, he registered almost immediately that he was alone. The drug of Christobal's blood had momentarily dissipated and he felt more alert, stronger.

So had the change completed? he wondered as one hand began to snake across the feather bed and gripped the edge. He lay in silence, listening to the hotel's eaves settle, fascinated with every little crack, with the scratchy trailing of tiny mouse feet up in the attic. His tongue absently explored the tips of his long canines. After a moment, they suddenly withdrew up into his gums, emitting the same sore sensation as before, and grinding a little as if operated by gears, then they literally transformed back into regular teeth. Amazed at this, he pondered how it could be possible. And with that his mind quickly started to put the whole picture back together again.

Awakening in the hotel lobby. Goons cramping up in the darkness avoiding him. Josiah. Chris. Ella. Christobal.

Rape.

But then he also remembered the pleasure that came later. Christobal's mouth on him and how irresistible it was. . . and that first taste of blood, so perfect and intoxicating. It all culminated into a sickening feeling in the cavity of his chest. . .

He hadn't been able to refuse that undead bastard.

His heartbeat thrummed slow and steady, never rising to a faster tempo despite the conflict stretching every cord tight down his back.

And then there was the hunger. It gnawed at him from the inside out, burning his skin. He looked down the course of his body and found it leeched of its normal healthy tan.

No, don't think about what you are now, he told himself and began to thread together more coherent thoughts, overriding the emotions and instincts that wanted to take over. Acting on either right now could be deadly, and he had more important ground to cover.

As he lay listening to the building and all of the scufflings contained therein, he began to pick out a minute rattle, so faint, and then with it came a shudder of breath. A groan.

He recognized that sound.

He'd heard it plenty of times murmured from the depths of a drunken stupor.

Chris. . .

He recalled the sight of Chris tied to the bed, Ella standing near, her naked body illuminated by candle light, and the absolutely ugly way her face contorted with rage at the intrusion. Buck had run up the stairs to get into that room only to be dragged back downstairs again. Now it was clear that while unconscious he, too, had been moved into one of the upstairs rooms, and that meant he was on the same floor as Chris.

Knotted muscles objected when he forced himself to rise, got his arms under him and pushed up. The hunger stabbed at him, forced out shivers worse than any amount of cold ever could. With a grunt he swung his legs over the side of the bed and, teetering ever so slightly, got to his feet. He looked down at his nakedness, at his slack cock and placid skin. When he took that first step, he felt the dried cum flake off from between his thighs. He had to shake off his revulsion at the crusty feeling.

Get moving, find Chris, do whatever you have to, but get the hell out of here.

He would figure out how to deal with himself later. And as for Christobal, there was always a next time. Buck marked that in his mind.

Next time.

Looking frantically about, he managed to locate a man's shirt. It had probably been left behind by the last hotel guest to have this room. Well, at least it was something to go between the open air and his nakedness, and he had no idea what had become of his own clothes. He pulled it on, found it thankfully too big so the tail end covered his ass and crotch. The upper three buttons were missing, but that was the least of his concerns. Scrounging around a little more, pulling drawers free, then tossing through the items in the bottom of the closet, he located a soiled white night shirt. If reason served him, he'd find Chris also in need of clothing.

And what about Ella?

What was it Christobal had said to her, something about having to hunt far and wide tonight because her goons had drained the whole town. Maybe not in those words, but Buck remembered enough of the argument—going on over his own motionless corpse no less—to sum it up himself.

And then he thought, What the fucking hell does Ella have to do with all this?

He recalled the previous suspicion he'd voiced to Josiah that the hoards had attacked for a specific reason, and now he was pretty sure that reason had been Ella. Had she brought the goons, and other masters such as Christobal, with her to Four Corners to collect Chris? And utmost, how had she come to be part of a pack of vampires to begin with?

No, he stopped himself from thinking too much again. No, just focus, get out of here. Christobal was obviously out, and if the argument he'd had with Ella about feeding held, so was she. Chris could be alone, or perhaps guarded by goons, but Buck dared the little critters to try anything now. The nightshirt slung over one shoulder, he started for the door, homing in on the little murmurs that he was sure belonged to his friend.

Stumbling into the hallway, still somewhat surprised at how bright the darkness was now, he stifled a grunt as a hunger pain stabbed into him. He truly felt like his skin was burning underneath with an even, roaming sheet of fire that devoured and yet did not destroy his body. He had to pause to orient himself, looking up and down the corridor, noting the balcony that led down into the lobby at one end, and a window at the other. He remembered exactly which room in which he'd last seen Chris, and he went straight there now.

The door was cracked, and he could hear the little moans and stutters of breath much more clearly. A greater moan, as if provoked by an abrupt stab of pain, sounded, and Buck wasted no time grabbing the knob and shoving the door the rest of the way open. The sudden movement almost made him dizzy, and he held onto the door for a moment as he collected his head and stared straight at the bed.

Chris lay facing away from the door, balled up in a fetal position, his pale, lean back toward Buck, shadows defining the ridges of his spine. He shivered, huddled up so tightly into himself that his feet were tucked against his buttocks, toes curled in.

"Chris," Buck gasped and hurried around to the other side of the bed, finding the other man's head tucked, his arms hugging his front. Chris' lips were pealed back over long canines, and dried blood was smeared around his mouth and in dribble patterns down his chin. Kneeling beside the bed, Buck gingerly swept cold, damp locks of hair back from his friend's brow, finding the eyes beneath tightly lidded. "Chris," he whispered again, more persistently.

Hearing the familiar voice, Chris began to pry open bleary eyes with an effort Buck completely understood. The jade hue that beamed out was so intensified, ringed in a darker green that added to Chris' already wolfish looks. He stuttered out a few more breaths, obviously focusing, before he replied weakly. "B. . . Buck?"

"Yeah, it's me." Buck leaned in closer. "What the hell did she do to you?" His eyes probed down the length of Chris' side, finding most of the other man's body hidden protectively by the fetal position.

Chris squeezed his eyes closed again in complete denial. "No. . . no. . . they killed you. . . not you, too. . ." He trailed off as if he were on the verge of unconsciousness, and yet continued to shiver, arms clamping even tighter around his middle. It had to be the hunger, or maybe the change had not completed for him. Perhaps, like Buck, he had awakened a little too soon.

Buck desperately reached out, clasped the other's head in his hands and lifted it from the bed. It was heavy as a lead weight in his palms, plastered locks tangling around his fingers. "Chris, stay with me. Wake up, Chris." His voice rose, putting emphasis on the name. To keep him remembering who he was.

Then his heart lurched as a wildcat scream pierced the darkness. He dropped Chris' head back onto the pillow and spun toward the noise just as one of the female goons leapt at him from a corner. He hadn't even noticed her there, so focused had he been on getting to Chris' side. Her small frame plunged into him, claws going for his face. Immediately his own fangs extended and he bared them viciously. Instinct, once more, guided him. He brought up one arm and elbowed the goon across the face, sending her spinning back into the corner.

She recovered and dove at him again. This time she came in low, tackling him around the knees. Both went over in a heap, crashing into a chair. The fine frame broke beneath them and Buck winced as some of the splinters went into his skin. The fragments stung, and that coupled with his hunger spurred on a most deadly rage.

"Don't mess with me, darlin'!" he spat at the goon as he caught her around the throat, holding her back. Her claws ripped into his collar bones, and he snarled back at her as his free hand reached out, grasped one of the chair's broken legs, and he brought it up and around, hitting her under the arm, going up into the side of her rib cage. He felt, and heard, flesh split, bone break.

She shrieked, the sound scathing to Buck's ears, and all the strength went out of her. Buck shoved her body away and watched her for a moment as she lay on her side, mouth agape, drool glossing over her fangs. The arm under which the chair leg was lodged hung awkwardly out before her, talons spread over the floor, gore spilling down the side of her ragged dress. Her legs sprawled in a manner that reminded Buck of a half crushed bug.

He swallowed hard, and when he was sure she wasn't going to move any more, he got up to his knees. The old shirt hung off of one shoulder, torn in the struggle, and splattered with some of the goon's blackish blood. He reached up, touched at the scratches near his neck, and then swallowed hard, bewildered momentarily when he felt the gashes close back up. The skin sealed up neatly from one end to the other with a slithering sensation beneath his fingertips. He could have sat there on his knees forever brooding on this new feature of his changed body, but again reminded himself that they had no time to spare. Buck stood, swaying, and backed his way over to the bed, where he found Chris still huddled, still in the same condition as before.

They were both royally screwed, that much was certain. He considered what he would do if he got Chris out of here. The only choice was to hope that Josiah and Nathan were still alive, still humanly intact, and seek their help. He'd try the church. Ella and Christobal still had to be dealt with, but how was the question and some recouping time was necessary first.

Carefully, as if lifting a glass doll, he clasped Chris' shoulders and maneuvered him into a sitting position, helping his legs to fall over the side of the bed. "Chris, come on," he said more harshly then, "snap out of it."

Chris' head lolled forward, his forehead colliding with Buck's where it remained propped, messy blond bangs draping over his eyes. From this angle, Buck could especially make out the other man's lips parted, the tips of the fangs barely peering out of the shadows of his mouth. Then his gaze went from those lips down the side of the throat, to the shoulder, followed the angle of Chris' collar bone down to the cleft between his pectorals, to his abdomen, to his lap. Buck gasped as he saw the blood smears between Chris' legs. The dark stains clung to sandy hair, left flaking brownish streaks up along the jut of Chris' pelvic bone, and little dirty rims around the head and base of his limp penis.

"That bitch," Buck whispered and felt tears rise, momentarily blurring his vision.

"I'm not me," Chris rasped. "I'm not me anymore."

Buck cupped the other's face in his hands, watched Chris' eyelashes flutter. It seemed the other man was making some effort to focus. "Don't give in to it, Chris," he hissed. "You're still you, hear me? You're still YOU on the inside. I know y'are." He gave a light pat to one cheek, the sting enough to make Chris draw up a little more alert. "Now we gotta get out of here, pard, before they come back."

Chris' head bobbed up and down in a vacant nod. All this time he still shivered, almost violently one moment, then a tiny shake the next. Buck looked around for the nightshirt that had been on his shoulder until the goon bitch attacked him. He found it strewn on the floor nearby, close enough that he didn't have to break contact with Chris to reach it. It was awkward, but he managed to get the white cotton slip over Chris' head, and work his uncooperative arms down through the sleeves. The wrinkled fabric pooled around Chris' waist and Buck tugged it down over his knees. It was like dressing a completely submissive child, which was damned disturbing considering that this was supposed to be iron will Chris Larabee, head regulator of Four Corners he was taking care of.

"I know this dirty thing would make Ezra cringe," Buck said, figuring if he could keep talking, he could keep them both focused on the goal. "But you can't walk around outside naked'er'n a jaybird and not draw attention."

The corner of Chris' mouth twitched up into a smirk. It wasn't much, just an indication that he was registering some of what Buck said to him.

"That's better," Buck persisted and pulled one of his companion's arms over his shoulder. "Now come on, get your feet under you. That's it." He hauled Chris up into a stance and balanced him there.

Chris' head flopped to the side, resting against the juncture of Buck's shoulder and neck. "So hungry," he whispered.

So that was the definite reason for the shakes.

Understanding completely, Buck nudged the heavy head up with a shrug. There was nothing he could do but suffer along and sympathize that Ella had done something beyond measure to traumatize Chris like this. "I know," he murmured. "So am I."

He had to give Chris a few more healthy smacks on the cheek to keep him awake. The man wanted to collapse, like a child refusing to go somewhere and letting his legs go slack so that he had to be dragged along. Buck knew it wasn't intentional. He continued to feel the shaking, shivering mass in his arms as he walked Chris down the steps, guiding him one step at a time, the whole time tangling with his own hunger. In the lobby he sat Chris down on the settee where he himself had awakened earlier that day and ventured to test the front door. The boards had been removed and the panel opened freely, waiting for Christobal, Ella, and whatever goons were with them to return.

As Buck returned to the settee, he found Chris staring hard into the darkness, and when he followed the gaze, he noticed a huddle of goons there, none nearly as brave as the one upstairs. They probably belonged to Christobal, while the female he had staked was Ella's. This hierarchy among vampires could get confusing. The group didn't attack, merely crouched back, mouths open to show only glimpses of their extended fangs. Buck stared back at them, hardening himself as much as possible to send them silent warning not to even move.

They stayed put.

"Chris?" he whispered.

Chris continued to stare at the huddle, swaying slightly, another shiver rippling up through his body. Slowly his eyes shifted around and looked up at Buck.

Buck knelt before the settee and laid a hand on his friend's, felt the fingers tense slightly at the knuckles. "You with me?"

Staring back almost critically, Chris breathed in slow and heavily as if the air had turned to mud. Something in his eyes churned, their now brilliant green sharpening, little amber flecks appearing, the pupils dilating. When he opened his mouth, the tips of his fangs still showed, unlike Buck's which remained retracted and hidden, unthreatening. "Ella," he rasped. "She. . ."

"Yeah?"

"She can see through me." He shivered again, slipping his hand free of Buck's and tucking it against his lower belly within the drooping folds of the nightshirt. "She's in my head—“ he broke off saying this and his eyes, caught in that unnatural phase of vulnerable and feral rimmed with wetness, reddening around the inner edges of the lids.

Buck swallowed his heart looking at those eyes. He grabbed Chris' hand again, held it tightly, feeling the little tips of claws on the ends of each long finger. "Now you listen, Chris," he hissed angrily. "She has no power over you, hear me? She. . . KILLED. . . YOUR. . . WIFE. . . AND. . . SON."

Chris blinked at that and his brows knitted as if he had needed the reminder.

Buck took one shoulder in his free hand and shook. "Do you hear me?"

Chris nodded, his eyes slowly drying, replaced by greater clarity. "Yeah."

"Now we're gonna get out of here. I don't know what we're gonna do when all this is over, but at this moment we need to go on. Do you understand?"

Still nodding, Chris reached up, hand spread, and Buck took it. With a grunt at his own hunger pains, Buck helped the other man to his feet again.

Then bound for the church, they hurried from the hotel. All the while Buck kept hoping that Josiah and Nathan were still alive.

And most of all, he hoped that they were still human.

Part Two - El Camino a la Venganza

Chapter Twelve

The Ranch, Present Day

Vin could play chicken with the sunlight as it crept over the hills, but let the rays touch him and survival instinct took over. So when Ezra awoke around midday in his room, and found himself facing the inclined wall of the tracker's back and a mass of long bronze hair spilling over the other pillow, he knew what had happened.

It had taken another hour to really hit the road last night. J.D. and Vin needed baths, and then gear had to be loaded up and they had to check out, paying for an extra day because they had stayed well past the usual check out time at midday. Chris was in a rut for reasons Ezra suspected had nothing to do with the anthropology team digging up Four Corners. The caravan out had broken up into several inconstant sections—Ezra in his new Jag, Chris and Buck keeping to themselves with J.D.'s Ninja buzzing nearby, Josiah and Vin just a little behind, then Nathan, as usual, bringing up the rear. The line of vehicles stretched out for roughly a mile, sometimes narrowing down or widening for up to a two-mile stretch, and since I-10 was so barren in the late night hours, they had the luxury of driving as slow or fast as they liked.

Looking back in the rearview, Ezra had mused that it would be hilarious if one day Buck, Chris, Vin, and Josiah decided to actually ride in a group. They would look like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. After all, they were the ones who organized these hunting excursions. Well, so did Nathan, but he didn't count since he didn't ride a bike. J.D. took an attitude like he was just tagging along, and while Ezra took part in the hunt, he tended to focus primarily on the need for funds to keep the operation running. It all made for good pondering fodder to pass the time on the road.

By the time they had gone up past Lordsburg and veered south on 338, it was three in the morning. Getting to the property where the ranch rested was another story as the place was intentionally constructed far away from civilization and within a good ten miles of the remains of Four Corners.

The ranch house itself could be considered a small mansion, covering some five-thousand square feet, with seven bedrooms, three baths, a work room, a kitchen—which, while not necessary, was a favored meeting room—and a recreation center that housed the multitudes of odd collectibles accumulated over the years. This included J.D.'s movie library and a big screen television, Nathan and Josiah's books on science, philosophy and the new age, a few art pieces of Ezra's choosing, and a shared set of antique weaponry from Colt Peacemakers to swords and spears. Beneath the recreation area, an underground safe room had been installed. It was small, cramped, designed only for emergencies.

On the outside, the manse was a simple adobe design of two step levels intended not to conflict with the natural landscape. The windows were reinforced, some clear glass installed with steel panels for blinds that closed on a timer as soon as the sun began to rise. Others were heavily smoked glass with UV filtering so that anyone up in the middle of the day could still look out on the world. The workshop connected to an extensive garage on the west wing, and the graveled driveway, which like the house blended into the landscape. At the time it was under construction some thirty years ago—and it underwent new work about every other year as well—even Ezra had thought it excessive, and the defensive installations a bit overkill since the Seven only came here once a year, twice if occasion called for it.

They had arrived and immediately begun prepping the house for habitation. They pulled drop cloths from furniture and checked the power, water, and alarm system. Tucked within the cave-like safety of the place, they almost didn't notice the dawn slipping over the land outside.

Ezra's room was part of the loft in the second level and one of those installed with tinted windows, giving him a choice of whether to close the blinds or not. For whatever reason, he awoke around noon and might have drifted right off again had his eyes not immediately focused on that back, smooth and naked, tapering down into a pair of tight jeans. Filtered light fell through slightly cracked blinds, laying a pattern like ladder rungs along the upward curvature of Vin's shoulder and down his arm as it disappeared around in front of him. Without thinking about it, Ezra reached out and raked his fingers through the outer tendrils of hair on the pillow then withdrew as if he were violating the other's personal space.

This had happened before. Vin had not made it to ground in time, and so he found a place to sleep here. Ezra's bed had always been an open invitation to him, but it was so rare for him to take advantage of it given his affinity for an earthen floor. Reasons why he accepted, such as now, were as unfathomable as the North Sea since there was one other open bedroom, or the couch in the rec room, which was incredibly comfortable. Ezra suspected it was because Chris and Buck's room was on the other side of the house, and it was pure dumb luck that his own room was the furthest away. Or maybe it had to do with the windows of the upper level, and the amount of natural light that could safely be allowed into this room, because it had long been clear that Vin missed the sun at its most shining time, and mere glimpses of it at dusk and dawn did not compensate for a century of night walking.

With a sigh, Ezra tucked his hand back under his cheek and stared across the cushy pillows and their cream silk cases. He must have dropped off hard, because he hadn't even heard Vin come in or lie down on the other side of the king sized bed. He inhaled, smelling something akin to charred skin, and just above one of Vin's shoulder blades there was a sooty black mark that had for the most part healed.

The last time Ezra had observed such a mark, it had not come by simple carelessness. It had been a failed attempt on Vin's part to end his life. How long ago had it been? Ezra tried to recall.

A long-long time.

It had been roughly a week after the Seven had been transformed, when they were still such young creatures that any idea of a future for them was nothing short of horrifying. That was when Vin had tried to walk into the sun, and as if programmed to respond on its own, his body wouldn't let him. He could dance around its rays, throw curses at it, tease it, challenge it, call it a goddamned bastard, but natural instinct did not allow for full on suicide attempts.

The thought that Vin might have actually tried it again gave Ezra's heart a little turn because there had been no real indication of it coming. Sure, Vin had gotten violent two nights ago and practically fucked him through the hood of the car, but Vin had not fed then. The hunger, at its most extreme, made them all an ugly lot. No, Ezra decided, Vin hadn't tried it again, he'd just not paid attention to the time.

But dismissing the concern wasn't easy. Hesitating at first, Ezra reached out again, brought his flattened palm up to within an inch of the blackened skin on Vin's upper shoulder. His hand hovered there, feeling neither warmth nor cold radiate from the body beside him.

He wondered what it would have been like to have felt Vin when he was human. How warm that skin must have been. God, did he even remember what warmth felt like? It wasn't until after the transformation that any of them had begun to explore sexual relations with each other, starting with Buck and Chris and their feeding ritual. For one, sex outside the group was out of the question. They weren't about to have it on with any other vampires they encountered, and humans were completely off limits since it wasn't known if sex was as infectious as biting. It made sense that it would be with the exchange of bodily fluids.

Ezra remembered that night, around a campfire, within that first week, how Buck suddenly perked up and stared in utter horror at each of the others.

"My gawd," he twanged, "we can't. . ." He blinked and looked like he was going to choke.

"Can't what?" asked J.D.

"You know," Buck persisted. "We can't do it." The fire crackled and defined one side of his face in a dance of golden light as he looked down at his crotch. "Does it even still work?" he asked.

Josiah grunted a chuckle at that, and Chris stared at the fire, not interested or at least not ready to tackle such subject matter yet.

"I can't believe you, Bucklin," Nathan scolded.

The question, meant to be light hearted, disturbed Vin who took it too seriously. "You know it does, Buck," the tracker snapped. "Our sires drilled us up the ass! Of course it works!"

The rage in his eyes had no time to settle out as he spun on one heel and stalked into the dark for a moment alone. He left in his wake the most uncomfortable silence. Even the fire seemed ready to go out. That was his official departure from the Vin they had all known. . . the soft spoken, generally friendly tracker. That Vin was no more. A few days later the new Vin tried to end it all and failed.

It was no surprise, really. Each of them went through his own form of breakdown over some aspect of this new life. . . un-life. . . existence. . . whatever the hell it should be called.

It seemed then that living forever with each other was going to be hell on Earth, but for the sake of safety they had little choice but to stay together and adapt.

Some were more reluctant than others, Ezra mused dryly as he sat up and inched closer to the other man in bed with him. The sheet draped over his hip dragged along with him, the fabric whispering softly with the movement. His view cleared the rise of Vin's cheekbone and the slight dip of his temple, and he peered down at the closed eyelid and the lashes jutting out, catching some of the hazy light, the little hairs aglow along their very tips.

"Vin?" Ezra whispered.

The other grunted a response.

"You all right?" Ezra ventured to sweep the hair more neatly back from the other's forehead and incidentally provoked Vin into opening his eyes and turning his head on the pillow to look up at his watcher.

"'course I'm all right, just didn't make it outside is all," the tracker responded sleepily.

Ezra continued to unconsciously stroke the hair. The silken sensation of it sliding along the deeper crevices between his fingers was intensely arousing all by itself. Vin had probably let it grow a good six inches in the last few years, creating a mane to rival Josiah's.

Then his eyes followed the slope of Vin's narrow torso down to the little shadow spilling from underneath the loose beltline of his jeans. Typical, Ezra thought, for Vin to climb into bed in his jeans. Dusty, hole-in-the-knees jeans at that. But he'd learned they could be fun if he went with it. There was a unique and very pleasurable feeling in creeping his fingertips under that beltline, which he did now, first sliding his hand down over Vin's abs to his navel. The tautness of that skin over hardened muscle, formed via extensive riding, tracking, and constant need to be out of doors, and now preserved by some supernatural means the Seven still did not understand to this day, always captured Ezra. If he couldn't feel warmth, he at least could feel that smooth belly, and here and there the odd scar left over from Vin's former life. His fingertips ran along the edge of the denim, curling it back, and followed the trail of sandy-brown hair down to the nest surrounding Vin's cock. The inseam protecting the zipper scuffed along his knuckles as his hand rose slightly then pressured in again.

"What're you doin'?" Vin asked in a hushed and annoyed tone.

Ezra searched for the right words to cover up that he was just plain horny. "I thought you might be a little tense, considering the. . . ardor. . . of the last few days coupled with the long journey last night." He ran the tip of his tongue along the inside of his upper lip and recalled all the times before when Vin's hands were on his own body, feeling him harshly yet still arousing him beyond measure. But that just went to show the tracker was skilled at fucking, not making love.

Perhaps, Ezra had been thinking, if he gave back more gentle caresses, the message would eventually get across that force wasn't necessary and never had been. It was somehow imprinted on Vin by his sire, and Ezra had long accepted that it would be difficult to contend with, so he elected to bend, play the role of the reed in the wind and see what happened. That didn't mean he always took it without objection. As with the other night, he was known to get in his knocks if Vin went too far, but he always found the tracker's actions forgivable.

He had considered before that perhaps the natural lure he felt toward Vin was based only on the premise of progeny to sire, like Chris was still psychically connected to Ella. It was not a terribly discomforting thought for Ezra, knowing that Vin had sired him by necessity, to save his life. And Vin, while ill tempered, was absolutely no Ella by any means.

The tracker sniffed out an ill-humored chuckle, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as if he had been reading his lover's mind.

Ezra continued his tender probing, slipping his index finger and thumb around the soft, giving skin of Vin's cock, making a ring and pumping at it with the most minute, teasing pressure.

Vin sighed, a sound of complete acceptance, and rolled onto his back, staring up at Ezra still propped on the next pillow. "All right," he whispered back and reached down, opened his fly and zipper, freeing his cock with Ezra's hand wrapped around it. "Put your mouth on me," he husked then.

Ezra couldn't help smirking at the request. "Yes, Sir." He knew from past experience that Vin was generally not given to playfulness in bed. More like he was into wham-bam-thank-you-man, but if once he was willing to follow along a little rather than completely lead. . .

Straightening up to his knees, letting the sheet drop away from his body and reveal everything, Ezra eased his way in between Vin's legs and nestled down there, his mouth above the tracker's slack cock. He kissed it first, then cupped it in his hands and massaged it gently until it began to stand up, the skin transforming in texture from a wilted petal to hard blood-filled flesh. He watched it pump up, bit by bit, each pulse pushing it a little higher until the shaft was firm and solid. Licking at the base, he worked his way up until he reached the underside of the thick head. He took it into his mouth, felt Vin squirm a little at the sudden, shrouding contact, and heard an approving moan drift his way.

Ezra moved down, until his lover's cock head touched the back of his throat and he felt Vin's hips rise up, anxiously attempting to drive the organ deeper. Unable to go further, Ezra drew off, lips narrowing, then down again, lips widening. He felt some give from the sheath of the foreskin as it moved with him. When he pulled off, he continued the pumping motion with his hand, drawing the outer skin up over the head, then down again, then he teased with his tongue a little more, until Vin apparently grew impatient.

The tracker suddenly sat up, prompting Ezra to do the same, both men up on their knees and facing each other. Ezra looked into the hardened blue eyes, remembering long ago when he had first looked into them this close, right after Vin's awakening in that cavern.

Ironically, those eyes had been full of innocence then, despite the beast Vin had become. In that moment, he was completely, utterly, the vampire his sire had meant him to be, and nothing more. Strange that in that tiny moment when all Vin sought was to feed, he probably encountered the most freedom this existence could offer. Ezra realized that he himself had changed all of that. He had uttered Vin's name along with pleas that none of it was really happening. That had snapped Vin out of it, brought him around. He cast aside the freedom of simply being the carnal creature of darkness and embraced what was left of his human conscience.

It would be so much easier to let that humanity slip away, for it was indeed a heavy weight to carry on top of the hunger and the drive-to-kill, and all of the responsibility that came with keeping them in check.

That was the forbidden freedom.

That was the temptation all of the Seven had to deal with.

Ezra inched a little closer on his knees, maintaining grace as he cocked his hips forward, his softer cock meeting the firm rod of Vin's.

Vin stood statue still, projecting nothing, only his eyes moving coldly over Ezra's face. He was impossible to read in these moments, and Ezra's skin crawled with the anticipation of what would come next.

A hand suddenly swept up, over and around Ezra's right hip and reached down, fingers cinching in around the firm muscle of the accompanying ass cheek and pulled forward.

Vin was taking the lead again.

Ezra gave, his hips moving a little bit closer, leading the rest of his body in as he angled his head. His lips, and Vin's, played the air between each other. Ezra closed that little distance first, delivering a pleading kiss, forcing Vin's mouth open, but only because Vin let him. His tongue probed past the teeth, along the tips of the retracted canines as if tempting them to extend. Vin tasted, inside and out, of the earth that he preferred to sleep in. Not a bad taste, a little dry, somewhat musty, and yet fresh too, like grassy, loamy ground after a light rain. His hands found their way up to brace the sides of the tracker's head, fingers weaving through the long hair. Nudged against Vin's cock, Ezra's own began to stir more, a current of pleasure-pain coursing from the tip up into his middle.

Then abruptly Vin seized him by the shoulders and shoved him away, held him there in a vise-like grip, nails digging into his skin.

Ezra's hands went slack in their grip on the other man's long tresses. "What is it?" Ezra asked as his breath restored from the kiss.

Vin said nothing and stared up and down the length of Ezra's torso from the well molded abdomen to the chest and its distinctly chiseled out pectorals. Then he flipped them both around, slinging Ezra down onto the bed.

The gambler bounced on his side and rolled as Vin came down on top of him, stretched out along with him, one knee grinding up into his crotch so that his balls pushed up, partially splayed against Vin's inner thigh.

Ezra opened his mouth to speak, but the tracker's lips pursed, hissing air in a soft, lulling, "Shhhhhh. . ."

Then slowly Vin's clenched hands relaxed from Ezra's shoulders and he ran his knuckles down along the erogenous insides of Ezra's arms, stretching them out cruciform as he went, and he bent his head in to kiss the conman with deeper passion. Ezra moaned up into the mouth covering his own, before an anxious tongue invaded, and Vin's hands closed back in, one cupping over an already peaking nipple and flipping at it absently with the pad of the thumb. The other hand wormed into the space between Vin's knee and Ezra's thigh, caressing roughly, pushing that leg out. Vin's knee prodded the other leg out, spreading the man beneath him open.

Ezra closed his eyes, wondering where this was going, thrilled at not knowing. He arched his chest up toward the hand that teased at the one nipple and sucked at Vin's tongue, swallowing tangy saliva and that earthy taste with it. Meanwhile, he felt the tracker slide a finger up inside him, working it in circles, pressuring up toward the sensitive inner wall. Ezra moaned as his lower regions tingled and blood rushed more hurriedly into his cock until it stood up against that part of Vin's thigh still within range. A second digit entered him and aligned with the first, both moving up and down.

The ring of muscle at his entry began to relax and for a matter of seconds he felt like he'd have Vin finger fuck him forever. Almost unconsciously he rolled his hips up and surfed down into the hand tucked deeply up between his legs, but Vin had already pushed in as far as he could go. Ezra closed his eyes, felt the kiss release and bit at his lower lip. His cock head oozed out a large drop of clear pre-cum that slid down the shaft and into the ginger-brown patch of his pubic hair.

Then abruptly the massaging stopped.

Ezra gave his hips another little swivel, managing to maneuver out more delicious pleasure, but when this also failed to prompt Vin to continue, the gambler opened his eyes. He looked up into an intense, studying gaze, finding Vin as unreadable as before.

Stabbing pain shot up into him.

Ezra clenched his teeth, eyes tearing as for a moment his room turned into a cavern. Goons clutched back in the corners watching, mewling and hissing at the coppery aroma of fresh blood. Above him the pale naked figure of the vampire master hovered, ice-blue eyes piercing him, a treacherous, fanged smile leering at him while he was raped. In a moment the vision was gone, and Ezra gasped, found Vin blinking at him, eyes softened now in utter shock. The pain persisted, forcing out a miserable groan as Ezra whispered.

"Stop."

"I didn't. . ." Vin uttered. "I didn't mean to." Slowly, carefully, he removed his fingers from the slick passage, revealing slightly extended claws lightly bloodied on the tips.

"I know. . ." Ezra said with a growl he couldn't contain.

This was sometimes the way of it. Little accidents. Little painful accidents like this that made banging his dick on the grate of the car seem infantile. Ezra took it as only one example in many of how sad their situation was. One would think that after a century they would have this under control. But if he pushed, Vin pushed back in some way that Ezra could see was unintentional.

It was sad. . . just fucking sad.

He knew that Vin, Buck, and Chris had all had similar experiences when they were initiated. They had all gotten it the worst. . . weakened, scared, humiliated, brought to the lowest, and then raped on top of that. If Ezra were to psychoanalyze the tracker's side of it, he would say that somewhere in there, a piece of the old Vin still survived. The Vin who remembered too clearly what had happened in that cavern, and who desperately wanted to tell his story. But he couldn't just tell it. No, he had to demonstrate it, and in the most unexpected ways. The flashes of memory sharing prompted an involuntary physical response, such as this. . . extending his claws while his fingers were up his lover's asshole.

Just fucking sad.

Ezra took long, deep breaths as the internal abrasions automatically healed. Strangely, the sensation was as arousing as the massage, and his erection managed not to completely give out. In seconds the pain was gone, and Ezra huffed out one last sighing breath, looking up through narrowed eyes at the other man.

Vin had backed off, withdrawn his hand and knee from between Ezra's legs, and sat on his haunches at the foot of the bed. One knee protruded out through the hole in the jeans, framed around the edges in faded blue fringe. His zipper remained down, his half erect cock still out and sitting hopeful, nestled in the rumpled open V-line.

Ezra examined Vin's face, noting the tale tells that the tracker was sorry for the incident. The eyes were slightly misted, the blue paled down to an icy hue that indicated wariness. The lips pursed, on the verge of an apology that just didn't make it out.

Typical.

Ezra tried to put together a string of words that in some lightly comical way might express that he was not really that daunted by the occurrence. He wasn't human any more, his body healed, he could take pain like this. He didn't have to like it, but it disappeared so quickly that it was a mere spec in the realm of his personal eternity.

He looked down and saw that the hand resting on Vin's knee was a normal hand, fingertips blunt, nails retracted. It almost made him wonder if he'd imagined it, so he ventured forth again, figuring nothing worse could happen for now unless Vin suddenly lost it completely and tried to drill him through the mattress.

"Well now, shall we try that again?" he asked.

Vin stared back at first as if to say You can't be serious. Then in a quick and graceful movement he was off the bed and turned away. It looked at first as if he were going to depart, but instead he stood still, the gray light contouring over the surfaces of his shoulder blades, pooling in the small of his back along the inward curve of his spine. Such pale skin appeared to shine in this light, as if oiled or damp with perspiration. A tangle of hair trailed down the back of his neck, tapering off into a few more prominent locks of golden brown near mid back. The black sun marring on his upper shoulder had almost completely faded now.

Ezra tilted his head, curious as to the wait, and then he smiled to himself as Vin quite literally put on a show just by removing his jeans.

A pair of thumbs trailed around either side, dipped into the beltline, and strong fingers clasped the denim, pulled down, at the same time the figure bent slightly. The jeans slipped down over that perfectly toned ass and were nudged down to the floor where Vin stepped out of them and straightened. Light glanced down the center of each buttock, accentuating its firmness. He turned, the movement like slow motion, first swiveling around at that narrow waist. Then his hips followed, and then his upper body, arms relaxed at his sides. His face remained in shadow above the shaft of light from the window, only the underneath of his chin illuminated by the reflection off of his chest. For a moment the light behind his eyes glowed soft orange before he stepped closer. It faded, overwhelmed by the natural light from outside as his face bled back into full view, and he simply looked at Ezra.

Something in that face had changed, and Ezra could see that the other man had distanced himself just then, in what had appeared to be a simple turn of the body. It had been, in and of itself, a transformation. Into what, Ezra could only guess. He propped up on one elbow and stretched out his free arm through the air as Vin climbed back onto the bed and leaned toward him. His anxious, spread fingers met the side of Vin's neck and curled around to the nape, drawing his lover closer, until their lips met again. It was, quite literally, like starting from the beginning.

They kissed more hungrily, casting off the interruption as though it had never happened, and Ezra's finger tips curled in, massaging Vin's scalp at the same time he craned his head up a little higher to more thoroughly allow his tongue to reach into the other's mouth again. Eyes closed, Vin leaned down deeper until once more he was stretched out along Ezra's body. The tracker bowed his head and kissed the side of Ezra's neck, sucking at, but not breaking, the skin. Ezra roamed one hand down to resume stroking Vin's cock, bringing it quickly back to full hardness as he rubbed the pad of his thumb up and down the upper shaft, around the rim of the head.

Ezra didn't object when Vin guided his body to roll over, gently situating him belly down and propped up on his elbows. In a graceful motion Vin parted Ezra's legs wide, then one hand reached underneath a hip, pulled upward in a silent gesture that Ezra raise his ass a little higher. Ezra did so then resituated himself down as Vin slipped a pillow under his hips. He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and for a moment felt only the empty air around him, heard the rustling of covers and the minute squeak of the box spring. And then the tracker's hands were on him again, meeting at the thumbs, each taking an ass cheek in palm and caressing in circular motions, parting the cleft and revealing his opening.

He thought he heard a soft murmur of, "I'm so sorry, Ezra." But feeling the slick tongue that slid down into the crevice and up against the little aperture into his body almost made him forget his own name. The very tip slid around the puckered flesh, teased and licked and slathered on wetness. The tickle of a few stray locks of hair dangling past Vin's neck and shoulders trailed around the base of one buttock, and Ezra found himself nudging his hip toward that silkiness as if seeking to scratch an itch. He smiled to himself.

This was getting interesting.

Vin's tongue probed a little deeper into the sterile crevice, then pulled out and followed the path up the middle, to the small of Ezra's back. He let the tip touch the skin, running a trail of wet up the spine, until he reached the back of the neck and with one hand pressured Ezra to bow his head, exposing the nape. Vin licked at the tiny hairs there that grew in a natural downward V pattern. He kissed behind an ear and breathed into the canal, the sudden hush of air causing Ezra to gasp as it both tickled and ached, a combination of sensation perfectly balanced.

"Vin," he whispered. Hands eagerly dug under him from the sides, fingertips finding his nipples and rolling them around. One thumb found the hollow between two ribs and notched in there. The other found the gutter line beneath a tightened pectoral. He could feel Vin's cock pressing up into his ass crack, finding his opening. Entry was swift, the passage so successfully slicked with Vin's saliva that Ezra almost didn't feel it until the organ slid along his sensitive zone.

The gambler moaned his approval and rocked his hips back a little, contracting his muscles to suck in more of Vin Tanner.

Vin shook at this, already on the verge of coming. A strange sound murmured out of him, as if he started to say something but his throat caught on the hard K sound that barely coughed out followed by a long S hiss.

Chris. . . Ezra deduced and then let it go as the hands feeling his chest clamped more tightly, possessing him completely, even if their owner was likely thinking about someone else.

Vin pulled Ezra more tightly up against him, hips pursing upward, then tucking downward to meet Ezra's upward push. For a second they would be perfectly spooned together, then separated, then together again. In this they fell into a rare and beautiful rhythm. So rare, that when it did happen, Ezra felt it was too good to be true, and his thoughts went all askew. Within him, Vin's cock continued to prod his prostate wall, precisely aligned, forcing rapturous shivers up through his middle. He felt Vin shiver too, and the gust of broken breath ghosted along the back of his neck.

Do you even see me now?

Ezra closed his eyes tightly, his stiff rod humping the pillow beneath his hips each time he dipped down before pushing up again into the crush of Vin's pelvic bone into his buttocks.

So good. . . God, it was so damned good he clenched his teeth, mini fangs involuntarily budding as he put more effort into the tempo, directing this two man band into a crescendo of movement and soft groans.

It was with a grunt that Vin came inside his lover, not an outcry of passion, but all the same, his body shuddered violently, and he shoved in a little harder with each spewing pump. Ezra's breath staggered and he came into the pillow, Vin's hands still clamped around his rib cage, his raw nipples still wedged between the tracker's fingers.

As each finished spilling his seed, Vin rolled sideways, still tucked up against Ezra who had no choice but to roll onto his side too, and lay conformed up against the tracker's body, cock still partially lodged up inside him. Ezra's own sticky cum was smeared all over his belly, while Vin's oozed out of his ass and trickled, tickling him to near madness, down the backside of one thigh. Each enjoyed his own orgasm as it radiated from his loins up into his chest, and for a moment their world was just shy of ideal. As Ezra's breath calmed, his eyeteeth restored to normal canines.

For a long time they lay tucked against each other, and Ezra sensed, from the sudden quiet that fell upon his own mind, that Vin was asleep. They weren't linked to the extent that they could communicate telepathically, but there were things. . . Ezra could tell. It was like a low buzz in his head or a dull ringing in his ear. The tracker had one arm over Ezra's side, the other bent and tucked up under his head, and he was out like the proverbial light.

Everything was just. . . quiet.

Vin wasn't even breathing.

Ezra stopped his own breath as well. This was probably a bad idea. In the dead silence, laced only by the drone of the fans whirring in the house's ventilation ducts, his thoughts swarmed too freely. Thoughts and emotions together and all those little quips that nibbled at him. So the second round had gone very well, he thought, and was almost content except that he was sure Vin had almost blurted out a name not his. Why should that bother him now? Ezra wondered. He'd been aware of Vin's interest in Chris from the beginning. How deep it ran was a mystery, and it ranged in intensity. There were times Ezra was sure that given the chance to be with Chris, Vin would go straight there without any hesitation. At others it seemed Vin fancied fucking Chris some day and let that be it.

"Vin?" Ezra whispered. For some reason he had to know the extent of it. He'd been avoiding finding out for so long. Hell, thinking about asking made his insides stir and he'd feel a mock hunger pain like he hadn't fed in weeks. That was the undead equivalent of butterflies in the stomach, he figured. Had Vin murmured Chris' name before? That Ezra couldn’t remember. In fact, had Vin actually whispered it a while ago, when they were in the throes and exchanging ragged gasps at each other? Ezra couldn't even be sure if it was just his imagination or not.

He had to know.

"Vin?" He gave a nudge with an elbow, finding the tracker's upper side belly.

The disgruntled intake of breath from behind him told him he'd roused his lover. An even more disgruntled, "Huh?" soon followed.

Ezra turned his head a little, getting in a sideways glance over his shoulder. He could barely tell that Vin's eyes were closed, and the other's breath was about to drop away again. "Vin, do you. . ." He paused to find some more eloquent way to put it, but found none. There was no way to make such an enquiry as his all that eloquent. Somehow he felt that would fail. So he elected to be more direct. "Vin, when we have sex. . . do you ever imagine I'm Chris?"

In his peripheral vision, he could see one crystallizing blue eye snap open, immediately alert. There was no answer at first.

Just cool. . . calm. . . nothing.

Then Vin moved with the speed of a wind demon, boosting up then coming down, grabbing Ezra's shoulders and pinning them, forcing the gambler over on his back. His full weight came down with a dull thud on top of his lover's body and for a moment he only hovered over Ezra glaring angrily down at him, eye to eye.

Ezra had gotten out a grunt of protest in the jostling, and now, staring up at the rage burning in those eyes, he realized he had made a mistake. This was one of those unexpected Vin-isms. Yes, he knew there was some offense to be taken in the question but this went beyond his expectations. Perhaps Vin was most riled up because the answer was indeed a resounding yes.

But the way he expressed it was a whole other matter.

"All the time, Ezra," he spat, fangs partially baring through the part in his lips as they precisely formed each word. "All the time. . . that's why I make you look the other way. So I don't have to see your face!"

A nearly paralyzing sting shot down through Ezra from head to heart. He stared, eyes exchanging shards of green for amber as he prepared a retort that wouldn't come. His tongue felt too thick. "Why do you even bother with me?" he finally whispered hoarsely, and for the first time in his unnatural life felt the true desire to lash out at a comrade.

And then Vin shuddered, as if he'd realized what he was doing or what he had said. He literally deflated, all the tension in his body leaking out, the grip on Ezra's shoulders loosening, leaving behind finger indentions and bruises that healed immediately upon release of the pressure. "It's not like that," he whispered, and a film of pain washed over his eyes. He backed off, crawling quickly backwards, until he'd cleared the length of Ezra's body.

The gambler quickly sat up and scooted to the head of the bed, wary and watching, some part of him wishing desperately to spring at Vin and rip him apart. He had known vicious anger before, felt it boil and fester in him, the curse of the beast demanding to rear its ugly head and be sated emotionally. This was different, and so remarkably powerful that Ezra had to grab the headboard and hold himself steady. Only one systemized thought managed to surface, asking if this was what Vin had to deal with. All this time Ezra had thought he'd understood, but no.

Now he understood.

And. . . God, it hurt. . .

Like having an ice fire in his chest.

Vin seemed oblivious to the fury he left in his wake. His own had disappeared so quickly, cast from one polarity to the other. He sat on the end of the big bed, hunched over, elbows on knees, head hanging. "It's not like that at all," he finished, but that was all he said. No elaborating, no solid definition of what it was he felt toward Chris or why exactly he had bitten back so viciously at Ezra's question. After a moment, he leaned down, bare ass pointed right at Ezra, scooped up the mass of his jeans in one hand, and stood. He pulled them on right there, the movement of his body in the light a scrumptious tease as it had been before.

Ezra felt himself begin to simmer down. "Then what is it, Vin?" he asked the other man's departing back.

At the door out onto the upstairs landing, Vin turned, a single hand on the frame, and looked at Ezra. His eyes had drained of color, leaving only a hint of blue, and two finely pointed, still angry and focused pupils. "All these years, and you think I'm that shallow?" he said.

It was a whisper, but its meaning came out oh so loud and clear.

Ezra let go the headboard and bounded off the bed, started for the door, and found the other figure already gone. Idiot, he chastised himself. What had he expected? He'd asked a sensitive question. That it could hurt Vin didn't occur to him. The man was a masochist the way it was, and Ezra admitted he could be too for putting up with it, for forgiving it so easily. All the physical pain they inflicted on each other could not compare to saying the wrong things, because pain was something that didn't last. Their bodies could take pain. It was so easy to forget that there were other facets of it. For all of the times Vin had taken out his aggression on Ezra, the gambler suddenly realized he'd managed, unintentionally, to exact a kind of revenge by asking that question. The aggressive force that had rattled his frame was gone completely. It had only been there in response to Vin's hateful retort, which Ezra saw now was only something meant to sting.

Shallow, he thought. What a word for Vin Tanner to use. There must be something deeper going on for the tracker to reach into the lexicon Ezra had taught him.

Bowing his head, eyes closed tightly as he swallowed down the bitter taste that infected his tongue, Ezra turned. He meandered to the window, noticing that he couldn't feel anything inside. That little buzz was gone even though Vin was conscious and still near if not in the same room. Ezra guessed there was only one explanation for that. The sire had closed himself off to his progeny.

Ezra propped on the windowsill and peered out between the blinds at a landscape rendered in smoky gray by the tinted glass. Gray sand, gray hills, gray shrubbery. All in different shades, some of it haloed by the sun's light. His pupils closed to points of their own, filtering out the excessive light. Everything he and Vin did to each other. . . and after a hundred years all it really took were a few words to really put either of them out of sorts.

Stifling a chuckle of bitter irony, he closed the blinds and turned away from any remaining light piercing the cracks. "Sticks and stones. . ." he recalled the old saying to the empty air, and finished the rest in thought.

. . .but words will break our hearts. . .

Chapter Thirteen

Outside Four Corners, 1877

Taking the blood had not completely been his choice.

Utmost he felt the pain in his throat as skin was torn away, the wash of hot wet down his chest, the lightheadedness that followed, and the ravenous mouth that pressed over the open wound. Then he'd felt Vin's hand press hard against the back of his head, pulling him closer, pushing his face in until his mouth came up against the base of the tracker's neck. The flesh there was cold to his lips, and he felt a hand snake up between their bodies. The sharp tip of a claw wedged under his lips, and tore a gash in the opposing skin. When the blood came, his mouth was pressed too firmly over it to refuse.

The taste was putrid at first. He tried not to weep at how awful it was, and that it came out of the body of a dead friend. Then as it settled, putrescence grew sweet, as if some secret message were conveyed through the flow that this meant he would live, if he accepted it.

So he did.

He drank as deeply as possible given the window of time he had, feeling his body give in as it was drained in turn. When he collapsed back, he was too numb to register the chilled cavern floor beneath him, only that he had been abandoned. The hands that had been holding him were gone. He heard screeches, shouting, the soft, sickening crunch of bodies hitting the stone. It all coalesced into a frightening roaring in his ears.

"V. . . Vin?" he whispered to the cavern ceiling. Or maybe, weak as he was, he only thought the name. The grayish faces of goons loomed, examining him, teeth bared. A few bowed their heads and, on hands and knees like animals, lapped at some of the last run off from the still oozing wound in his neck. Another knelt, its talons dancing over his face, so that his clouded imagination registered long black spider's legs curling above his vision.

"Get away from him, you piece of shit!" A distant snarl of a voice, familiar and yet alien to him, shooed the goons away.

And then Vin had him again, lifted his head from the floor and cradled it in his lap. Caring arms came down around him, guarded him.

"I'm sorry, Ezra," Vin whispered and bowed his head, his longish locks spilling forward like a veil.

Was he. . . crying. . .?

Feeling safe, Ezra gave in and sank into the death sleep.

-7-7-7-

Chris was able to walk on his own by the time Buck had gotten him to the church. By then he had cursed his old friend to Hell and back, stumbled three times, skinned his knees and in morbid fascination watched them heal instantly. He fought back tears as he recalled what Ella had done to him. After fucking him, she'd drained him to near death then risen up over him and slashed the tip of her right nipple with the sharp tip of a claw. When it bled freely like mother's milk, she wedged it into his mouth. The blood tickled his throat at first, forcing him to cough, thus sending it up into his nasal cavities where it washed back down out his nose. He all but drowned in the stuff as his gag responses tried to push it out, then the following suction pulled it right down his throat.

Now he carried the memory if that cold nipple in his mouth, of the texture of the pink, tightly budded skin forming a knob. Made him want to puke, except that the hunger pain argued with that notion. No, he didn't want to puke, he wanted to feed, and on the edge of his mind, he could feel her with him, coaxing gently, attempting to convince him not to run, that she was where he belonged. It felt so right, too. Terrified as he had been sprawled beneath her before, now thoughts of her sent a surge into his cock. He so wanted to fuck her, and she teased him with images of feeding, of the blood that she was bringing back to him. He would have readily veered around and gone straight back to the hotel to await her return if not for Buck slapping him on the face every few minutes. This got to be a damned nuisance very quickly, for he couldn't pause to try to collect his own thoughts but what Buck figured he needed another good slap.

The next one that came around, he caught, instinct acting to catch Buck's rising hand around the wrist. "Don’t do it again," he hissed angrily. Then he blinked in astonishment at how fast he had moved.

Buck blinked too, his other hand gripping Chris' shoulder tightly to keep him from falling over. "Well then," he said in a low rumble of a drawl, "that's more like it." Then he pried his wrist free and, before Chris could stop him this time, punched the head regulator on the shoulder.

Chris started to snarl back then caught himself. No, to act as the thing he'd been made into against his will would mean to give Ella exactly what she wanted. It was with this act of will that he found his fangs retracting, and even the hunger caved in a little so that he could stop clutching his belly so much. The haze began to clear more when he saw Josiah and Nathan.

Their faces had paled considerably, and their eyes were bloodshot, wary. The giant preacher hunched in the doorway at the church, arms hugged tightly across his chest as he cringed at his own chills. The chills of death. The healer lingered behind him, armed with stakes ready to be flung at what ever came through the church door when Josiah opened it. They weren't welcoming in the night, they were prepared to continue fighting whatever came with it.

Chris had no complete idea of what had happened elsewhere in the town during the attack last early morning, only that in the space of twelve hours, everything had changed. Between slapping him and keeping him upright, Buck had been filling him in with a few bits and pieces during the long, excruciating walk down the street. He knew Buck's sire and Ella were out on the hunt, and most of their goons seemed to have gone with them. He knew Buck had spoken to Josiah earlier in the day, while he was still human, and that the preacher and the healer were infected, and that J.D. had been sent away with the last survivors. Utmost, he knew the Seven had failed in their sworn duty to protect the town.

They had tried.

Damn-in-hell they had tried.

The misery of it all helped Chris push the hunger back a little further.

"Buck," Josiah whispered in partial relief. "You found him."

"Hey, Josiah, was wonderin' if you'd still be here," Buck said, his normally smooth voice now rusty. "Figured you mighta moved on, or. . ." he glanced away when he said this. "Or something else."

A look at Buck confirmed for Chris that his friend's eyes were misting. To look up the empty street, to feel the dead silence. . . Chris understood completely. Not even a cricket, safe within its hidey-hole crack under the steps, chirped. And yet here stood Josiah. Chris could have sworn the preacher's hair was grayer than before, or maybe it was a trick of the light from the lamps glowing inside.

"Vin?" Chris rasped. "Ezra?"

"Missing since dawn," Josiah replied. He gestured out into the nothing of trails and land cloaked in shadow southeast of the town. "One of the survivors we sent on with J.D. said something about seeing a rider go that way. Thought it might be Vin, but it was still dark then and us being sick now. . ." He shook his head, obviously disappointed at himself, and regretful of the town's downfall. "We had our hands full here," he finished with a second gesture back in the other direction up the main street. "Lost it all."

Nathan had lowered the stakes and come to the preacher's side. "You two look horrible," he said outright to the two men standing one hunched against the other in dirty, blood caked shirts and no pants. "Come on in, I'll take a look at'cha."

Before he could stop himself, Chris snapped, "No!" and pulled back against Buck's supporting arm. He staggered, legs tangling up like those of a gangly newborn colt, and almost fell over, but the taller man caught him and helped him steady. How could they not tell what he was. . . what Buck was too?

"What he's sayin'," Buck announced over the scuffling of ill planted feet, "is that we're just a bit beyond medical help, Nathan."

This caused the two men in the church to straighten, choking back their chills and tensing further, vipers ready to strike back if necessary.

"Hold on now!" Buck burst out, his free hand up and palm raised to call a truce before the conflict had any chance of breaking out.

But nothing happened.

They all stared at each other. Josiah and Nathan blinked. Chris and Buck blinked. Slowly Buck lowered his hand.

"It's happened," Buck whispered. "We're past saving, Nathan," he reaffirmed. "And if I understand correctly, so are you." He clutched Chris a little tighter as they stood there, half naked creatures hungering and hurting.

Josiah's shoulders deflated, his arms dropped down to his sides, and he leaned back against the frame, staring at nothing. A glaze of hopelessness slipped over his eyes.

"No," Nathan said, stepping closer, filling the door in the space next to Josiah.

Three other sets of eyes began to roll up and focus on him, brows knitting. Frown lines etched out a broken V-shape down the middle of Chris' forehead. He could see Nathan's natural stubbornness emerging despite the infection that had numbered his days.

"No," the healer repeated more strongly. "We still got our wits, don't we?" he asked incredulously.

"But for how long?" Josiah replied.

"It means we still got some chance," Nathan insisted, though his breath rustled weakly.

Chris cleared his throat. He could still feel that nudge in his mind, his mistress calling him. Bitch. He swallowed, his throat dry and tight, and resisted with every part of his being. Clearly Nathan still hoped to make a stand, but how deep did that hope run? Chris ventured to test it. Buck was right in his earlier statement that they would have to get out of town, and that was the only place Chris could think to start. "We need to go," he said, his voice still not completely up to par. "Gotta figure this out, see if we really do have a chance."

"You got that right," Buck backed him up. "And here we are standin' outside like a buncha idiots." He looked about, putting his new senses to work searching the night for signs of the vampire brood. "The one that did this to me, I remember hearing him. . . him and. . . Ella."

"Ella?" Nathan and Josiah asked in unison.

"Yeah, she did this to Chris."

"But. . ." Nathan shook his head in disbelief. "What does she have to do with this?"

Chris looked up at him with a scathing glare, the newer brilliance in his green eyes almost glowing. He couldn't see it himself, nor did he see that his own pupils were glowing softly from within, but he sensed the other's reaction to it. "Never mind that now," was all he said. He knew he would have to answer such questions soon, but right now he was too agitated, too hungry.

"I remember seeing her. . ." Buck continued vacantly, gaze casting to the ground. "She and that bastard. . . Christobal. . . I heard 'em fighting over me. . . I'm supposed to be dead now. . . dead-dead, not. . . this. . ." He looked down at his body and away. "She's the reason the town's laid to waste," he finished. "They had to go feed elsewhere because there's nothing. . . no one. . . else left here."

Necessary though this information was, the continued mention of Ella finally pushed Chris to snap at his companion. "Buck!"

The taller man looked at him with a flat stare as if Buck had become impervious. "Yeah, we gotta go," he agreed and looked up at the others. "You too," he said to Josiah and Nathan.

"But where?" the preacher asked.

Before he could consider options, Chris felt another nip at his will, and the voice at the back of his mind calling. It was so powerful this time, edged with anxiety. He'd gotten to thinking about Ella, and damned if it didn't strengthen the link. He could imagine her breasts in his hands, tasting the skin at her throat when she returned. "No, stop. . ." he gasped and pulled against the protective arms keeping him here where he really belonged, here with his friends.

"Chris!" Buck shouted and the slapping commenced again, one hand clamped firmly around Chris' upper arm, the other going to town on his face. "Look at me!"

Chris felt a strange and soothing trance state threaten to control him, his cock hardening as visions of fucking Ella flushed through his mind and he looked up at Buck's grimacing face as if staring up through rippling water.

"Chris!" Buck shook him hard, smacked him again.

The sting bit into his cheek, pierced the veil, and pulled Chris a little bit closer to the surface. He heard the others' voices shouting for him, echoing through the tunnels of his ear canals as if through the deepest canyon.

It was the first of many seizures to come.

He tossed as more hands enfolded him, controlled his flailing limbs, and lowered him. His body tried to stop breathing and his mind retorted, the two uncoordinated entities fighting each other, and Ella's face appeared before his inner eye. Her dark eyes taunted him, her smile invited him, her blood offered him release.

Then somehow the vision was swept away like so much dust under a mat. Something cool and tangy flooded his mouth and he swallowed instinctively. In that moment the air cleared. Ella and her call disappeared. Chris found himself sprawled face up on the church steps, three upset men pinning him down, and his teeth, fangs extended, firmly latched onto the side of Buck's hand. It was Buck's blood he tasted, Buck's blood that had brought him back around.

Chris unclenched his jaw and his teeth slid out of the wound. Buck pulled his hand free slowly, and stared at it. Before them all the flesh began to heal, sealing up each little tooth print. The blood still clinging to his skin dried quickly and flaked off as if it had turned to ash.

Buck looked from one to the other, tilting his hand a little more so that they could see the bite had completely vanished. "One of the benefits, I suppose," he said in a low, disgusted huff. That said, he moved quickly back to the previous topic. "Let's go." He reached down, took Chris by the shoulders and hefted him to his feet with hardly any effort.

Chris was back to staggering again. He stubbornly tried to give more input on the decision to follow the route Vin was reported to have taken, but the others grew anxious, especially after his little "episode" in front of the church. They didn't know what they would find out there, but anywhere was better than in town.

The hours passed with a lot of grunting, groaning, and cursing as they hauled themselves across the plain that surrounded the main road leading out of Four Corners. For Chris and Buck, the night was a chorus of noises that to the human ear were too quiet to notice. By the early morning hours, Chris could even swear he heard the dew settling. Josiah and Nathan paled out more, shivered harder no matter how mild the night air. Nathan tried to make more sense of their condition, asking questions that at times pertained to Ella, and Chris found his temper running on the same short fuse as before.

"So if Chris is linked to Ella, you could be linked to the one made you," the healer commented to Buck.

"Yeah, seems that way," the tall gunslinger replied. He had finally been able to completely let go of his burden and Chris was walking on his own again, but Buck stayed on the other's tail, keeping an eye on every slight misstep. "I heard 'em talk something about feeding us. Ella was supposed to feed Chris, and Christobal me. Something about control."

Nathan considered this. "Makes sense though. You two ain't no goons. Maybe that's how one master controls another. . . by feeding him, making sure the blood gets processed through the first master."

Josiah's brows went up. "That's what brought Chris back around," he said suddenly. "He bit you."

Buck cocked his head at this, brows furrowing deeply and he looked over at Chris who was doing his damnedest to stay focused on the journey. "You think my blood's what helped him get some control?"

"It'd be like a drug," Nathan deduced. "Sort of a temporary antidote."

"I dunno," Buck said dubiously then appeared to reconsider. "Though. . . Chris was in a hell-of-a bad state when I found him." He still looked at the other, who suddenly turned angered eyes on him.

"Would you just shut up," Chris spat.

"Make me," Buck snarled back, too tired to take any more objections.

Chris stopped in his tracks, shoulders slouched, and stared back. For a second he was filled with a vicious desire to leap at Buck and tear into his throat. There was more precious blood to be had there, his for the taking. He recalled the taste spilling over his tongue, Buck's hand in his mouth and his teeth solidly dug into the flesh as if through the peel on some ripe, juicy peach. But no sooner did he have this inclination than he realized it was instinct talking. Instinct and the continued mention of Ella. . . damn it all but Nathan and Josiah weren't exactly respecting his wishes that she not be mentioned either. He let it fizzle out. His eyes narrowed at Buck and he sighed.

"Do it yourself," he grumbled softly and turned to continue ahead.

Moonlight glanced off the crusty desert floor, stones, shrubs, and cacti. While the whole of the night was brilliant to him, that moonlight added a halo. Chris blinked to see if it would go away, but when it didn't, he realized that this was to be his vision from now on, this gray and yet so alive night.

Then something stirred ahead, and he smelled warm tanginess. Instinct kicked in again and he sniffed the air more deeply. Buck did the same, and both looked at each other.

"What is it?" Nathan asked, noting the eerie silence that fell between the two.

Chris and Buck both looked back out into the night, smelling hot blood, dust, and under that the hint of leather and saddle soap.

"Horses?" Buck asked no one in particular with a shrug.

Chris spotted the gelding first, far off in the distance, head down and nibbling on a bush. "Peso," he whispered.

"Peso?" Josiah echoed and scoped the night, but his still-human eyes could not penetrate the veil of distance even with the moon's help.

"There he is," Buck confirmed. He started forward, stopped, and spun back around. "Well, come on," he insisted and gestured the others to follow.

"Wait," Josiah called after him. "Buck, remember the horses in the graveyard?"

Buck straightened, all of the lost little boy there in that dirty shirt tail. Chris gritted his teeth, making the realization as well. "Shit," they both hissed in unison.

"I didn't even think about that," Buck added, fists clenched at his side. He was turning to look back at the others when he froze and looked slightly up past their heads. His face fell suddenly, and the glisten of dread crept into his eyes.

"What is it?" Nathan said and let his gaze follow Buck's, as did Josiah.

"How long have we been out here?" Josiah asked no one in particular.

"Oh. . . God. . ." Buck said and his voice absolutely trembled.

When Chris turned to look to the east he understood. Instinct once more spoke, pulled every cord and nerve tight.

The eastern sky had lightened from black to softer blue, and on the rim of the mountain ridge, the pale light that marked the threshold of daybreak began to wash gently upwards.

"Buck. . ." Chris murmured hoarsely.

"We gotta find shelter!" Buck burst out and spun about, scanning the surrounding land for some indication of the best place to go. To the north a closer ridge of rocky hills interrupted the desert spread. Not really even hills, but jutting rock formations. But there were shadows within the shadows, and Buck's keener vision spotted what might have been a flicker of light. "There!" He pointed, and reached out to frantically grab Chris' arm, jerking him closer and giving a shake.

Chris narrowed his gaze and homed in on the faint shift in light against the formations. "Looks like there may be a camp over there, or something."

"You two got one up on us," Nathan said irritably, "cause I don't see a damn thing."

"Me neither," Josiah agreed.

Chris turned and examined the degree of light in the sky and figured they "might" have a full hour before it would actually be lethal to him and Buck, but the implications were still horrific. He didn't want to burn.

"Here's the deal," Buck said blandly, glancing at his companions again then up at the sky. "That sun comes up, Chris and I are gonna be bacon."

Chris winced at that but agreed with the assessment Buck was arriving at. "We need to try to make that rise. I don't know what that light is but it looks like that might even be some caverns or something over there."

"You know about any caverns in the area?" Josiah asked, looking from one to the other. His heavy brow completely shaded in his eyes while the lingering moonlight touched his hair and defined the planes of his cheekbones and strong jaw.

"Nope," Buck replied, "but it can't hurt to look now can it." He gave them a wave and started hustling across the sand, over brambles and past cacti and tumbleweeds, kicking aside who-knew-what as he went.

The others followed at a slower pace, Josiah and Nathan both continuing to shiver, brows drenched in cold sweat. Where Chris and Buck didn’t so much as gasp to keep their breath up, the preacher and the healer were clearly deteriorating further, every step more sluggish than the one before

Dawn began to reach red fingers across the sky, sending Buck and Chris into a panic, and they reached the embankment first, feet padding from sand up onto rock, naked toes naturally gripping into the crevices so that they could more efficiently climb.

"There it is!" Buck called and climbed faster, reaching the lip of what was indeed a cavern mouth.

"I'll be," Josiah murmured to himself as he squinted to see ahead, and the early light now defined the dark opening. He helped Nathan along.

The two fully fledged masters made the opening well ahead of their companions and eased their way in, looking down through an uneven tunnel that went from wall-to-wall rock to developments of stalagmites in jagged rows. Deeper down, the flicker of light that they had seen from out on the plain still danced.

"It. . . smells like death," Chris stammered. After the long walk, he was beginning to find his thoughts teetering back toward Ella.

Buck inhaled as if to test that theory and nearly gagged. To say it smelled like death was a compliment. What wafted from those depths was stale blood, shit, and decay. He wrinkled up his nose and took a step forward. "Someone is down there," he whispered. "You hear that?"

Chris listened, cocking an ear, and agreed that that he thought he heard a long, agonized sigh. Just the same, it could have been air moving through the cavern. His gaze wound along the floor until he spotted something lying against one of the stalagmites. "Buck, look." He pointed, then eased on ahead toward the object, finding it to be a cavalry style hat, dusty and half flattened, its neck cord broken. Chris straightened, the hat cradled by its rim in his hands as if he held a wounded butterfly. "It's Vin's," he said and looked up through a tumble of dirty bangs.

Buck went to his friend's side and then together they looked down the remaining length of the passage to the source of that light flicker. A scuffing of shoes on stone drew their joint attention back to the cavern opening, where Josiah and Nathan now stood, silhouettes against the lightening sky.

"What'cha got there, Chris?" Nathan asked.

Stiffly Chris lifted the hat a little. "Look," he rasped and almost collapsed as a fresh dizzy spell hit him.

"Whoa," Buck whispered and caught Chris up by the arms, lowering him to his knees where he bowed his head and took long deep breaths as if it would help.

"You feel this?" Chris said, leaning into him. "You feel this kind of hold from the one who made you?"

Buck lifted his chin. "Chris, stay with us now."

"Do you?"

Eyes watering, Buck helped his friend get back to his feet and stood transfixed for a moment. "Yes," he finally admitted. "I do." Gently he took the hat from Chris' hands and hung it on the point of a stalagmite. "He started calling to me when we left town."

It seemed to console Chris to know that they were in the same situation. He nodded and said hopelessly, "I want to go back there."

"Easy now, we'll have to, but not now," Buck reminded him with a gesture at the light beginning to creep past Nathan and Josiah. "Not in the day." It all but choked him up to say it. To never see the sun again. . . no wonder this state of being was called undeath. With minor effort he turned Chris to face down into the deeper well and looked over his shoulder. "Nathan, Josiah, you two better wait here. If what's down there decides to come out, you'll at least have the sun behind you."

They nodded, Josiah finding a boulder to lean against while he hunched up his shoulders. Nathan paced, wavering dizzily, until he also found a place to prop his tired body.

Then Chris and Buck crept ahead, following the dreaded smell, until first they saw a scattering of bodies on which the light of hundreds of nearly spent candles danced. A gnarled arm here, a head of ratty hair lying over there, or a torso sliced in two. As they rounded the last bend, looking into a vast chamber of stone, their eyes followed the carnage to one sight that made them both halt and stare.

Vin Tanner, completely naked and caked in smatters of dried blood, sat on his haunches, head bowed as he cradled the dead body of Ezra Standish.

Chris gasped relief at the sight of Vin, while he felt a surge of regret to see Ezra. The conman was partially dressed, though his lacey Parisian shirt had been torn open and was stained in blood. Ezra's head was turned to the side, exposing the side of his neck where an extremely large and thick scab had formed.

"Vin?" Chris whispered.

The tracker didn't move, which set the two newcomers more on edge. They knew what he was not by smell, or by the fact that they could hear his slow and steady heartbeat, which matched the rhythm of their own hearts. They just knew. By yet some other facet of their new instincts, they knew. Then as Vin drew a rusty breath to speak, they both tensed.

"I," Vin stammered at first. "I didn't know. . . didn't know what to do." His eyes, ice-blue and clear, raised then and he turned his head slightly to look up at both of them. "I couldn't save him. It was the only thing I could think to do."

"Vin, what happened?" Buck insisted.

Vin looked out across the floor at the carnage, at the streams of guts and washes of blood. "Their master did this to me," he whispered. "Then. . ." Quickly he turned and looked down at the body in his arms, moving fingertips just above Ezra's closed lids, brushing along the lashes, before he clutched the conman's stiff arm and pulled it closer, rocking. "He wanted me to take Ezra, to just. . . kill him."

By now Chris and Buck knew they could move closer. Vin seemed to have his senses, though there was something in his eyes that remained troubling. The candles, situated along the natural shelves in the walls, had mostly burned down to mere nubs of wax, but a few larger ones still had plenty of burning time. The golden light folded around the side of his face, bringing out the sharpness of a cheekbone, or the angle of his square jawline.

"But I remembered," he continued. "I remembered what he did to me. . ." he glanced over into a far area of the chamber and then returned his full attention to Ezra, continuing to rock, caught in his own world of shock at the new state to which he had been transformed.

A scuffling of shoes on stone called all attention to the chamber entrance, and Buck and Chris both allowed for Nathan and Josiah to come on in. They had grown tired of waiting, and when there were no outcries from the deeper cavern, they had followed.

"Oh, God have mercy," Josiah said softly as he saw the two there.

Buck stepped closer, eased down before Vin, and paused to look at Ezra's profile turned up toward his guardian, cherubic in death sleep despite the ashen hue of his lips or the lack of luster in his cheeks. Chris too, came forward, and kneeled behind Vin, looking down over his shoulder. The preacher and the healer, however, lingered at the chamber's threshold, confused, in their half state as to whether they belonged in this world of the dead, or if they were still within the realm of the human and had no business here.

"Vin?" Buck coaxed, "you killed your master?"

Vin looked into that section of cavern again, a gesture that guided Buck's gaze for a better look at the body lying there in a heap. Buck stood and went to investigate, skirting the mess on the floor, until he came upon the body. The long-limbed figure was sprawled and half draped over a dip in the floor, causing the long black hair to flow away from a face frozen with shock. It was not the face of a goon, as the open eyes revealed, for they were not oily black orbs but pale blue, the pupils fixed and dilated. One clawed hand reached across the floor, while the opened chest protruded upward. The vampire master wore nothing but a black robe that spilled away from his body as if it were part of his blood. His limp cock, painted with dried blood, hung between his spread legs, and Buck noticed a familiar scent curling up toward him, breaking past the other smells.

Buck glanced back at the gathering in the central chamber. He'd picked it up right away but not really thought about it. Now he made the connection with the musky scent of Vin Tanner around the dead vampire's dick.

He fucked Vin, too, was all Buck could think then. He gritted his teeth, felt stinging tears of empathy well up, but they dried before they could fall over. No wonder Vin was in shock, much the way Chris had been, but clearly Vin had fought back.

Vin had fought back and won.

Stumped with amazement, Buck started to turn back to the group when he thought he heard the sound of hissing and mewling from further down the passage, where it grew more narrow and even his new night vision didn't pierce that deep. Goons. There were goons hiding down there, and as Buck's eyes wandered the course of the mutilated bodies on the floor, and over to Vin's body and its coat of flaking blood, he made the next realization.

They're afraid of Vin.

"What did you do?" Chris whispered to the tracker.

"I pulled out his goddamned heart," Vin hissed then, hatred dripping from every word. He turned that poisoned gaze on Chris then, and then just as suddenly, it softened. It was then that Vin truly saw his friends, his clouded mind suddenly reaching out into the world when he found that natural recognition of his own kind. "Chris?" His brows knitted tenderly, and he rocked absently a little more. "Not you too."

Not you, too, Buck thought. The same thing Chris had said to him. That seemed to be the common reaction. He came back to the front again, looking down at the huddle. "All of us, Vin," he announced. "Nathan and Josiah, too."

"J.D.?"

"He's fine, not even a scratch on him. I got him to leave town," Josiah assured. Slowly he and Nathan began to step closer, until finally they each took a seat, still not getting too close to the others. Friends or not, the other three were completely changed and the fourth lay dead, possibly to rise soon.

"But, you're still. . ." Vin began.

"Still human," Nathan finished for him.

Focused on Ezra's state, Buck took a knee in front of Vin again. "But what about him?" he asked, gesturing at the dead conman and then the clotted wound in the throat. He made out a few flecks of blood around Ezra's lips, but realized that Vin had been wiping absently at Ezra's mouth, cleaning it off.

"I fed him," Vin explained. "Selvik was. . ."

"Selvik?" Chris interjected.

This time Vin didn't look at the master's body. "Him," he said. "He gave me Ezra, to be my first kill, but I remembered." Gingerly he readjusted against the weight of Ezra's head in the crook of his arm and pulled the body up closer to him. "I remembered how he created me. I took Ezra," he admitted shakily. "I fed from him." Slowly he looked from one to the other.

"And?" Buck insisted.

"Let 'im be," Nathan grumbled and drew in a quaking breath.

Vin answered anyway.

"Then I gave some back."

-7-7-7-

Where the others had come back into the world slowly, climbing up through mounds of mental sludge, limbs heavy and numb, Ezra Standish burst back into life with an abrupt intake of breath. His chest bowed upward, and his mouth flew open, inhaling deeply then exploding back out with a stream of hoarse coughing. His eyes flew open wide, staring up into the cavern ceiling in shock. He collapsed back, finding comforting arms catching him.

Then some not-so-touchy-feely instinct sent him scrambling away. Clumsy, uncoordinated, he fell up against the cavern wall beneath a veil of candle wax and turned to stare at the blurred faces of five of his comrades.

"It worked, Vin," Buck's voice rang with both excitement and deadly seriousness.

Ezra almost snarled at the sound accosting his sensitive ears, tried to cringe back into the wall, and shivered as the most wrenching hunger pain ever tore through his belly. Something hard came loose in his mouth and rolled across his tongue. He almost swallowed it but spit it back up, catching it in his hand at the same moment he realized that his eyeteeth had extended down to long, sleek points.

"Wha. . ." he stammered and looked down at the thing in his palm: the gold cap that covered his right canine. "What's happening?" His voice still bore its usual southern drawl, but all smoothness was gone at the moment, the words crackling out of him like wagon wheels over rocky dirt. Then as his gaze roamed, and the horrible stench of rot hit him, he almost gagged, bearing his new fangs in a grimace.

"Ezra!" Vin called to him, the tracker crawling into full view and taking him by the shoulders. "Ezra, it's me."

"I. . . see that," Ezra coughed back, and gradually his vision began to sharpen. Then, "Oh, God. . ." he clamped his arms around his belly, feeling as though he might turn inside out.

While Ezra squirmed in the early discomforts of awakening, the others observed, noting that his senses seemed to be intact, that he recognized them. The greater question lay in whether he would be able to hold it all together, to not let the new nature take over. Nathan, normally given to disdain toward the conman out of principle, felt sorry for him, seeing as he had practically become an experiment.

Ezra reached up to scratch at a vastly itchy spot on the side of his neck and startled as something fell away. He looked down to see the huge flake of scab drift to the rock floor while his fingertips probed over the clean, healed skin that had formed beneath. "I," he began, his voice still shaken and rusty, "I remember."

"What do you remember?" Nathan asked, keeping a distance.

Ezra stared at him, smelling the fresh tang of human blood. His attention drifted to Vin, still the closest, still holding his arms and keeping him upright. "You. . . killed me."

"What else?" Vin asked.

Blazing green eyes stared back, a little knit cinching down in the middle of Ezra's sandy brows as the shock persisted. Finally those eyes moistened. Silently, softly, gleaming beads of tears swelled up and spilt down his cheeks. They all waited quietly, allowing the conman more time to reach the full understanding of what had happened, and what lay ahead. "I'm so. . . hungry," he whispered after a while.

"I know," Vin replied and began to back away.

Ezra looked from Buck to Chris, then at Nathan and Josiah. "How did you all get here?" he asked, pulling his arms tighter around himself, the hand still holding the gold cap tightened into a fist as if this tiny nugget still held some string tied to the humanity he had given up.

Chris was too caught up in, and fighting, the haze of Ella that pulled at his will. Nathan and Josiah were too tired. Buck did most of the explaining, weaving together his own experiences, minus the rape, to finding Chris, to trekking through town to meet up with Nathan and Josiah, and how the first sign of that damned horse of Vin's, and the rising sun, had led them to find this shelter.

"It all comes down to one thing," the tall gunslinger concluded. "We're all here, and we're all damned."

Josiah's bloodshot eyes stared at him. "Are we really damned, brother?" he asked softly.

Buck frowned. "What else are we, Josiah?" He stepped toward the preacher, eyes casting that eerie inner glow. "That bitch Ella has won. Hell, she was on top from the start."

"How were we to know?" Vin asked absently and stared across the floor at the mass of Selvik's body. "We just didn't know what we were up against."

"And how the hell did Ella come into this?" Ezra suddenly asked after being quiet for so long.

Buck opened his mouth to speak, then it struck him to look to Chris for that answer. They all did, five sets of eyes all rolling toward the head regulator so that he stiffened and glared back at them.

With an impatient growl, Chris only said, "Fowler."

"Fowler?" Buck's brows shot up and the others all frowned their confusion.

"Ella told me," Chris explained. "Fowler was the first. They were working together even when she was still human." He eased back against a jut in the wall and sat down, the venom in his gaze drifting slowly away. "She helped him find blood, and gave him a place to hide. When things didn't work out that last time, she went to him. . . had him. . . change her." He stopped there, stiffening as some dismal thought swept through him. He drew in his lips, fighting back more tears, and then whispered, "This is all my fault."

"No," Buck snapped at him. "Chris you get that idea out of your head. You couldn't help how Ella wanted you. She was mad, get it?" He pointed a finger to the side of his head and swirled it around. "Out of her godforsaken gourd."

"Ain't no body's fault," Nathan agreed. "Maybe not even her own." He looked down at his own shaking hands and then brought them up to hug to his body.

An excruciatingly long silence fell like a waxy veil. They had all grown so interested in their own situation that the bodies on the floor had not fazed them any further, until Vin asked the penetrating question.

"What are we gonna do?"

The silence carried on, all eyes darting from one to the other, then Buck brought it all home when he turned to look at Nathan and Josiah.

"I think the next choice is up to you two."

"What choice have we got?" Josiah asked dismally. "There's death, and then there's. . . death."

"Undeath," Buck corrected blandly.

"Between the devil and the deep blue sea, gentlemen?" Ezra spoke up then broke down coughing, the grating sound echoing through the cavern. Completely on his own he pushed up against the wall and used it as a brace while he got to his feet. With baby steps he came forward.

"That's it," Buck said suddenly. "Josiah, Nathan, you're infected, but what if we could make sure you become like us?" He gestured around him. "It worked from Vin to Ezra."

"I dunno," Josiah said, his salt and pepper brows drawing sternly together in consideration. He shook his head to himself. "I've pondered this already," he admitted. "Yesterday, after seeing you in the hotel. I wondered about damnation, Buck. I wondered if a man could hold his soul together, even knowing what he's changing into." He took a few brave steps closer and looked from Ezra, to Vin, back to Buck, then to Chris. "If you four are the example, then I would say yes."

"I think it's a chance we'll have to take," Nathan said to the big preacher. "It's either let this change go on, and lose our minds, become like them." He gestured at the bodies of the slain goons on the floor. "Or we become like them." He gestured at the four men. "You all need to feed, if you can take just enough to give you some strength."

"And then we give some back," Buck spoke for them all, echoing Vin's earlier words. "But you have to understand," he added. "Chris and I are still linked to the ones who made us. Vin broke that spell enough to kill his master, but there still might be something between us all."

Nathan analyzed this quickly and cocked his head in curiosity. "But what if all of you give a little back. . ."

"No," Chris instantly argued. "No, I won't." He scooted further back against the rock. "Not with this. . . not with her. . ." He looked down at his poorly sheathed body, and brought his hands up to the sides of his head. "I can smell that bitch on me!" He couldn't be anymore jumpy if he were stepping in a nest of scorpions.

In two fast strides Buck was in front of the head regulator, looking into his eyes, shaking him again. "You don't have to, Chris," he soothed. "You don't have to. . ."

"I could take it from you," Chris said almost timidly. "It worked, remember? Just that little bit you gave me. . . it stopped her from coming in. . ." He was frighteningly close to reverting back to the state in which Buck had first found him.

"Yeah," Buck agreed in a whisper, taking note of the way his friend's lips kept curling back hungrily then closing again, canines only slightly extended. "Yeah, we'll do that, okay, buddy?" Then he attempted to get the head regulator back on track with a light pat to the cheek. "But we have to do this other, all right? We have to do something for Josiah and Nathan or else we won't be able to go back and face Ella, or Christobal. The more of us the better."

"We can turn it against them," Vin said in support.

Ezra nodded his agreement and cleared his throat but refrained from saying anything more. He admitted to himself that his own hunger forced his agreement, and to some degree he felt ashamed of it, but he wasn't going to stray from taking care of himself. That was a trained instinct that had carried over and intensified with the change from human to. . . this. . .

"So, we give some to each of you," Nathan said. "Then we each get some back from Vin, Ezra, and Buck. Right?" He shivered more now from the idea of being fed on than from the slow, cold changes that had been seeping into his body all night.

"And if we don't rise like you," Josiah said then, "you'll have to kill us."

This added some weight to the decision, but all had to nod to it.

"I don't need to feed," Vin added. "Not a lot anyway. I took from Ezra, but I may need just a little more to give some back."

"Sounds like good reasoning," Josiah said.

Buck remained close to Chris as he put more thought into the matter. "If we do this now, by nightfall the change will be over."

"Then let's do it," Nathan said. He looked at them all, and abruptly began to cry. He didn't sob or moan. Just sniffled. Not even his days as a young slave boy had ever given him witness to so much fear. But this wasn't actually fear of dying, this was fear of living.

"Who goes first?" Buck asked lowly.

They blinked at each other, the unspoken issue of fairness causing everyone to stall. In the end, Josiah and Nathan made their choices, as the preacher stepped up to Ezra, who happened to be standing closest, and looked down at the conman. Nathan followed this lead over to Buck.

Chris fidgeted, and began to pace as he watched Buck lean in, caressing Nathan's throat. There was something beautiful about the glow of the gunslinger's pale, long fingers against the chocolate skin. Nathan closed his eyes, pushing out more of those huge, glittering tears, while Buck tried to be as gentle as possible, prodding at the vein, bringing the pulse to the surface where he could locate it. Nature guided him when he leaned in and bit down, and the pop of skin breaking released the simmering smell. Chris swiped the back of a hand eagerly across his mouth and waited.

Not five feet away, Josiah still gazed into Ezra's eyes, calmly waiting. Ezra took his time pondering it all, what he should do, how he should do it. He eyed the pulse in Josiah's neck and then something new manifested to his gaze, the soft glowing aura of the blood flow itself branching through the veins.

"I'm ready," Josiah assured him.

Ezra's lips parted, the tips of his fangs visible, not threatening in their display. Just gentle, perhaps a little lusting, but he didn't make any sudden movements.

"Lumen gratiae, my friend," the conman whispered and took Josiah into his arms.

-7-7-7-

It was way too dark for J.D. to continue, and out alone in the night, his nerves had begun to crawl at every little noise. Once a lone coyote wail sent him spinning in the saddle and he nearly drew his guns only to feel stupid as hell. Bullets didn't do a whole lot of good against vampires, that was for sure, so why did he even bother to carry? Aware that Josiah would probably tan his hide like some angry schoolmarm, he decided to risk it to be with his friends, so upon reaching Eagle Bend, he had turned right back around, deeming that the folks he was escorting were out of harm's way.

He couldn't let go. Didn't Josiah understand that? J.D. felt he belonged in Four Corners no matter what, and when the preacher had given him the talk that the town was dying, and would be nothing more than a husk by the next dawn, it was all J.D. could do to keep from sobbing. So now here he was, alone, in the dark. He'd made it as far as the Wells' ranch, and figured Miz Nettie wouldn't mind if he used her barn for shelter. Then at first light he would head back into Four Corners, locate Nathan and Josiah and. . .

. . . and then what?. . .

His heart sank and rose again with a sickened feeling. Nathan and Josiah could be dead now for all he knew, and then what? His thoughts immediately drifted to Buck, who had been missing all day, as had Vin, and Chris, and Ezra. . .

"Shit," the youth hissed to himself, and once more his eyes misted. Damned if he couldn't stop crying, and that was why he was going back. Some part of him kept looking ahead, wondering what he would tell people after what he had seen. The other survivors might figure something out, but they were nowhere near as close to the regulators as he was. Hell, he was one of them. Maybe that "all-for-one-and-one-for-all" stuff Ezra had read to him once, carefully translating The Three Musketeers from French into English, had warped his mind.

Moonlight through the cracks in the barn's sides gave him enough light inside, though he couldn't see up into the rafters or the loft. He led his horse inside and closed the creaking door. Then he took the restless animal to a stall and left him there nibbling at some of the bits of hay still scattered in the box.

Next he located a kerosene lantern and fumbled with a match until he got it to light properly. He figured the blazing lantern would be enough light and wouldn't draw attention, so after unsaddling the horse and closing up the box, he found a place to settle himself down over in a warm pile of hay with his guns within easy reach, along with an old broken off walking stick that might stand in for a stake should he need it. He nibbled on some beef jerky from his saddlebags and took a swig from his canteen before fully lying down. At first it was virtually impossible to sleep, so he lounged there listening to the night with its hundreds of crickets, or the soft snuffling of the horse. Trying to blank his mind from so much thinking, he rolled onto his side and stared into the lantern, mesmerized by the flame dancing over the orange head of the wick.

The next thing he knew he'd snapped awake to the sound of a distance, shrill, owl call, and found the lantern had completely gone out. How long he'd napped he couldn't be sure. It had felt like seconds and yet when he touched at the glass on the lantern he found it cold.

Damn. His eyes adjusted to the bluish glow cast through the cracks, and found the definition of the stall doors, or the pitchfork and an old, broken wagon wheel hanging on the wall. Some night bird, outside the barn walls, fluttered away, the sudden ruffling and twittering noise startling J.D. to his feet, clamping his mouth shut before he could let out a shout. To add to that, the horse began to whiney and step from side to side in the box, his head a swaying shadow.

"Shhhhh," J.D. urged and started for the box, hoping to calm the beast. He hesitated, turned around, and picked up the walking stick in one hand and one of his guns in the other. Better to be ready for anything. He stood still, listening, heart hammering away in his chest.

Nothing.

Taking a deep breath, he started back toward the box, wide eyes probing along the inner walls for any other signs of movement.

Nothing again.

But when the horse started up anew, this time with the most shrill and disturbed whinny imaginable, J.D. nearly fell over. The animal reared, his front hooves clawing at the air inside the stall, but for all that J.D. could see in the dark, the shadows of massive, kicking legs looked like they were coming straight for him. He scrambled to the side away from the stall and heard the horse come down on his hooves with a loud clop!

The horse persisted in grumbling and whinnying, kicking at the box door, until J.D. heard something else: the softest sound of footsteps outside. Frozen in place, he followed the sound as it came casually around the outside of the barn and stopped right at the front door. Swallowing hard, J.D. waited. Whatever was out there couldn't possibly expect him to come out, so that meant it was coming in.

The panicking horse only served to cover up the sound of feet dropping down behind J.D. from the loft above. Before the youth could turn, strong hands reached around in front of him, seized his wrists, and shook fiercely. J.D. shouted and stumbled backwards into the arms around him, dropping the makeshift stake and the gun. The same powerful hands now gripped his shoulders and the figure to which they belonged hauled him kicking and cursing toward the barn door.

"Noooooo!" he screamed and tried to wriggle free. The cry was cut off as he was shoved up against the door and it fell open behind him.

"Found him!" a man's voice, thick with some strange accent, called with mock happiness.

J.D. landed on his ass in the barnyard, hands behind him to stop his fall, and he looked up at the figure as it stepped gracefully out of the barn and towered over him.

"Indeed," purred a woman's voice from over him, and he craned his head around so fast he nearly snapped his own neck to get a look.

He wasn't sure, but the figure he saw in the moonlight seemed familiar. Dark hair, pale face, a generous mouth. He barely had a chance to get a look at her before the other one reached down, pulled him to his feet, and spun him up against the fence post. The top edge of the post dug into his back as he was held in place and he looked up into his captor's face.

The vampire wasn't like the goons J.D. had seen thus far. In fact, the handsome face took him quite by surprise, and even in this poor light he could see that the eyes were green chipped with bits of blue and gold, the long hair blond. "Oh, God," he gasped when a slathering smile of long sharp canines came close to his face.

"God can't help you," the vampire replied. "Your heartbeat is so loud." He leaned in closer, nuzzled his cool cheek up against J.D.'s causing the youth to wince. "Like music to my ears."

Not even when the church had been attacked the last dawn had J.D. felt this much fear. It gorged his chest, and he tasted bile sliding up in his throat only to be swallowed back down leaving a burning trail.

"You know," the vampire rasped casually, "I watched the town many nights, and I saw you with him."

"H-h-h-him?" J.D. uttered back.

"I watched you, and the others. . ."

"Christobal," the woman called impatiently. "We don't have time for these games."

Her warning went ignored. J.D. tried to look her way again but a hand came up and grasped his chin, forced him to turn back to the face closest to his. He could feel the creature's cool body through his clothes and it made his skin crawl.

"Um, yes, your Mr. Wilmington, of course, and the other men who protected the town. You're very close with him, aren't you?"

"Buck?"

The name barely came out before the vampire opened his mouth and started for J.D.'s neck. J.D. yelped and pressed himself uncomfortably back into the fence post. If he leaned on it any harder it would fall over with both of them.

Christobal withheld from biting, the points of his fangs hovering just above the young skin. His breath ghosted against J.D.'s collar, bringing up goose bumps. "Yes," he hissed lustily. "Buck."

"What—“ J.D. stammered. "What do you want with Buck?"

"I want him," Christobal said sternly. "That is enough." He pulled back and gazed down at the frightened young face, at wide eyes framed in dark, wet lashes, and ran his hands through the ebony waves of hair. "Like a raven's feathers," he suddenly mused softly, capturing some of the locks between his fingers and watching them fall away. "He is mine now, you see. Mine forever." The same hand snaked down over J.D.'s chest and inside his jacket and vest.

The implication of that statement reached J.D. and shattered him with deeper dread. "Oh, no. . . you didn't. . ."

"Indeed I did," Christobal said, hand now sliding down between J.D.'s legs and cupping up into his crotch.

J.D. cried out and began to thrash from side to side, but the vampire's hands were so strong. The one gripping his balls tightened and pulled upward, paralyzing him with pain, while the other grabbed another fistful of hair, forcing his head back. He winced and air hissed through his teeth. Helpless, he could only hold onto the creature's lapels.

"I think I'll save you for him," Christobal said softly. "He'll be returning next evening, no doubt about that, and so very hungry." He nuzzled J.D.'s cheek again with his own. "Ah, to wait so long," he breathed, the gust tickling down into the youth's ear.

Tears unleashed in a free flow from J.D.'s eyes and he whimpered as the hand gripping his hair cinched in and applied more pressure to his scalp.

"You will help me, won't you?" Christobal asked and kissed J.D.'s lower lip. The hand clutching his balls let go, the pain subsiding almost instantly as Christobal brought the same hand up and curled it around the side of J.D.'s neck. Likewise with the other hand, he let go his grip on the hair and merely held J.D.'s head in his hands.

J.D. stared helplessly into the moonlit face, unable to register much more as the vampire's thumbs pressured in on his carotid arteries and slowly the darkness stole upon him. As he slumped to the ground, the last thing he heard was Christobal's voice whispering with sordid pleasure.

"You'll help guide my wayward angel home."

Chapter Fourteen

The Ranch, Present Day

Four o'clock in the afternoon somehow turned hectic as much of the house buzzed with activity. Buck sat at the bottom of the stairwell up to the loft and watched the hubbub, imagining it was really morning and that he had a cup of steaming coffee cradled in his hands as he propped on his knees. From this vantage point, he had a view of the kitchen on the left and adjacent to that a view into the rec room. Further out past the kitchen he could see the door that led into the workroom. Ezra was in and out from the kitchen into the rec room, hot on Chris' heels with advice on how they were going to take care of the situation at Four Corners.

Vin, it turned out, had spent the rest of the day on the couch and had a rat's nest of pillow head. He left the rec room scratching his crotch, eyes bleary, and didn't give a single glance to anyone else, particularly Chris or Ezra as they darted past him.

"Huh," Buck murmured to himself, wondering if it meant anything. Even though his body didn't register temperature anymore except right after a fresh feeding, he could have sworn a chill swept through. His eyes followed Vin's path out into the kitchen before the tracker disappeared into the workroom. A moment later a few dim lights came on in there and driving rock music blared from a radio, not loud but enough volume to sound like it was being played inside a tin can. Nathan came through shaking his head at Ezra's chatter, and followed Vin.

Next J.D. emerged from his room, in tee shirt, leather pants, barefooted, and paused to listen. The only one not accounted for yet was Josiah, who was either sleeping in or had immersed himself in meditations before coming out of his room.

"Mr. Larabee, it would do us credit to hasten," Ezra went on, voice rising to get his point across. "It's highly likely our little anthropology dig team has picked up and gone home for the day." He waggled his fingers through the air as if shooing on a child.

"They're dedicated enough, they'll be there," Chris called over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall and into the room he and Buck shared.

"Yes, well," Ezra went on. He had a thick manila file envelop tucked under one arm and was immaculately dressed in a camel hair blazer and cream silk shirt with a turquoise bolo tie fixed at the collar.

With another hour and a half's daylight left, the plan was that he and Chris would drive out in the Jag, well protected by the tinted windows, to Four Corners and confront the enthusiastic anthropologists with some very bad news. By the time they reached the ghost town, the sun's rays would be tolerable enough that they could give the illusion of being human. Chris seemed to think that if they hurried now, they would get there too soon, and it would look funny for a Jaguar to pull up to the edge of town and sit there for who knew how long until it was deemed safe to get out of the car and into the remaining daylight.

And it would, Buck agreed, and sipped his imaginary coffee.

"Uh, Buck," Ezra sidetracked as he started to pass the stairwell and noticed the figure sitting there.

Buck arched a brow in response.

"It just occurred to me on my laptop calendar that as of Wednesday next week Bucklin Wilmington II will be eighty years old according to his social security filing, and for a man of that age, he looks considerably well if you get my drift." Ezra stood with that manila envelope like he was ready to slap a full lawsuit on someone.

"Ah," Buck smiled and nodded.

"I think it's time for you to die," Ezra finished flatly. "I'll see to your death certificate, but we'll need to sit down to make out your last will and testament to see that your heir receives his due." He winked so casually that it could have easily been missed. "Oh, and it may be time to look into a new name for the records."

"Sure, Ezra," Buck thanked him, eyes glittering with amusement at the ruse that made it possible for them to weave in and out of human society.

"Now," the gambler looked about, absently padding at the side pockets on his blazer. "Where's my briefcase?" He wandered into the rec room again searching for it.

"Hey, J.D.," Buck chirped happily at the kid who stood scratching his head as if deciding what to do next. "What're you up to tonight?"

"Dunno, thought I'd go up to Silver City. Want to go?"

"Nah," Buck replied, easing off the stairwell and stretching his long limbs with a grunt. "Got something to take care of."

J.D. didn't ask what. They all had "something to take care of" here and there. "Thought I'd try out—“

He was interrupted as Josiah suddenly veered around the corner at the end of the hall holding up a leather thong cord with a long quartz crystal pendant hanging on the end of it. "Hey, found it," the preacher called happily and held up the thong with the crystal.

"That the one you been missin' for a year?" Buck asked, clamping a hand down on J.D.'s shoulder and giving a brotherly squeeze.

"Yep." Josiah placed the quartz around his neck and meandered into the kitchen following the sound of the music and Nathan's voice speaking softly.

Buck grinned and considered the evening ahead as he turned back to J.D.. "Now what was that?"

"Thought I'd try Taco Bell," J.D. said.

Wincing, Buck gave the smaller man's shoulder a minor derisive slap. "Boy, I helped make you, I can unmake you," he chided.

Chris came storming out of the bedroom clad in jeans and a flannel shirt, so casual it made Ezra's hackles rise as the conman happened to come, briefcase in hand, back out of the rec room.

"You're wearing that?" Ezra asked as if he had a sour grape planted firmly in the middle of his tongue.

"We're going to tell humans to get the fuck off my property," Chris grumbled back, "not give them a fashion show." He whizzed passed the onlookers like they weren't there.

"Now, hold on just a minute," Ezra argued and started after him.

"Come to think of it," Buck said, and fished a ten spot out of his hip pocket before stuffing it into J.D.'s hand. "Have a burrito on me, and be sure to bring it back here and eat it in front of Ezra."

"Thanks, Buck," J.D. said, his eyes beaming.

The taller man cupped a hand around the back of the kid's head and pulled him closer, laying a loud smack of a kiss in the middle of his forehead, tendrils of J.D.'s silky raven hair winding in and out through his fingers. "Enjoy," Buck said and detached to follow Chris and his insistent stalker into the kitchen.

The next thirty minutes were full of debate, Ezra trying to at least get Chris into a jacket and tie, and a general discussion on how they were going to conduct themselves once they got to the dig site. Buck finally saw them off out of the garage. He watched them climb into the Jag, and seeing that they were safely hidden behind the tinted glass, scooted back into the house before the garage doors opened and spilled in the scorching later day rays.

Inside the door, he heard the engine crank and the car roll out into the drive. Buck checked the time, guesstimating how much longer he would have to wait for the sun's rays to reach the safety zone so he could take his Big Dog out. He had his own business in Four Corners. Vin and Chris had their demons, and he was no different. The pilgrimage back was always for him a time to face his own internal darkness, that which he kept at bay by seeking pleasure in the time he spent with Chris, or eternally teasing J.D.. He leaned his head back against the door and closed his eyes, giving himself a tiny moment of blessed non-thought. After a while, he opened his eyes and pushed away from the door to go back down the hall into the bedroom to ready himself for the night.

-7 -7-7-

Vin found his thoughts constantly roaming and his heart jittering, while the piney-plastic aroma of resin and charcoal curled in the air around him before getting sucked out through the workshop's ventilation system. He dipped a tester spatula into the black mixture, from which the caps were molded for the Seven's specialized ammunition, and stirred it to check the consistency. The massive vat churned, its hidden gears droning. Vin barely heard Nathan and Josiah speaking to each other on the other side of the room.

The preacher and former healer were busy sorting and inspecting the caps that had already been cast. Such ammunition had to be completely customized. Since each bullet still required the weight of a lead round to put some force behind it, these were cast too but sized down so that when the graphite cap was inserted over it, the overall round met the same size as a forty-five-caliber slug. The fit had to be perfect so that the cap didn't shatter upon firing, and putting the slugs together required minor teamwork as one man secured the resin cap over the lead slug then handed it off to the other who applied the shell casing filled with gun powder, and so on. . . essentially an assembly line.

Vat duty was a fairly solitary position, as the drum was situated in a far off corner of the shop, near the fan in the wall that helped to vent the fumes. Between fan and vat, the workshop was the loudest room in the house, and at times like this also a good place to do some pondering.

It would have been so much easier, Vin was thinking, if Ezra would tell him to go to hell. But no, the smooth talking conman went one worse than curse his tormentor.

Ezra forgave.

Vin never could figure it out. He could feel their link—sire to progeny—could read Ezra's desires on the air as clearly as if they were written on paper. There was the want, the need, both swirling in heady aromas thick as musk, and utmost there was the sickeningly sweet scent of forgiveness. It infuriated Vin, and yet he so needed it, and as vicious circles came around, he would always find some new reason to lash out all over again and experience Ezra's sweet mercy all over. . . again.

It's all right, Vin.

The green in the conman's eyes would deepen to a more emerald color, comforting, reminding Vin of the dewy grass he encountered of a morning when he used to sleep under the stars. Now all of that was reversed and he didn't wake up to morning but to night, and the soft grass or mosses that had once made his bed were now complexly woven into Ezra's eyes.

This afternoon, however, had been different.

Vin, when we have sex. . . do you ever imagine I'm Chris?

Vin hadn't been thinking when he snarled back his hateful response, but then the green eyes that were normally his source of comfort bleached down to a harsh and ugly yellow hue that expressed rage. That sight snapped him out of it, realizing what he had said, word for word, and the way he said it. He watched Ezra struggle, caught in the infectious web of Vin's own inner shadow, in the deeper realms that the tracker fought hard within to contain. Ezra didn't have such a demon within him, only the simpler, basic beast, for he had proven himself completely adaptable, able to adjust to the ages as the Seven moved through them like the hands on a clock, ever changing position but always the same in form.

For Vin the shadow found various ways to escape him, often through the accidental sharing of the memories he wished most would go away, but the memories were only the outer shell. They were easier to hold back. It was the emotion. . . the pure, unadulterated, burning rage that was the real threat. The only way to stop it was to close off the link, take a pair of imaginary scissors and clip the delicate ribbon tying his mind to Ezra's. Like the determined root of an old tree, it would grow back again within hours, so gradual, so natural, that neither of them would really take notice until one of them got horny again. . . or angry. . . or hungry. . . or all three. . .

What gnawed at Vin most was that Ezra had a hundred and twenty-five years worth of good reasons to ask that question. It was a common thing for any of the group to catch Vin staring at Chris. Obvious to everyone except maybe Chris himself, who stayed true to his choice of Buck as his permanent host and lover.

So Vin didn't deny it. He wanted Chris. He wanted to feed him, fuck him, hold him. But not every time he happened to look Chris' way and admire the fall of a lock of hair or the lips pursed in thought. It was a passing need, an itch, that tended to intensify at the most awkward moments. When Buck had caught him watching the last feeding, he had been in a half-hungered craze, which did not help at all. Follow that up with the notion to fuck Ezra on the hood of his new car.

Ezra had every right to ask that question.

Vin had given the wrong answer. He didn't imagine Chris in Ezra's place. He never had. There was so much more to it, and if anything, he had been angered because Ezra's query had forced him to question himself.

Vin pulled the spatula up out of the resin and watched the mixture roll off with the consistency of honey. It was looking more like tar now and still had a little while to cook before it would be ready to pour into a mold. He shook in another bag of the powdered charcoal and watched the vat's own rotating arm pull the dust into the goo. Like a miniature spiral galaxy it spun in on itself, mesmerizing.

And then as his focus absorbed into the mix, watching the arm rotate around, digging out a viscous path that filled itself in, his mind somehow released its usual burdens. He suddenly remembered exactly when and why it all began.

Brows knitting gently, he stared deeper, until the swirling resin became a scrying pool that looked not on the future but on the past.

It was a winter night that first time, and still within the first year of the Seven's new existence. They were defining what they were, and the experiment to take turns feeding Chris, to keep his will apart from Ella's, had just begun. They had figured out the bond that a master's blood formed, and that Chris was voluntarily giving his own will over to each of them if it meant drowning Ella away, but they hadn't yet examined the finer details underlying the transfer and what made it an effective treatment. Only Nathan, attempting to salvage the healer he had been before, had been keeping a journal on it.

In his mind's eye, Vin could still see Chris as he was that night. The tracker stepped back in time completely, and freshly glutted on blood, he returned to the hotel room that had been designated his and Chris' for this time. They were in Dodge City for the hunt only, not to stay for the day. Come daylight they would all be safely buried out in the wilds, away from the likelihood of nosy, investigating lawmen, like J.D.'s proclaimed hero, Bat Masterson, whose reputation as a gunfighter had earned him the position of Sheriff of Dodge that very year.

So this time was Vin's. He didn't know what he was hoping for. Certainly not to have sex with Chris. It was more about finding what he had been, finding what they had been, before the night of terror.

He was a friend coming to take care of a friend.

"Hey cowboy," he ventured when he entered the room and closed the door behind him. Like after every feeding, he felt especially alive, vivacious, and delighted in recognizing various temperatures he couldn't feel when his body was in death stasis. He had fed twice, as Buck had advised him to, and the feeling truly was one of giddy drunkenness.

Chris, having not fed yet, felt nothing. He stood, shirt off, in the dark by the open window. A chilled breeze rippled the curtain inward, the gauzy fabric reaching toward him, curling around one hip, then whipping away to billow back down along the edge of the window. "Vin," he answered in that rusty, distrustful tone of his. In life it had been something that was a part of Chris Larabee, but now it was something else, an indication that he was still recovering from the trauma Ella had inflicted upon him.

Vin made sure the door was locked, pulled off his capote, and strolled over to hang it on the bedpost. The clip-clop of hooves in the street carried up toward the little room, and the wind whistled a ghostly soliloquy along the eaves over the boardwalks. A rain of stars dashed the sky beyond the window and Chris' figure, half in shadow and yet still clearly defined to Vin's new eyes. Firelight from one of the street standards glanced off the curve of one upper arm and formed a thread of light up the slow rise to the junction of shoulder and neck. When Chris turned his body slightly, that light caught the tip of one half tightened nipple. He looked down into the street, his profile bowed gently, locks of blond hair tumbling over his forehead and catching the light to form a golden halo.

Vin had seen Chris shirtless plenty of times, and he understood the reason for it now, as feeding could be messy business, but the Seven were getting the hang of it. What was so different now was that Vin couldn't help the strange arousal he felt at the sight, and knowing something of what was involved in feeding Chris, knowing that it would mean standing close together, perhaps even putting their arms around each other, the poet in him thinking what it would be like to transfer the warmth from his own body into that cold, dead one.

"Careful, you'll catch cold," he said and offered a weak smile. Being able to smile again at all was slowly coming back, and the jitters that accompanied the memory of Selvik touching him had lessened. Full to the brim of warm blood, he found he could almost completely forget Selvik. . .

. . . almost. . .

Chris' eyes narrowed with amusement at the comment and he came away from the window to stand over a black patch on the floor. Vin looked down to see that the other man had spread his long coat out there to catch any drips.

"Are you ready?" Chris asked gently. His eyes glowed deep green with eagerness, an indication not only of his hunger but his determination to enforce the wall between himself and Ella.

Vin nodded.

"Better take off your shirt."

The tracker hesitated at this, but understanding, he did so. Took off his shirt, bandana, and hat and left them in a heap on the bed. The breeze curled around him, and he winced, refreshed and yet stunned at how cold it was. He cleared his throat nervously as the skin on his chest crawled. At first he attributed it to the cold, but then he realized how the squirming sensation carried down to his innards with each step he took toward Chris.

"I. . . I don't know what to do," Vin all but stuttered.

"Where do you want me to take it from?" Chris asked.

The space between them was like fire against ice. Chris wasn't at all aware of it, but as Vin was, he couldn't stop thinking of all the times in the past he'd found himself admiring Chris' face, eyes roaming down over the tip of the nose to the lips, mental fingertips caressing them. Then on to the chin, and down over that to the throat and the Adam's apple sometimes masked in a subtle coat of blond whiskers.

God, Vin realized, he'd been staring at Chris long before now, on one side admiring him lustily and on the other seeing only the best friend he'd ever had. He'd found a new strength in the man. From the beginning the two had been able to communicate through a simple means of head gestures and nods, and made the joint decision to save a man when no one else but Mary Travis—God rest her—would lift a finger. That man had been Nathan, and from there on the Seven began to come together, fourth with Buck, then Ezra, then J.D., and finally Josiah caved in and joined on, preaching about signs and crows. Vin had gotten to know them all as a family, working at times with the whole group, or in sections, or sometimes on his own. He was essentially spread around, his time with Chris lessened as he opened up to the others and they all began to mean something more to him in some way.

But now here he was with Chris, the two of them again, even if just for now.

Vin swallowed with a not too loud gulp. Buck had suggested he give from the wrist because it was actually easier to control the mess, but that Chris would give him this choice.

The wrist seemed so practical, and Vin looked down, massaging his right arm, about to turn it out and offer it, but then he couldn't resist the idea of Chris' arms around him, and his around Chris. The poet was indeed up to some sneaky, romantic notions.

"The neck," he whispered without further thinking about it.

Chris' brows knitted. "You sure?"

Vin nodded.

Chris stepped closer, hands wandering up, one caressing the side of Vin's neck. Vin inadvertently leaned into the caress, felt the callused pad of Chris' thumb massage harder over the vein, locating the pulse, observing how hard it pounded as the two drew more tightly together. The other hand snaked around Vin's waist, tickling slightly, before it found the small of his back. Vin shivered, felt his cock stir and hoped like hell Chris didn't feel it pressing into his own groin.

"Do it," Vin half pleaded, eyes watery. For every second Chris wasted, Vin feared the blood in his veins would grow stale. His breath staggered, grew more frantic, and then he held it, afraid of betraying his lust.

Down in the hotel saloon, someone started playing piano, the notes for "Beautiful Dreamer" jangling up through the floor.

Chris's lips parted, and the sharp tips of his canines extended into view. He hovered in that state between Chris Larabee and vampire, the inner fire roaring up behind his eyes, soft orange glowing in his pupils. Then he opened his mouth wide and jerked Vin forward roughly, plunging his fangs into the flesh where his hand had been. Chris' arms tightened around his host, and Vin leaned his head back, offering better access.

But as Chris dug in deeper, tearing the flow free, the pain that stabbed down into Vin was anything but the exquisite thing he had expected it to be, and their bodies against each other only served as a horrid reminder of how he had been initiated into this life. Vin clenched back the cry that tried to issue out of his throat as a stream of blood escaped and ran down over his chest to be blocked where their bodies met. Part of him stayed in touch with the situation, knowing that he mustn't make a sound to attract attention; the other part wanted to scream.

And for a moment, it wasn't Chris who was holding him, but the fiend who had bled him and initiated him. He felt Selvik's arms around him. Selvik draining his life. Selvik penetrating him, possessing him. And for all that he knew the difference between Chris and Selvik, his mind reached out on its own and threw up a defensive wall.

Chris swallowed three loud gulps, and moaned. It wasn't a moan of delight, but pain. He swallowed again, gurgled an objection as if he were choking, then shoved Vin away. "What are you doing?" he growled.

Vin stumbled, hunched over, and one hand flew up to clamp over the wound in his neck to keep any more blood from escaping. He felt the skin crawl back together and heal, leaving only his fingers and his neck stained.

Chris hunched, a hand clamped over his belly, blood-stained mouth bearing fangs at the bewildered tracker. The other hand lay against the side of his head, the heel pressuring in on his temple as if to stop some pounding headache.

In horror, Vin backed away. "Oh, God," he gasped. "Chris, I'm so sorry."

Chris didn't stop snarling. Some ugly thing inside him was trying to get out, for there had been no strength in this feeding. If anything, it had probably weakened him.

Horror stricken, Vin realized he had almost given Ella's will a hole through which to creep into Chris' consciousness. He almost slipped on the spread of coat underfoot, his boots stomping over the floor, no doubt heard by whoever was in the room below. He made it to the bed, grabbed his shirt and capote, forgot the hat and bandana. "I'll get the others," he said in a frenzy and began to jerk the shirt on over his shoulders, but his unsteady hands couldn't get the buttons fastened. He collapsed to the floor beside the bed and pulled his knees up to his chest. Tears burned his eyes. He choked them back and hugged his arms around himself.

Chris watched him, eyes blazing, unresponsive, for a long time. When at last he found full control, he eased himself down on the floor across from Vin.

How long they stared hopelessly at each other was a blur now.

The smell of cooking charcoal in resin began to bring Vin back around, along with Nathan's voice shouting to be heard over the roar of the machinery.

"Vin, ain't that mix ready for pouring, yet!"

Vin blinked, suddenly seeing the spatula in his hand about to fall away into the vat. He grabbed it just in time and stirred absently. While his vision registered the here and now, his mind heard Chris' last words concerning the matter of feeding trail off into the realm that belonged to unwanted memories.

"I can't do this with you, Vin. . . I'm sorry. . ."

I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry for not being strong enough.

He had never actually verbalized the apology, not the way he wanted to, and he saw now that he'd been rehearsing it internally for over a century. By now such an apology was irrelevant, but the need never ceased to nip at his heart along with the humility of his weakness.

Fucking pathetic.

"Yeah!" Vin shouted back and in an instant hid the tears that wanted to flow. "Yeah, I think it's ready!"

Chapter Fifteen

Four Corners, Present Day

Tommy Perkins was winding down for the day, taking a walk with a bottle of water and beaming over the day's discovery.

His discovery.

When he'd been assigned the plot of ground, he had bitched and moaned half the morning, certain he was getting the brush off. The real action was down in the main pit by the cemetery where the bodies had been discovered. But here there was obviously nothing but an overgrowth of prairie grass and weeds, all of it dried to a crisp. A lizard came shooting out of the thick growth as Tommy prodded in with a stick. Carefully he folded the grasses aside, making a neat grid pattern, until he came upon something irregular.

The little pile of stones looked so deliberately placed. It had been there long enough for dirt to have blown into the cracks and taken seed that had sprouted into yet more juts of dried grass and weeds. The second pile Tommy found less than three feet away, and the third three feet from that, until he'd traced a path of seven little stone cairns all in a row. Each cairn supported—or had supported—a wooden cross. Three still barely stood up in their rock bases, while the other four had given into time and weather wear and fallen over to be half buried in dust. They certainly seemed to be graves, but before any digging could commence to determine if there was some connection between these plots and the mass burial down closer to the town, he had to report the find and an ultrasound had to be done, but moving the equipment was a tedious venture so the task was scheduled for tomorrow.

Tommy now studiously combed the ground around one of the cairns, while his partner, John Boyd, worked on another one. They had been at it for hours, brushing away dust, picking over pieces of rocks to see if they were something other than rocks. They uncovered a piece of flint that roughly looked like it might be an arrow head, but then that could have been wishful thinking, and then Tommy came up with an old leather hat that had been crushed and leeched to a crisp. It was firmly packed into the ground when he first saw it, the rim barely peaking out. Delighted with his find, and working diligently on a theory he'd had for some time, Tommy didn't notice the sun was getting lower, and shadowy patches on the ground didn't deter him even when his eyes grew tired.

"Should probably go soon," Boyd spoke up then, "our light's just about gone."

"So we'll get flashlights," Tommy argued and wiped a grimy hand across his forehead, tilting up the brim on his baseball cap and spilling out sunny-blond bangs. The strip of zinc down his nose had long since been smeared off, leaving a sweep of dirty white at the tip. He started to dust off some other object half buried at the base of one of the cairns then stopped at the sound of tires crunching over the gravel of the main road into the Four Corners valley. Tommy looked up and squinted past the dusky rays of sun still falling over the hills.

Down below, near the main dig, a deep red Jaguar had pulled up and two men got out. Tommy couldn't make out details on them, only that one was taller, slimmer than the other, who was shorter, perhaps a little stockier, but not by much. The shorter man wore a suit and carried a briefcase, and both men had purpose in their stride as they approached Professor Jack Jameson, who was in charge of the dig.

Somehow this did not look good.

"What's all this happy horse shit?" Boyd remarked and headed down toward the site, taking larger and larger strides. "This is all we need, more outsiders," he called back over his shoulder and gestured toward a black Jeep Wrangler that had been parked at the site for several days now.

Tommy rose to his feet and watched, but didn't bother to go down there. All he knew was that when the shorter man opened his briefcase and handed Professor Jameson those papers, and the good professor started pacing, something was definitely up. Rather than go find out exactly what that up was, he decided to continue working, at least until someone told him to stop.

-7-7-7-

It was not fun for Ezra Standish and Chris Larabee to see the faces on the anthropology team drop like they did. These people had been excited over their find. They didn't deserve what was coming, but they hadn't checked all the channels, or they had and someone at the county deed's office had fucked up, not an uncommon thing.

"This can't be real," Professor Jack Jameson said as he looked at the fold of time-yellowed papers. "We have permission to dig here." His salt-and-pepper beard seemed to go to more salt all of a sudden.

Ezra took a deep breath, and Chris let the conman run his game. "Sir, as acting attorney for the Larabee family, I can assure you those documents are real. This is Mr. Chris Larabee III, great grandson of the legendary Chris Larabee, whose family back in Indiana purchased this property after the mysterious events that. . ." He glanced toward the dig area, where the earth had been carefully churned up and dusted aside, revealing a scattering of skeletal remains, some fully uncovered, some still in process of being pulled from the ground with dirt packed around the base of a skull, or a femur, a hip bone, or a fragmented hand. It was disconcerting as hell. Ezra looked away feeling suddenly sickened. This was proving a little harder than he had expected, so he didn’t look at the dig again.

Standing in the casuals he had insisted on wearing, Chris crossed his arms. "Professor, I understand how disappointing this is for you, but no one notified me of the dig. I was out of town and heard about it on the news first, otherwise you would have heard from me sooner."

"Let me speak," Ezra demanded dryly, a hand waving gently out as if to signify his authority on this matter.

Chris rolled absently back on his heals and arched an eyebrow.

"Professor, we do understand your frustration, really. It's not uncommon for this sort of thing to happen and it's not your fault." Ezra stepped forward, neatly pulled the deed out of Jameson's hand, and tucked it back into his briefcase. With hearty assurance he patted the man's shoulder and steered him back toward the site. "Now, if I may, someone has done you a great disservice by not researching thoroughly enough." His head bowed toward the other man, he dropped his voice. "If you would like to list for me the offices you went through to acquire permission for this little excavation—“

"Mr. Standish!" Chris called after him as he watched the two men stroll away from the dig to speak more privately.

Another gesture from the hand dangling at Ezra's side told him to stay out of it. Wind him up and let him go, Chris thought and shook his head to himself as Ezra's voice faded in the growing distance.

"As I said, someone on the inside has seriously compromised matters for you, and it appears to me that you will be in need of legal services, and as representative for the Larabee family, perhaps I may help you there. . ."

Chris backed up his thought. "Yeah, you go," he muttered and turned to scan across the dig site.

There were eight young people, men and women, their faces flushed from long days working under the sun, their hopes sinking. Some of them looked directly at him, no doubt wondering who the hell he was to come in and piss on their parade, while others paced, waiting to hear the final outcome between professor and attorney.

It was then that Chris noticed one man in particular, not as young as the others who were primarily grad students, but perhaps in his late thirties. Tall, black hair swept back from a chiseled face that bore a rather flat nose, giving the sum of the features a natural sneer. Chris cocked his head, making eye contact with the man, who leaned back against the hood of a Jeep. They were dark eyes, balanced with the olive complexion, though the man didn't appear to be Hispanic. There was some little difference there.

But what stirred some deep, defensive sense in Chris was how cold those eyes were. Eyes that chocolate brown, he thought, should seem warm. He could hear an even heartbeat, and smell hot blood around the figure, who sported black denim jeans and a leather jacket much like J.D.'s. He was human, at least.

The man gave a simple nod of a gesture, and not to seem too impolite, Chris did the same before he turned and took the creepy feeling with him on a walk around the site.

By now the sun had dipped low behind the hills, leaving the expansive valley pooled in shadow beneath an orange wash on one side and budding stars on the other. Within fifty yards stood a familiar rise, and Chris went that way, thinking about the view of the town from there. He tossed a glance over one shoulder at the dusky hues falling on the not too distant buildings, and the church steeple, now worn of all its paint, still bearing its wooden cross to the sky like a silent warning to evil things. Chris continued on over to the rise, eyes probing the ground before him as he smelled, before he saw, the young man who was down on his knees in the tall grass.

Chris felt his heart rise into his throat when he realized exactly where the kid was, hunched over and focused on the base of one of the Seven stone mounds. It was Josiah's cairn, if Chris remembered correctly, and somewhere inside those rocks, the preacher had left the Ethiopian cross that he used to wear. Every cairn had something: Ezra's gold tooth, Nathan's stethoscope. . .

And there laid Vin's old hat, completely crushed and dusty, and damnit, didn't these people know when to leave well enough alone? Chris glared and walked faster up the rise, until he was towering over the kid, who was so consumed in his search that he hadn't heard the approach.

"There ain't nothin' in those graves, son," Chris stated blandly.

"Oh-God!" the kid shouted and spun on his haunches, dropping the paintbrush he'd been using gingerly around the stones.

"But thank you for cleaning 'em up for me," Chris added and not a single hint of a smile touched his eyes. He heard the other's previously steady heartbeat pick up to a near frantic pace.

"So they are graves!" The youth scrambled to his feet and dusted off his hands on the sides of his jeans. "How would you know there's nothing in there?"

"I know, trust me," Chris replied and looked the other up and down.

"But how do you know?" the kid pushed on.

Chris examined the cleared area and the condition of each little stone pile. Didn't look like much damage had really been done, other than Vin's hat being pulled from the ground to which it had intentionally been consigned for all eternity.

"Who are you?" the kid insisted.

With a grunt of disgust, Chris wandered over to his own cairn. Somewhere under those stones was Sarah's locket, the piece of himself that had been symbolically buried when he and the others had left Four Corners. Fuckers weren't gonna dig that up. He didn't care if they were ignorant of the real history, and that as anthropologists it was their job to dig, to uncover the past and hope that it brought some enlightenment. They weren't digging up anything else.

Not one more goddamned thing.

"Hey, I'm talking to you."

A hand tugged at his elbow and Chris couldn't help spinning around and glowering down into wide blue eyes. He repressed the instinctual growl that wanted to ripple up out of his throat, a sound that for its tiger-like similarity would reveal that he was more than he appeared. He calmed and glanced at the sunset, now little more than a spatter of illuminated brown on the horizon, the only light coming from the main site where activity was picking up suddenly.

"I'm Chris Larabee," he replied finally. "My family owns this property."

The young man's face shifted then, going from glaring back, to an enlightened, bright-eyed smile. "You're shittin' me!"

Chris shook his head.

"Man, I can't believe this!" He turned away and literally giggled to himself. "The great grandson of THE Chris Larabee?"

Instant celebrity didn't exactly settle well with Chris. He stood perfectly still while his gut squirmed on him and his only thoughts were to get this little punk out of here. Get them all out of here.

Years after the attack on the town, when superstition still held weight enough to keep tress passers out and reduce the price on the property, Ezra had helped him acquire the funds to purchase an entire two thousand acres from the middle of town out. Playing this inheritance game was nothing short of annoying, and even though he'd been through the drill a million times, he still had to keep reminding himself that he was now Chris Larabee III. His last "incarnation" he had been John Larabee, because Ezra had insisted that they needed to occasionally break up the monotony of using the same name from generation to generation. That his name would be recognized at all had never really occurred to him.

"Hi, I'm Tommy. . . Tommy Perkins." The kid thrust out his grimy hand and grinned like a psycho. "It sure is nice to meet you, Mr. Larabee. It must be so interesting to come from such a rich family history."

Chris arched his brow again, minutely impressed with Tommy's appreciation of history. Ezra would be more impressed, though. Chris only grew more impatient. "What do you know about the history?" he asked, humoring his new fan. Didn't hurt to find out what the world—outside of books on the Old West—knew about Four Corners.

Tommy Perkins shrugged, "Well, the usual, that this town was watched over by seven regulators, then suddenly overnight, the place practically dropped off the map. The leader of those regulators was Chris Larabee, who disappeared as well. The only indication that he survived whatever happened here was that some fifty years later his son turned up in Houston, Texas. The info's all pretty garbled, but it makes good fodder for legends." He sighed disappointedly as he said this.

Chris nodded. "Yeah, it is." And he decided he wasn't going to talk about it. Garbled was an understatement.

"So did you know your grandfather, and did he have any stories about his father?"

Chris looked for an out. "Not really." He gave a nonchalant jerk of his head down toward the main site. "It's getting dark, kid, best you get on down there before you ruin your eyes."

"Hey, I've got some theories you might like to—“

"Not at the moment. I better get back to business."

Tommy started to open his mouth again, but Chris was already high tailing it down the little rise and back toward Ezra. By now Jameson was barking orders at his team, telling them to clear out their gear, and get the ultrasound equipment loaded up.

The only person who wasn't doing something was the stranger who remained observant near the Jeep but now had a map spread over the hood and was examining it with a pocket light. With a sideways glance at the man, Chris started toward Jameson, prepared to interrupt him when something came to his notice. Chris stopped in his tracks and sniffed the air, picking up a familiar scent, though he wasn't sure what it was, almost a sweet odor, that might be perfume, but then it could also be flowers blooming somewhere in the area. . . jasmine particularly. But underneath it was an even more familiar scent: musty, earthy. The aroma of a crypt.

She's here.

Chris blinked, wariness tensing every muscle. Funny, but he didn’t feel like his mind was currently being picked at. He hadn't felt the dizziness or the desire that sneaked in on him when his nemesis called to him. Dampening any panic over the matter, he took quick, stealthy glances over the young scientists hustling back and forth, and then a full scan of the ridge. Nothing. He couldn't let it get to him. He wouldn't let it get to him.

You hear me, bitch? You can't come in.

Buck had taught him to say that. You can't come in. It was such a simple statement, but it did seem to throw up a fairly powerful mental barrier. Chris repeated it to himself a few times, like chanting a little protection spell. Then he hastened back toward the car, joining up with Ezra along the way.

"Something's not right," Ezra stated in a hush.

"Yeah," Chris replied. "You see the guy over there by that Jeep?"

"Yes, I asked the good professor about him."

"And?"

"He said this fellow came in with a hoard of reporters, but when they left, he stayed." Ezra paused, turning his body intentionally so that he could watch the busy team packing up and still keep the stranger in his peripheral vision. "Since they didn't know this was private property, they couldn't exactly rusticate him."

Chris likewise took glances at the group, but only so that he could also catch sideways glimpses of the stranger. Random curses and a lot of bitching trailed the team to their own vehicles as they crossed his line of vision.

"He's taken some notes now and then," Ezra continued with his report, "but obviously he isn't obsessed with making the front page of any anthropology journals."

Chris weighed this in. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That he looks particularly European?" Ezra asked dully, recalling Nathan's report about the Vatican hunters.

"Uh-huh."

"It's sundown, those people never try to face our kind at night," Ezra said more lowly.

"Let's hope." Chris gave the conman's arm a tug. "Come on, we need to get the others. We're coming back here later."

"Why's that?"

Chris turned and looked back toward the rise and the seven empty graves, and coming down from there was Tommy Perkins. "Because I have a feeling someone here will try to come back, and it ain't safe." He headed toward the car.

"Agreed," Ezra replied and hustled along, briefcase swinging at his side. "There is definitely something else out there."

"You smell it too?"

"Yes, Sir, I do."

Chris gave a nod and got in the car, fingering his chin as he settled back into the creaking leather seat. Although he had felt certain of the presence, Ezra had given him that extra bit more confirmation. There was definitely something out there. . . something insane, evil, obsessed. . . and wearing jasmine perfume.

-7-7-7-

Headlights killed, Buck pulled the Big Dog up to the rise and dipped down over the ridge along the trail he and Vin had worn into the ground over the years. It was their little secret passage, a way in and out of the Four Corners valley without really being seen from the other ridge where the highway—if it could be called that—ran through the territory.

From the upper trail, he could glimpse the dig site on the far side of the one street town, but it was dark now, and thanks to Chris and Ezra, the anthropology team had picked up and departed, tails tucked between their legs.

The engine puttered as Buck coasted down the winding trail, through a patchy copse of trees and boulders, to the plain. He swerved and bounced roughly on the wheels, missing an old stump and tumbleweed, then found the path again. Once on flat land, he gunned the engine and sped across the plain to reach the northwestern end of the town. The shells of the Stage Company and the Grand Hotel stood to either side of the street like the gates into the underworld, and for Buck that was exactly what they were.

The path ahead was patched with bits of odd growth, but for the most part it had remained barren sand. There were tire treads running up and down the expanse, perhaps traces left by the anthropology team, or stupid kids coming down from Silver City and drag racing. One day Buck hoped to catch them at it and scare the hell out of them, although he hadn't the foggiest idea how he'd do it.

He cruised down Main Street, past the Ritz Hotel, briefly recalling the war Ezra and his mother had waged between their two businesses. He smiled inwardly and moved on, past the Clarion News, no longer recognizable by its sign and missing all the glass in its front windows. Past Digger Dave's Saloon which had lost most of its roof, and around to the side street. There he parked the Big Dog, killed the engine, and slouched back in the seat, looking up along the side wall of the old hotel Saloon where he and Chris had spent their last night as humans. His sharp vision picked up every grain in the exposed wood, every little tiny chip of paint that still fought to maintain hold, until he was looking completely up, past the roof, at a sky splashed with stars. Out here, where there was no light pollution from the cities, everything was so clear.

For a moment he sat listening to nothing but his own heartbeat, caught in that slow but steady, unchanging beat. In moments of excitement, nervous energy could cause the feeling of hammering in his chest, but it was a false sensation, and his heart rate never rose. Kind of daunting, that, even now.

He nudged down the kickstand with his heel and got off the bike, removed his gloves and tossed them over the seat. He stretched his long arms upward, grunting softly, shook the kinks out from riding, and turned to stroll across the side street and along the wall up to the boardwalk, which had managed to hold sturdy for all of these years. The wood sounded hollow under his boots as he stepped up and paused, looking out on the street where his own tire treads had joined those already laid down. He took a long, deep breath, held it, then let it slide out slowly, hissing softly, seeing how long he could push out the sound before he wasn't breathing at all.

"Hello, Bucklin."

The voice came thin on the air, still every bit as deep and masculine as before, and bearing that strange foreign accent, but it was strained. . . filtered down into an unearthly echo of itself.

Buck didn't turn around. He lingered near one of the flaked wooden supports and tilted his face up to look at the stars again, over the opposing rooftops. "Still here?" he asked with a low grumble. He had been hoping this night would pass quietly. Sometimes these annual visits gave him complete peace. Other times, his visitor was here. Always near this same spot.

"Still coming back?" the voice responded.

Buck absently rolled his neck, forcing out a satisfying crack between two of the vertebrae and slowly turned, back against the support, and looked into the darkness of the empty saloon entrance. The doors had long since fallen off their hinges, and past the threshold, he caught the faintest movement. Sighing he pushed away from the support and walked across the threshold into the saloon, finding it as it had been left, a few tables turned over, chairs smashed, while a few were still standing. Everything was covered in a layer of grime that had blown in off Main Street and formed a hard shell over time. Spider webs laced the upper corners of every passage and the rafters around the balcony that led into the hotel's upper hallway.

Buck swallowed a lump and trod over dull shards of glass, hearing them crunch icily beneath his heals. He rested his hands on his hips and his gaze followed a series of sneaker tracks that ran all over the place. Damned kids from the anthropology team, he figured, and shook his head as he approached the bar, where his sire stood, a pale image against the darkness.

Christobal was beautiful.

Buck had never denied that, as much as he hated the creature. Even more beautiful dead, the phantom projected an image of opalescent skin, honey-wheat hair, and that generous mouth. The clothes were the same as before, a frilly cream shirt with a cravat tied loosely at the throat, and a long jacket. Buck blinked once to see if the image would go away, but it stayed.

Shit.

"So what is happening in the outside world?" Christobal asked, and the corner of his mouth twitched. He motioned to the bar and shrugged. "I'd offer you a drink, but—“

Not at all amused, Buck wandered a few more paces forward. "It's changed. Sorry you missed it." He continued to examine the place, remembering in that final fight how he'd watched Chris take a slam to the head that collapsed him completely. He recalled diving for his best friend, cradling Chris, thinking that if he could get out into the street, into the dawning light, they both might make it, but when he looked up, he found himself and his charge surrounded by goons. Just past them, he could see Michael Arrant's body lying heartless, a pool of blood welling across the floor, some of the vampire brood moving in like dogs and lapping it up. Then it all faded, ghosts of the past absorbed into the walls and floor, replaced by the dust and broken glass. Funny how his mind could conjure up such memories and project them so solidly before him as if to literally send him back in time.

The only image he questioned was that of Christobal. Was it in his mind, or not? He'd never figured it out. "It's been, what? Three years? Why are you here now?"

The ghost sneered. "You know me. I come when you call."

"I didn't call you," Buck husked out in a warning tone.

"Didn't you?" Christobal approached, his steps silent, until he was standing in front of Buck, head tilted in observation. "I could have sworn. . ." He sighed, again making no sound. There was only the slight heaving of his shoulders, and one hand reached up gently.

Buck backed up a step. He'd let the ghost "touch" him before—a total accident at the time—and though he felt nothing there, it still made his skin crawl to think about it. "Don't—“

"Skittish tonight, are we?" The ghost turned on his heel and began to pace slowly back and forth. "You are growing tired of carrying him," he stated suddenly.

Taken aback, Buck frowned deeply. He opened his mouth to speak, stalled, and found his tongue excruciatingly dry. "'The hell gave you that idea?"

"In all of this time has he ever given anything back? He fucks you and feeds off of you, but what does he give in return?"

Buck was ready to blow a gasket right then, but he had come to know Christobal to be a button pusher. So he mustered up the only retort he could think of and stay calm at the same time. "Shut up, that ain't true."

"It's why you came, to escape just for a while, and you asked that I be here for you."

"I am not tired," he growled. "And I did not ask you to meet me here. I was hoping for a nice quite walk by myself."

"Then why did you start here?" Christobal gestured around him at the shell of a saloon. "I think there's a finer point here, don't you?"

Buck blinked obliviously and shook his head. "Nope."

"Oh, come on, don't you ever think what it could have been like?" Christobal reached again. "What it could have been like between you and me?"

Buck retreated again. "No, never." Then everything came to a dead halt as he found himself wondering if there was some truth in that last question. Before he could stop it, new images flashed in his mind, and he felt his dick tingle as he saw himself impaled upon Christobal, who was stretched beneath him on a satiny bed, that blond hair spread wide over the pillow. In his mind's eye, Buck swiveled his naked hips, feeling his sire's full staff rub up against his inner pleasure zone and he gasped. He shook his head, casting the fantasy aside. "No," he repeated more firmly.

This was one thing that made him truly question the ghost's presence. Surely if this thing came from his imagination, he wouldn't find such illusions of being fucked by it so damned hot. It had to be real, somehow, or perhaps in life Christobal had managed somehow to leave him with some sire-to-progeny programming that kept him from finding any peace. It was like some sick final joke that gave the master vampire the last laugh. The ghost had been here the first time Buck and the others had returned to Four Corners some twenty years after the massacre, and it was there again a year later. The next year, however. . . nothing. So Buck could never be sure when the apparition would appear, only that it would always be within the vicinity of the saloon, and he had fallen into a habit of coming here first every time he visited, just to see. If nothing happened, he could walk the town breathing easier. Over time, he kept hoping that the ghost would never appear again, but some part of him couldn't resist testing that hope. For now it was a failure. Buck cleared his throat and tried to broach the real issue here.

"Why are you still here?" he demanded. "I mean, aren't you long past due to get on that elevator down?"

Christobal laid a flattened hand over his mouth in a mock yawn. "Re-DUN-dant," he said, rolling his eyes. "You still don't get it, do you, love," he purred then, and suddenly his voice softened. "I'm not here by choice. We've been over this. . ."

"A hundred times," Buck finished. "I know."

"Well, maybe not that many." The ghost strolled around the room, appearing to run a fingertip over a dirt-caked tabletop, yet there was no trail in the dust. He left no evidence at all that he was there. "You call me because you still want answers," he said. "Go on then, ask me."

Buck sighed and wandered over to lean against the bar, scrapping off and embedding a line of dust along the beltline of his jeans and a greater smear on the elbow of his flannel shirt. "Ella," he stated evenly.

"No love lost there," Christobal replied frankly, and Buck remembered his first awakening, how he had heard the two arguing.

"She's getting closer to Chris, isn't she?"

"Perhaps, but no need to ask me." The ghost found his own place to lean, propping his butt against a tabletop and crossing his arms. "You have that answer up here." He tapped his temple and then pointed at his creation with an emphatic arch in one brow.

Buck nodded and scratched absently at the edge of the bar, sending fragments of the crust flaking into the floor in a rain of fine dust and rotted wood. He stared, momentarily lost in thought on how Chris had suddenly stiffened up on him that last evening in the motel room down near El Paso. That it had happened so closely after a feeding was the clue. Ella had to be near, and he was on edge that after all this time of taunting and calling Chris from a distance, she was finally about to make some move. The woman was already out of her mind obsessed, but what did she have planned against Chris? And not just Chris but the Seven as a whole, standing together?

"It's all coming to a head," he murmured, but before he could ponder Ella any further, he found Christobal standing directly in front of him, and the ghost was doing what he had tried to stop it from doing. A luminous and transparent hand was gracefully reaching up to touch at his cheek. Buck froze, all concern for Chris cast aside as the memory of his rape drifted to the foreground. . . the pain shooting up into him, the cold goon hands immobilizing him up off the ground, legs spread wide. . . helpless. Eyes watering, he gritted his teeth. "I said don't," he snarled.

"Don't what?" Christobal said, head tilted, leaning closer, lips slightly parted, sensuous and beckoning. The tip of his tongue appeared, lightly dabbed at the bottom of the upper lip, then withdrew back into the inviting dark of his mouth.

Buck couldn't move. It was almost like being caught in that strange and comforting spell the master had held over him when he had first awakened to this life. Then for the first time since he'd encountered the ghost, he thought he felt breath hush across his face. Had to be his imagination.

"I wanted you so badly," Christobal whispered, "but it was his name you called."

The smells, sensations, and heat of sex flooded Buck's thoughts again, along with the images of his body, slim and bare, sliding against Christobal's.

"Stop that!" Buck shouted and, with a greater push of will, stumbled away from the bar, away from the apparition and the strange and urgent regret he felt in the face of his dead sire. If he could have, he would have reeled on the other and thrown a right hook if he had thought it would do any good, but he knew his hand would only pass through empty air.

Christobal remained where he was, calm as morning mist, eyes casting a soft glow as he watched Buck collect his wits and turn to glare back.

"It's time for you to go," Buck hissed angrily. Although encounters like these really were rare, the fact that they happened at all had finally gotten to him. None had ever been quite like this. If this was a real ghost, then he was only feeding it his own valuable energy. The false heart-hammering sensation picked up in his chest and his eyes watered. "Damn you," he whispered.

"Only you can let me go, Bucklin," Christobal said softly then, his voice dropping to an echo. "You know that."

Buck stared, hands clenching into fists. He was sorely tempted to put one of them through a table, or to grab one of the old chairs and slam it across the bar, the urge to break something swelling inside him. Suddenly all he wanted was Chris, to feel his lover's body against his, their arms entwined around each other's shoulders. The thought calmed him and yet only exchanged one urgent notion for another. Buck closed his eyes against the apparition before him, but still heard Christobal's voice.

"I will always be here," the ghost said. "As long as you resent that you couldn't kill me yourself, I'll keep coming back."

"I don't resent it. . ." Buck groaned through his teeth and a single tear leaked from the corner of his eye. "I don't. . ."

It took a moment for him to realize Christobal wasn't answering him anymore. He heard his own breath first, heaving madly for a moment before he stopped it. In the silence that followed, a beam creaked in the ceiling, a rat chittered as it scuttled along the wall and disappeared into a hole in the wood, and Buck opened his eyes.

Nothing there.

Not a damned thing.

Before he could give the ghost a chance to manifest all over again, Buck turned and fled out the door. He broke into a run, veering so quickly around the doorway out onto the boardwalk that he slammed his shoulder against the frame, nearly tearing it out of joint. He winced as the injury immediately began to heal and he dropped down to the ground and hurried into the side street where his bike was parked. He snatched his gloves from the seat and pulled them onto his shaking hands as he hoisted one leg up over the seat and settled down. In no time he had cranked and gunned the engine and was steering around, sending a spray of dust up in his wake as he sped into the street and shot back out the way he had come.

His mind raced as fast as the bike's spinning wheels, the engine roaring as he kept shifting higher, speeding faster. But no matter what, he couldn't leave it behind. . . that worry-ache-fear. . . that the thing haunting him truly was born of his own resentment. He'd nurtured it, given it a new life, just as its originator had forced this life upon him. Even more he pondered what had brought the apparition out this time. Was he really growing tired of feeding Chris? It was a chore, yes, and at times damned inconvenient, but he wasn't getting tired of it. Was he? And then back to that resentment issue again.

Wind forced more tears out of the corners of Buck's eyes and blew them back along his temples. And then something the ghost had said hit him square on. He shifted down and brought the bike to a skidding halt, sweeping the rear around, the engine groaning angrily at him for the ill treatment, the rear wheel kicking around a shower of dirt, rocks and brambles. Then he put his feet down to the ground and killed the growling machine.

I wanted you so badly, but it was his name you called.

Buck relaxed his hands on the handle bars and tilted his head back, hung it there, gaze pinned on the stars just in time to see a meteor shoot out of the west and disappear to the east. This new vision provoked a hollow chuckle out of him, and he sniffled, considering the clue in those words the ghost had spoken.

He loved Chris.

Maybe he'd never stated it aloud, and after this long he could kick himself for it, but he could see it now. In those shadowy, drowning moments, when Christobal had raped him, taken his blood and filtered it back to him, it was thoughts of Chris that had kept him focused, kept him human. The important thing had been getting to Chris. So it was Chris who had inadvertently saved him. And not only once. Chris had actually saved him twice, and for that he would willingly continue to carry the burden of feeding his lover, keeping him safe, for as long as necessary. No, resentment was not an issue.

"Fucking ghosts," he said under his breath and then laughed out loud.

He took another moment of sky watching to let himself wind down. Another meteor shot by, and he made a wish on it before he cranked the bike again and this time drove at a more sane speed back toward the trail.

Chapter Sixteen

Outside Four Corners, 1877

Buck had been staring at the body of the dead master for some time. He crouched up slope, looking down at the sprawled limbs, his head angled for a better view of the lifeless eyes wide open, turned as oil-slick black as those of the goons. The skin had paled out to a bone white, bloodless and chalky, and Buck mused in some sick way that no flies had come to swarm this corpse. It would rot—he had no doubt about that—but so ironic the bugs wouldn't touch it. His gaze roamed down the ebony hair that ran with the course of now dried blood, and he absently listened in on his companions.

Nathan and Josiah were awake now, with Chris and Ezra coaxing them gently through the initial confusion, helping them focus past the hunger. Outside the cavern, the sun had dropped to the horizon, and Vin had gone wandering, salvaging what was left of his clothes after Selvik's goons had torn them off.

Buck considered the previous evening and the little calls he had felt from his own sire. Little tugs at his mind. . . desires. . . all gentle now as if the brutality he had felt before was now somehow dispelled. He wondered what it had been like for Vin, and marveled at how the tracker had found the strength to slay his own sire so soon after rebirth. How strange that he could so easily think about these things. Something about it came natural, as if he had been this thing all along. Then Buck recalled that last touch Christobal had given him, along with that spell-binding kiss. He shivered, his body naturally reliving the sensation of that claw tip gently pressing in on his nipple, bringing him to orgasm.

"No-no-no. . ." he hissed to himself, hands rising to grip the sides of his head. Bastard, you're not gonna get me. He realized the others had stopped talking and turned to look over his shoulder, finding Nathan and Josiah staring at him from where they both lay against the wall. Ezra, squatting before Nathan with a hand reached out, blinked at Buck. Chris, who had acquired a new habit of endless pacing, paused to look over toward the deeper cavern and raise a brow. "It's nothing," Buck insisted in an irritated rumble.

He was startled just then as Vin crossed his path almost silently, dressed now in bloodstained trousers and shirt with one sleeve almost torn completely off. The tracker had even found his bandana and tied it around his neck, but he had found something more. Buck turned in time to see Vin drop to one knee, quick as lightning, and bring down the blade of his hunting knife on the expanse of Selvik's neck right above the Adam's apple.

The sickening hack of blade on undead flesh forced Buck to look away. He'd seen men decapitated before, heads blown clean off in battle, but to watch this was different. It was too close, and it took time as the blade wasn't big enough to make a clean cut all the way through. Vin had to dig the edge in, saw with it. His teeth gritted savagely as his motions grew more urgent. At last he pried the blade in between the vertebrae and with a nauseating CRACK, completed the job. The tracker paused then, his shoulders heaving up and down with his forced breath, as the head rolled away from the mutilated stump of neck.

Then cold, blue eyes, glowing from within, angled up at Buck and stared evenly. "It's the only way to make sure," Vin said softly, his voice a complete contradiction to his stare.

"I know, Vin," Buck replied and swallowed hard.

Vin grabbed the crusted hair in his hands, lifted Selvik's head up dangling tattered skin and gore, then flung it toward the other end of the cavern. It bounced off the stone and rolled with a hollow grind over some rocks before coming to rest facing back in the direction from which Vin had tossed it. "Fuckin' scum," he said under his breath, then he turned and wandered toward another corner of the cavern.

Buck could have sworn the tracker was shaking, but then that could have only been himself, grossed and yet fascinated by the scene. He looked back down at the decapitated body for a moment before he got up and rejoined the others.

Josiah and Nathan slowly got to their feet, Nathan holding a hand tightly over his belly, no doubt feeling the hunger pains. Josiah leaned against the cavern wall, swaying against a bout of dizziness, before he pushed gently away and in doing so suddenly became fixated on his hands out before him. The big preacher looked at his palms, then turned them over, fingers spread wide. His nails had sprouted the slightest bit, the tips extended into sharp points, but they didn't look too threatening, just indicative of his infancy in this new existence.

"Everything is so. . . clear," Josiah said then, looking up and examining the cavern walls. His eyes caught the light from the candles and gleamed his amazement, and then, like Nathan, he grabbed his stomach. "Ah, God. . ."

"Get used to it," Chris said rustily and moved closer.

Buck muttered a curse at his friend's lack of tact and shook his head. "Yeah, everything's clear, especially how hungry ya are." He laid a hand on Josiah's shoulder, throwing glances at all of them.

Vin strolled past the gathering, around the bend of stone wall and through the gateway of stalagmites, out of the cavern mouth to position himself there, a solitary guardian silhouetted against the sunset.

Ezra watched after him, brows knitted with concern. "Um, I'll be right back," he said and detached himself from the group.

"Bring him back here," Chris said. "We need to make a plan."

Ezra nodded and turned to make his way up to the mouth, walking more carefully, as if to ask Vin's permission to approach.

"You think you can make it back into town?" Buck asked the two latest initiates.

"I don't know if I can," Nathan admitted. One hand still gripped the wall while the other still clamped over his belly. "I never felt anything like this," he said, gritting his teeth.

"Why do you think we're so hungry already?" Josiah asked. "I mean, we drank from them right before we. . ." he grunted uneasily as he finished it, ". . . before we died. . ."

Nathan shrugged and settled back against the wall completely. His medical mindedness had to come up with a theory. "What we drank was to make the conversion, not to feed on. Must be some change that blood causes, maybe it gets absorbed into the body—“

"Can't say's I give a shit," Chris growled. "You two aren't gonna be too useful if you're hungry, and we've got that whole town to clean up."

"Hold on there, pard," Buck interjected. "No jumpin' ahead, we're gonna sort this out."

"Yeah, well, I'm just about done sortin'." Chris' pacing grew frenzied, the angle of his body turned toward Buck, his arms hugged around his upper body, making him look cold in his shirt tail with his legs exposed. "She's out there, she's calling me."

Buck stiffened to hear that, finding the other damned man's tone strange and hard to interpret as to whether Chris simply meant he couldn't bear to hear Ella's call, or he was growing impatient to go to her. Buck couldn't argue. He had his own call to answer. And therein, he realized, might lay their means of getting back into Four Corners, of gaining the upper hand. It would take so much will power, but hell, if Vin could rise against his sire, why couldn't they? "That's it," he whispered at first. He cleared his throat and spun upon Chris, stepping directly into his pacing path and stopping him dead in his tracks. "That's it," he declared.

"What?" Chris glared.

"You and I go back, answer the call," Buck explained. "It's the best way for us to get close enough." Excitement raised his voice enough to bounce echoes off the rock walls, capturing the attention of Vin and Ezra in the cave opening. They both came back into the central cavern, staring at Wilmington and Larabee as if they were both losing their minds. Buck took Chris' place pacing, hands out in the air before him, gesturing up and down with zeal as his fingers curled, knuckles whitening. "I go to Christobal, Chris goes to Ella. The thing is we gotta resist them. Vin did it. Look.“ He tossed a gesture over toward Selvik's headless body.

Vin shuffled uneasily from hip to hip and shrugged. "I told you. He. . . he made me kill Ezra."

"But it can be done, Vin," Buck said in appraisal. "You've proven that."

Observing this revelation at work, Nathan frowned, keeping his support against the wall. "What about their minions though? We killed a good handful of 'em but there's got to be more hidin' around."

"They ain't that hard to kill," Vin added sourly.

Ezra looked him up and down, making demonstrable note of the dried blood smears remaining on the tracker's face and neck, on the arm that was half exposed through the torn sleeve. "Apparently so," he added his two bits and blinked, looking away as the harsh memory of dying and listening to the goons screeching around him returned.

"I don't know about this," Chris said. "We're all weak." He looked at Buck directly. "What you and I got off Nathan and Josiah can't hold us long. Vin and Ezra. . . they didn't get much more."

Buck groaned and wiped at his eyes before slapping his long arms down at his sides in resignation. "Then what's your idea, huh?" They weren't going to get anywhere if they kept their tails tucked between their legs. "We don't face them now, we lose. We can run, but in the end we'll always feel this connection, Chris." The desperation to make a move, to force out as much courage as he could muster and face his demon, brought Buck's fangs to bud to half-length. He could feel them against the tip of his tongue when he spoke now, so he clenched his teeth, straining out his words. "We're their slaves, Chris," he snarled. "Ella and her eternal love shit. . . she did this to you because she wants to own you. . . because it binds you to her."

To this Vin and Ezra looked uncomfortably at each other.

Chris looked away, even more discomforted. For a briefness, the jade of his eyes flecked through with feral, golden shards, and then it softened out again, hazed by tears that rimmed across his lids but never quite found the capacity to gush free. He blinked, and in that moment his eyes dried completely. Lips curling back over his own extending canines, he swallowed a hard lump in his throat and swayed where he stood. "All right," he finally said hoarsely. "So we face them. . . then what?"

Buck stalled, giving them all some time to absorb the exchange. "We kill the bastards, simple as that." Then he took three long strides forward and faced Chris directly, gripping him by the shoulders. "But when you face Ella, you think of Sarah and Adam when you do it. You stay focused." He knew at this juncture it was a lot to ask of Chris, but damn, he kept thinking, if Vin could do it then why not—

"And us?" Josiah asked.

"You and Nathan hold back," Vin chimed in. "We'll find some weapons in case you're forced to fight."

"Weapons," Buck echoed and turned away from Chris to look at the others. "I bet there are still a lot of those stakes we made in the Sheriff's office. J.D. didn't hand 'em all out."

"Getting there is another matter," Ezra reminded him. "And then there will be the matter of finding a way to sate Nathan and Josiah, and if my guess is correct there isn't another living soul in that town."

"Even if there was," Nathan interjected, "I wouldn't take 'em." His once coffee-dark eyes paled to amber, wolfish from his hunger and yet completely focused as he clung to his devotion to save, not take, life.

"How about in Purgatory?" Vin asked. "It'd be a night's run for us, and they got plenty of scum could use cleanin' out."

Each looked at the others for a response. First there were shrugs, then vacant head nods. In some ways they were chilled by how easily Vin came up with this solution, but their new bodies wouldn't let them completely argue. Where there was a way, the will followed.

Then Chris spoke up, voice a growl. "What about Fowler?"

Buck spun toward him, eyes wide, mouth pursed to offer up an immediate answer he suddenly realized he didn't have. "Oh. . . shit. . ." He scratched his head, brows knitting deeply, and the corner of his mouth, under his ungroomed mustache, twitched downward in an unbecoming frown. "I forgot about him." He propped his butt up against the side of a boulder, thinking back. He did have the answer, somehow. What was it? Something he had heard? Something from when he was still in the death sleep. . . hearing voices. . . hearing Ella and Christobal argue. . . something about. "Cletus!" he blurted out. Then, "Kleitos!"

Ezra perked up. "Wait a moment," he said more to himself. He rolled his eyes upward in deep thought, mouth open and ready to speak. "That's ancient Greek for Cletus." Then he added, "I think. I mean, it's not hard to make that deduction just from the sound of it."

They stared at him.

"I have studied history, gentlemen," he grumbled.

"Yeah, so?" Chris replied with an irritated shrug and repeated, "Fowler."

Buck jumped back into it hands up to signal for attention. "That's not my point. Ella and Christobal were arguing about him. I heard them talking on a first name basis about him. They're meeting up with him in Dodge City in a week."

"So he's not even here," Nathan concluded for the rest of them.

Chris gritted his teeth in a silent curse. "Then he'll just have to wait," he said with an edge of disappointment.

"Oh, we'll get him," Vin put in harshly. "He started this. . . we'll get him." He was showing a tad too much fang on that note.

A dead and hollow silence followed, each of them staring uncomfortably at his comrades, their eyes partially aglow and fixing with new determination.

"All right then," Buck's rasp cracked the air. "First we sneak into Four Corners and hit the Sheriff's Office. We do this, we get in there, stay focused, fight fast and hard. Then we head for Purgatory."

The corner of Ezra's lips ticked upward in a barely contained smirk. "Mr. Wilmington, I think you're forgetting something else you need. Some clothing?"

Buck looked down at his long thin body sheeted over in the nightshirt. "Oh yeah," he muttered. "Okay, clothes, stakes, what else do we need to get first?"

Josiah had that answer. "Faith, brother Buck," he said gently. "We need faith."

No one argued with him.

-7-7-7-

Before they left, they practiced by slaying some of the goons who had hidden in the back cavern. In all, ten presented themselves, and if there were any others, they had escaped into the deeper reaches where there were plenty of hidey-holes. It was a lesson in using tooth and claw, for there were no stakes, and the others began to really understand why it was they had found Vin so caked in blood.

Then commenced the rough walk back to Four Corners. Nathan and Josiah kept falling behind, their bellies cramping with hunger, but they tried to distract themselves by focusing on the landscape, learning quickly how they might put their new senses to use. It proved time to sketch out even more of a plan. They would split up when they reached town, leaving Buck and Chris to confront Ella and Christobal, while Vin and Ezra flushed the goons from the cracks and crannies. Nathan and Josiah were to gather any supplies considered necessary for the trip to Purgatory, while also keeping on the alert to provide back up where it was needed.

Instead of taking the direct route into town, they chose to go up over the ridge and down into the valley from the northeast. As they made their way down the rise, the moon shown on the town in the distance, highlighting rooftops and the empty main street. On flatter ground, they crouched as they went, moving swiftly one at a time from place to place past the old mining camp, until they reached the rear of the hotel where Buck had been trapped inside a day ago that already felt like an eternity. They used hand signals only as they fell out in twos around the eastern corner of the hotel and into the side street, slipping in and out of the shadows, until they all reached the corner of the Saloon and a full view of Main Street opened up. Directly across from their position stood the Sheriff's office, and next to it Potter's General Store.

Buck had already determined that he and Chris were going in first. They needed to act the quickest and get prepared for the real trial to come. He wedged himself around the corner and looked up and down the street, seeing and hearing nothing. Only the smell of death met him, and that was everywhere despite the empty streets. Nathan and Josiah had done a damned good job cleaning up the bodies and seeing that they didn't rise, and however many goons they had killed. . . that now proved a bonus too. He took a breath, held it, and hurried across the dusty way, up onto the boardwalk, and found the office door cracked. Glancing back at the five other new masters huddled up in the side street, he nodded a signal as he put his hand on the knob and gave it a gentle push. The door creaked on its hinges and he winced, feeling as if the tiny noise had all the power of a train whistle.

He stepped inside, listening for other sounds not of his making. Immediately he perked up to a muted hissing and looked over at the desk behind which he saw the gleam of black eyes peering at him. The goon cringed back into the corner when he approached, seeing right off that it was a female. She looked like she didn't know what to do, seeing a master before her and yet he wasn't her master. Buck examined the face, finding it familiar if he imagined it with normal, human eyes, or if the lips hadn't been curled back over fangs wet with saliva and remnants of blood. A sweep of messy, long black hair fell over one shoulder partially clothed in a tattered, frilly blouse. And suddenly Buck thought he'd be sick. His stomach turned and he nearly backed right up out of the room.

Her skin. . . her lovely tan skin. . . it was now as gray as ash.

"Inez. . ." he murmured, and his eyes began to burn as recognition superimposed an image of how she had looked in life.

She issued a sharp hiss of retort and remained crouched, ready to spring at him. Slowly, painfully, he shook his head to himself, frozen to the spot thinking what he needed to do. For a long silent moment they stared at each other, her eyes hard and black, his rimmed with wetness.

Then the corner of the door slapped Buck in the back as Chris came through, hurrying him out of the way.

"Buck, what the hell are you standin' around for—“ Chris halted, his own coarse hiss of a whisper dropping off.

The sudden entry of yet another master jolted the goon into action. Inez lunged straight for Buck, who found his body moving almost on its own, ruled by a nature to survive, as he took one step forward, straight into the attack. The goon let out a cougar-like roar and slashed at him with her claws.

"Chris, find the stakes!" Buck shouted over his shoulder as he caught Inez's wrist, spun her around, and pulled her into him, getting her into a bear hug with the one wrist in his grasp twisted behind her back. He wrestled with her squirming, kicking, screeching figure, knocking the unlit oil lamp and a set of keys off the desk. Her hair swatted him in the face, stinging his eyes, as she thrashed her head and shoulders forward and back, attempting to get free like a fish wriggling viciously against the line.

Chris' gaze darted in and out of the corners, over the desk, into the empty jail cells, and there against one wall, like a stack of firewood, he saw the pile of remaining stakes, about twenty of them. He hurried for them, dropping to his knees and grabbing two, one in each hand, before he rose and attempted to approach the struggle. He skirted the goon's kicking legs, looking for an in as he held one of the stakes up like a knife, point forward. Had to be careful he didn't stab Buck in the arm.

Buck cursed and growled as he spun this way then that with his thrashing burden. "Goddammit, Chris, get her!" He craned his head back and to the side to keep Inez from bashing him in the forehead.

Of the others, Vin came through the door first, pausing to assess the situation, then springing forward to help Chris. "Grab 'er legs!" he cried and managed to grip one ankle as it went kicking past him.

Chris stopped trying to stab with the stake, dropped it, and grabbed the other leg. They had just hauled her over onto the desktop and pinned her when Ezra came in the door, Nathan and Josiah immediately behind him, all reacting to the noise that had stirred up loud enough to carry into the street.

Inez gnashed her teeth and screeched up at Buck as he held both her wrists now. Her body bowed up then flopped down on the desk with a dull thunk. Her blouse had gotten torn and now bared one pale, jiggling breast centered with a slate-hued nipple.

"Oh. . . God," Josiah murmured as he reached down and picked up the stake Chris had dropped. He approached, holding it ready.

From where he stood over the poor creature, Buck turned his head and closed his eyes but kept his grip firmly on both of her wrists. "Do it, Josiah!"

The preacher wedged the point into place in the center of Inez's chest, took a breath, and let it out with a prayer. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son. . ."

Crack!

He channeled all of his strength into the downward push, breaking past her breastplate, straight into her heart.

". . . and the Holy Spirit. . ."

The goon screeched out a pitiful, awful cry that died down into a gurgle before cutting off completely, and Buck felt the tension fighting against his grasp begin to let up.

". . . I release you. . ."

Josiah stepped back as blackish blood spewed out around the sides of the stake. Chris and Vin held her legs a little longer to be sure she wasn't going to move anymore, and then slowly they began to let go, stepping back. Buck remained where he was for a moment longer, not looking down, his head still turned to the side, eyes closed.

"Buck, it's done," Chris rasped.

"Yeah," Buck answered, eyes squeezing shut a little tighter. He let go of the thin, limp wrists and stepped away, turned his back on the scene before he opened his eyes and stared at the pile of stakes in the corner. The false sensation of a hammering heart filled his chest, and the tears that had been slow to come for shock now came for grief. Just a short spill. Then he blinked and they were gone. He padded hurriedly over to the pile, picked up one of the smaller stakes, and gripped it tightly. "Um, finish it. . . please," he said over his shoulder. Then he began to walk stiffly, but hurriedly, toward the door. "I. . . I can't. . ."

The taller man knocked shoulders with Ezra as he went outside, but Buck didn't look back, didn't ask to be excused. Inez hadn't been in there anymore, he tried to rationalize. Inez was dead; that was some thing inhabiting her body, acting as a mindless minion for who? Ella? Christobal? He'd fucking rip that bastard's heart out. Just wait. Just fucking wait. Buck veered to the right outside the door and headed for the next stop in the plan.

Potter's store, unlike the Sheriff's Office, was locked. He used his free hand to smash the glass in the front door and reach in to release the lock and turn the knob. By the time the others caught up with him, he'd already rummaged through the clothing and found a pair of trousers and shirt that fit him, but none of the shoes or boots worked. He gave up and went barefooted. Chris had better luck, even found trousers in his preferred black, and a pair of boots.

They didn't talk about Inez.

Ezra tarried near the haberdashery as well, finding a coat in which he could cram as many stakes as possible down into the pockets. It almost provoked a chuckle from the others to see him standing beside the cash register moments later in a big tan, canvas capote, wooden points jutting out of the sides.

"Ezra, what're ya doin'?" Vin asked in a grumble. "We're not payin' for it."

The gambler blinked, looked at the counter top, and muttered, "Oh, um, right."

Chris and Buck armed themselves more discreetly, Buck having already chosen the stake he would use on Christobal. He slipped it up his shirtsleeve and took a look in the mirror to make sure the hidden weapon wasn't too obvious. Funny, but he recalled Michael Arrant making mention that among the superstitions about vampires, one was that they didn't have a reflection. Superstitions indeed. . . including the one about crosses. Satisfied that he didn't exactly look like he was armed to the teeth, Buck went over to the door to wait as the others also prepared themselves. A moment later, Chris joined him and stood on the other side of the doorframe, taking a glance out into the street.

Buck examined the sharp tint in the green eyes, knowing that Chris could see as clearly as he could despite the darkness; if something out there moved, no matter how small, they would both see it. But there was also a vacancy therein, a worried glaze that Buck had rarely seen creep into Larabee's eyes. He couldn't let it be too much of a concern or they'd accomplish nothing. They had a challenge ahead that could easily break them both and to brood on its difficulty wouldn't help. "You ready?" he asked lowly.

Chris nodded at the same time he said, "No."

The others finished their "shopping" and grouped up at the door too, unease permeating the air between them that the moment had arrived, and they treated it very critically.

"Godspeed," Josiah said as he shook Buck's hand, then Chris'.

"You too, brother," Buck said.

A full exchange of handshakes ensued, all six men skirting around actually saying goodbye, for they hoped goodbyes were not necessary. Well wishes, however, were a definite. Then Josiah and Nathan slipped out into the night first. Their boots made some minor clomping on the boardwalk, but then they both jumped down to the street and disappeared around the corner.

Vin paused to look solidly at Chris as he started out the door next. The silent exchange that took place harkened back to that first time they met, Chris on the street, Vin up on the boardwalk with a shotgun in his hands. They had only nodded at each other. That was all, but it had been so much more: a silent and mutual recognition that they were not men who would stand around and do nothing while the world went to hell around them. And now it had come down to the bare bones, that they had delved into and merged with the darkness they were fighting so that they could better combat it.

Unable to find any words, Vin gave a nod and moved on, Ezra following. They too disappeared along the boardwalk, the low sound of their footfalls quickly fading.

The two remaining men waited for a long moment, not daring to say anything yet. They listened to each other's heartbeat, timing the space of minutes, until finally Buck reached up and clasped Chris' shoulders as he had been doing since he had dragged his friend out of the hotel.

"You ready?" he repeated in a sharp whisper, hunching and craning his head down a little to reach precise eye contact with the shorter man.

Chris blinked at him and swallowed, his narrow, corded neck flexing with tension. "Yeah."

Buck nodded too and then took a breath. "Call her," was all he said then.

Chris closed his eyes, meeting the dark behind his lids and the strange sense of warmth back there where Ella's voice grew stronger. Therein he asked her what he should do, and waited, shuddering as first the desire for her crept upon him, then the nag of his lingering hunger for another taste of her blood which would no doubt bind his will completely to her. A sense of drifting on the air, pulled through the town up the street, around the corner of the saloon, and toward the hotel where he had been changed, stole upon him.

While Chris made his connection, Buck made his own, closing his eyes too, and simply saying weakly in his mind, All right, I'm here. In return, he saw Christobal in his mind's eye, smiling back at him. An image of the interior of the saloon came to him, his view drifting across the polished, bar, over broken chairs and tables. This was where he was to go, he realized. Back to the place where he had fought alongside Chris, where they had both been captured.

Buck's eyes snapped open, and he found Chris staring evenly back at him, but he didn't miss that there was some struggle in there. A muscle ticked beneath one of Chris' eyes and then rested. Together they stepped out of the General Store and onto the boardwalk, then down the steps onto the street. Side by side, they began the walk that for a fraction of a moment felt like a walk to the gallows, like they were sentencing themselves to something worse than this undeath. Failure meant eternal slavery.

Moonlight bathed the path ahead of them, rendering the dusty street in soft blue. Near the saloon they paused to look at each other. By now, their voices had rusted up, refused to work. They couldn't even nod a final signal to each other. Then Buck began to walk again, losing sight of Chris out of the corner of his eye as he faced ahead, going straight for the saloon.

Chris made a right turn and headed down the side street toward the hotel, on his own date with destiny, a slim wooden stake sheathed down inside one boot, and another tucked neatly into his beltline and hidden under his new shirt.

-7-7-7-

Nathan looked down at the rough, uneven outline of what had once been a human figure, but now all that remained was ash, crusted and thicker near where the head had been, or the rib cage and legs. There were a few fragments of bone mingled in. Beyond that lay another one, and another, remnants of the goons he and Josiah had staked the day after the massacre and thrown into the sun. It had taken a while to get used to it. The bodies combusted so fast that one couldn't be too close to them when they landed in the direct sunlight. So the two men had come up with a method of Nathan taking the arms, Josiah the legs, and heaving the limp form like a sack of grain out from the shade inside the buildings. What was left littered the streets here and there, but desert winds had strewn the ashes.

They walked on quietly, listening, smelling, alert to any movement, but nothing stirred. The real action, it seemed, remained down the street.

"I wonder how they're doing," Josiah murmured. They had passed the livery corral and were now at the rear of the blacksmith's. Ahead, the shadow of the church steeple came into view above the Grain Exchange, the cross silhouetted against the moon. He stopped, feet crunching firmly into the dirt and immobilizing him right there.

Nathan got three more strides ahead before he realized his companion wasn't keeping up. He stopped and turned, his forehead stressed with frown lines. "What is it?"

Josiah shook his head, his blue eyes so vividly gleaming from the moonlight, little rings of illumination circling his pupils. "Just tryin' to avoid a crisis of faith, I guess," he said mildly.

"I know what you mean." Nathan strolled slowly back toward the other man. He reached up with both hands, touched his own face, fingertips running into the shallows beneath his eyes. "It still feels like me in here," he said softly, "but then. . ." As he curled his lips back, he felt the slightest extension of his fangs. It was all hitting him very slowly, what he had become. The hunger was telling him more about himself. With each empty stomach cramp he saw visions of exposed throats, of rivers of fragrant red. "I was sworn to be a healer, Josiah, and now look. . . I'm a killer."

Josiah's eyes angled toward the black man and he blinked with an almost mechanical and fatigued slowness. "We all are, Nathan. We were before, but it's just now the method is harder to accept than shooting or throwing knives. It's a decision we made together, we have to live with it." And then his feet came free and he started walking again. "We'll find a way," he said over his shoulder, "even if it's Vin's idea of cleaning out Purgatory." He wondered if he might play some mind game with himself on this matter by picturing himself as some black angel of God sent to root out and destroy the wicked. Well, it was a thought. . .

Nathan followed as Josiah slipped around the livery into the churchyard, and they tried not to look at the bodies there, left in a neat row, staked and beheaded. But Josiah couldn't help himself. He paused, gaze rolling reluctantly toward the dead townsmen. They obviously hadn't been completely on the road to rising as goons for the sun had not taken care of them. The foul and coppery aroma of congealed, baked-in-the-sun blood curled toward the two watchers. Josiah's eyes burned, but any tears were far from welling up. He was too tired for tears.

"Damn."

Sighing sadly, Nathan shook his head at the carnal scene. "Josiah, we can't leave them like that. We gotta bury 'em, or something."

"First thing's first," Josiah said. "We're too weak, and there are too many of them. We'll come back for them when this is over, do a proper burial on them all."

Nathan nodded. "Sure." He was looking back toward the church when the slightest tiny movement caught his attention and he looked to see a single black rat slip along the lower wall of the church and disappear down into a hole dug into the corner near a thick growth of prickly pear. Cursing under his breath, he thought of the rat and its kin gnawing on the bodies of the dead. Little bastards, he thought, and suddenly an idea began to occur to him. His mind tried to revoke the notion, but his churning, hungry belly told him it was workable. "Josiah, you don't think maybe. . ." He paused, thinking it through. So disgusting. . . so utterly awful. Rats carried diseases, how could he think. . . But then he remembered clearly that he had nothing more to be concerned with disease.

"What, brother Nathan?" Josiah touched lightly at the other man's shoulder.

"You don't suppose there's other ways we can get blood, besides from people, do you?"

Josiah's salt and pepper brows shot up into his hairline. "That is a. . . wait. . . are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Yep."

Josiah looked at him, brows slowly sinking again, before he turned blankly and headed toward the church. "You know," he said, deliberately changing the subject. "I think we should add matches to the supplies. We might be able to see in the dark, but I think we're gonna need the comfort of a fire from time to time."

The idea passed quickly from Nathan's mind then. He smiled to himself, watching the big preacher's back as Josiah skirted around the extensive segments of cactus near the rat's hole and disappeared toward the front of the church. "Amen to that," he said to Josiah's last statement, then he hastened to follow again.

-7-7-7-

Chris took the first step up onto the hotel porch and peered through the open, welcoming, double doors into the lobby, breathing in and dissecting the scent of jasmine perfume wafting from within. He shuddered, feeling the draw on his soul pull a little tighter, like it was pulling his very essence out of his body.

Ella was in there somewhere waiting, patient, certain of his return.

As Buck had advised, he quickly thought of Sarah and Adam. He heard their voices, Adam's high and clear, giggling.

"Gimme a ride, Papa."

Chris recalled little hands stretching wide up toward him as he sat on his horse. He reached down, grabbed both, and hefted up, feeling the little warm body snuggle into his lap, straddling the saddle. Closing his eyes, he smelled the soft, sweet scent of Adam's hair, like warm, fresh cut hay.

And then there was Sarah, vibrant and alive, her golden brown hair a veil of waves and curls around her head. He felt her lips against his, warm, silky. He cupped her face in his hands, his coarse, callused fingertips lightly pressing against petal-smooth cheeks.

"It's time to let go, Chris," she said.

"Let go? What are you talking about?" he asked.

"It's time to let go of them," her voice purred, and something about its tone wasn't right. It had changed, gone from gentle and alluring to more throaty. Still feminine, but bearing a natural harshness. He looked ahead, and there, framed in the hotel doorway, Ella stood in a white silk gown that sheathed her body in sleek elegance, a corset tight around her tiny waist and pushing up her breasts. Like a bride she shown in the night, smiling at him expectantly. "Come here," she said.

Chris' eyes watered as the visions of Sarah and Adam melted away from his mind's eye. A tingling rush spiraled down through his middle and gathered in his groin. He shuddered again, resisting the desire to go forward and put his hands around that waist, feel that corset, tight as a drum, around her middle. He made the mistake, then, of staring into her face, absorbing into her dark eyes beaming at him.

"Ella. . ." he croaked, and had the strange sense that he had hurt her, and little wonder she had done what she had done to him. How could he have ever left her like he did, after all the great times they'd had together? Riding bareback in the rain. . . naked. . . His inner self laughed at the nickname he'd acquired from that. Bareback Larabee. The other regulators had laughed their asses off when Ella had told them that, and. . .

The others. . .

Chris frowned, struggling to recall what exactly he'd come here for. He looked down vacantly, thoughts completely askew.

"Chris," Ella persisted gently, her graceful hands rising out to him, to welcome him back into her arms. "Chris, come here, darling."

His body responded before he did, taking those last four strides, clearing the upper step and crossing the porch into the doorway. Then he wrapped his hands around her waist, looked down at her lips, red and voluptuous and parted lustily. Her breath ghosted over his own lips and he felt himself sigh deeply, contentedly, shoulders relaxing as he exhaled.

This was the way it should be. This was where he was supposed to be, here in her arms.

"You're hungry, I know," she whispered in his ear. "I've fed enough for the two of us, all you need do is drink from me." She tilted her head to the side, her eyes still on him, smoky and sly beneath hooded lids.

He stared at the space of neck presented to him, touched by a long lock of hair. His hand trailed up over her breast and stroked at the lock, smoothing it back. The scent diffused through her skin, tickled his nose with coppery sweetness, and the promise that what hunger lingered in him would completely be sated if he tasted it, if he leaned his head in and. . .

His fangs budded, the tips slightly pushing into his lower gums and drawing blood there. Tiny threads drained from the cuts and washed across his tongue. Tasting his own sanguine flow, he paused.

"Go on," she urged, and kissed his chin before tilting her head sideways again.

"But, the others. . ." His pebbled and rough throat barely let him speak, mind and mouth not quite working in unison.

She looked at him straight on again. "Oh, Chris, please," she murmured.

For a moment he wanted to give in, to sink into her, take her, drink from her and forget everything. Just fucking surrender and let her rule him.

His brows knitted as Sarah's face floated against his inner vision. Then over that Buck's, eyes warm and blue and full of life and laughter that had been taken away. Then Vin. . . Vin covered in blood and huddled over the body of Ezra.

"The others. . ." he stuttered out again. "What about them?"

She smiled and breathed out a chuckle. "Oh, your friends. Of course they will be with us now."

That didn't sound like Ella. Hadn't she tried to kill his friends before? He tried to grasp for the corresponding memory to back up that thought, but he couldn't stay focused.

She swayed in his arms as if they were dancing, but she was leading, and smiling wistfully she pecked lightly at his lips with a quick kiss while he stared dumbfounded at her. "They have come too far to be turned away now, Chris," she elaborated. "We will welcome them into our family. I'm so sorry that I didn't accept them before. I should have known better." She looked into his eyes, kissed him again. "Yes?"

He nodded and stared while she cupped a palm between his legs, massaged at the fabric and the tensing lump of flesh beneath. Then she let go and her fingers slid around to his hip, leaving his balls aching slightly.

"They will all join us, even the boy." She turned her head and laid it against his chest, hands both wandering around his waist.

"The boy?" he echoed. His dick relaxed, equally as confused as he was.

She chuckled again. "Of course. You'll have your family of friends, and then you'll have me. Forever, Chris," she crooned.

Her head felt so damned good leaning into him. He wanted to put his arms around her, protect her, though he knew she didn't need protection. She was humoring him, waiting out the moment until he would take her blood, until he would. . .

The boy! Chris stiffened as if lightening had jumped up his spine. "J.D.?"

"Yes, he's with Christobal right now. His time for change will be soon."

Chris pursed his lips in a vacant, "Oh," and he rested his chin on the top of her hair. "Forever?" he whispered. "Is it really forever?"

She laughed at his naiveté, a husky laugh that reminded him that she was not a fragile creature. "Is it forever?" she mocked him between coarse giggles. "Of course it is. It's a gift, lover. Forever is ours, and all you need to do is feed and stay out of the daylight." She swayed with him again, hands probing lazily up and down the sides of his back, smoothing at the cotton of his shirt. "It really isn't that hard. The blood. . . you learn different ways to take it. And taking it will get easier and easier."

Chris stared into the hotel lobby, sensing the rustling of Ella's minions, all waiting for more orders from their mistress. There might have been three or four there, but he wasn't sure, couldn't get numbers to line up in his mind, something else was distracting him. She had said that other name, Christobal, a name that rang familiar. Buck had said that name. Buck who was right now. . .

About to walk into a situation where he would be emotionally outnumbered.

Chris jolted again as Ella's hands brushed against something at his back that caused her to straighten and look at him, her wavering grasp on his mind suddenly shaken.

"What is that?" she asked with a glare, eyes losing all softness and turning to black stones.

He slipped back from her, reaching around behind him, up under his shirt, and into his beltline where he grasped the stake. His hand tightened on it at the same time full freedom flooded through him, and all became clear.

"Guess," he hissed. Then he pulled the stake from behind him, feeling the tip briefly sweep against the skin at the small of his back, before he brought it around and started to stab forward with it aimed at her heart.

Ella roared her anger at the betrayal and jumped out of the way, stumbling backward through the doorway but recovering her footing quickly. Chris lunged in after her, missing again as she proved too fast by sweeping to the side so that he, in his clumsy hurry, nearly fell right into three goons. They hissed and shrieked to see that he had attacked their mistress.

"You bastard!" Ella snarled at him as she turned to face him again and they circled each other. "You would do this to me again? Hurt me? Rip my heart out!" She pounded her chest with a fist and made a clawing motion with her fingers.

Chris wanted to make a retort as he circled low, crouched and spring loaded, but she gave him no time for that. She dove into him, her hand coming up under his, grabbing his wrist and wrestling for control of the stake. The sharp point on the wood hovered out in the open air, and Chris grunted to get more strength into his arm, but it was no good. Having not fed completely, he was the weaker, while she had fed plenty and then some.

He thrashed with her, their bodies slamming into the reception counter in the lobby, then spinning toward the dinning room. The billowing skirt on her dress tangled around his pant leg, white against black. Burning anger pounded in his head, forced out rage tears, and he bared fully extended canines at her. The new instinct then was to dive right into her throat, rip it out like a rabid wolf. He pushed against her, while one of the goons leapt forward and swept claws down his back.

Chris howled deeply and his body bowed in at the pain, not unlike that of a bullwhip but stinging him in four long gashes from shoulder blade to side.

"You can't hope to keep this up," Ella growled at him as they fell up against the doorway into the dinning room. "You're too weak, and I made you. . . you can't fight me. . ."

"Just watch me," he said through gritted teeth, awed at how his voice grated with demonic intensity.

Her fangs bared at him, she hissed with the resonance of a pissed off rattler puffing itself up. Then abruptly, and with cunning, she side stepped, spinning with him, pulling his balance completely off, and then letting go.

Chris flung backwards through the air and crashed into a mahogany buffet table on the far side of the room, breaking his back. There was an instant of sharp pain then sudden numbness from the waist down. The table broke apart beneath him, but his hand remained steadfastly clamped around the stake. Dazed, he rolled onto his side, wincing as splinters from the table embedded in his side.

Ella came storming after, her dress flowing behind her like clouds sweeping behind the thunder of her steps. She stopped a short, but safe distance away, watching him pull one of the larger splinters—a tiny stake in and of itself—out of the side of his arm, grunting in pain. He heard the crick and crack of healing vertebrae, but it was not a speedy process and he still couldn't move his legs. Floundering onto his back, he awkwardly pulled his upper body against the wall amid the fragments of smashed table. God, he had to look like the most pathetic excuse for a man this side of the Mississippi.

"Chris," she said more calmly as she gave him a chance to recover, "why play this game with me when you know it hurts me?"

New pain zinged through his side and back and another bone cracked into its rightful place. Teeth gritting so tightly his jaw creaked, he breathed out in mockery, "Me-me-me. It's all about you, isn't it, Ella."

She frowned in a most pouty way. "No, Chris, it's about us. Why can't you see that?"

"And US means me slaving to you, accepting what you did to my family!?!" He tried to bend one leg, only managing minor movement.

The pouty frown turned into a raging glare. "I'm looking out for your best interests, Chris. If you will not take my blood as I offer it, then you'll take it by force. It's the only way you will see the truth." She raised one hand and signaled her goons to come closer. They all but slithered in around her. "One of them, a male who might have been handsome in his human life, crouched down beside her like a pet tiger. "Bring him here," she told them.

Chris gurgled a weak, "No. . ." and tried to kick out as they approached. Sensation began to filter into his legs, his overall body hurting like hell. "No!" he cried as they hovered in, slathering fangs bared at him, their hands reaching toward him as he cringed away. In complete panic he did the only thing he could. He turned the stake around, the point turned inward, and then flung it toward Ella like a knife. It flipped through the air, whistling sharply before the tip came around and embedded solidly in her upper right breast. She shrieked and fell over with the impact. The goons spun around, all attention turned toward their injured mistress.

Chris took that moment to force his legs to work. He rolled onto his belly, pulled a knee up under him, no matter how much it hurt, and willing out one great jolt of energy, he ran straight for the nearest exit, a window half boarded over.

"Chris! Nooooooo!" Ella cried after him, writhing with one blood-smeared hand on the blunt end of the stake, the other clawing across the floor in the direction of Chris' departure.

He dove for the window, drawing his arms up as shields, tucked his head, and launched himself forward in a flying leap. He met the resistance of the boards, which smarted against his elbows and forearms. He broke through the first tough barrier and shattered the glass that followed. The window, the boards, and Chris' body, all exploded out into the night air. Like a falling arrow, he emerged with his body straight. Then he plummeted downward, curling up as he went and rolled as he hit the ground. The force of the landing threw him completely over, somersaulting up then forward, balance a complete bust as he did a belly flop in the dirt.

From within issued Ella's distressed cry, "Chriiiiiiiissssssss!"

He shook his head and spit off bits of dirt matted to his lips. All he knew then was that he dared not attempt to go back inside and face her again. Damned stupid that he had tried it to begin with but it was Buck's idea and. . .

. . . and. . .

The next thing to register with him as he looked up the side street from ground level, was that Ella had said Christobal had J.D.. Oh, God, not the kid too! From what Ella had said, it sounded like J.D. had not been bled and changed yet. His time for change will be soon. That could mean anything, but utmost it meant that Buck was in for a distraction he hadn't expected. Chris staggered to his feet but remained bent over as his healing back finished doing its thing. Behind him, the mask-white face of one of the goons glared out through the jagged edges of the shattered window and boards, but the hapless creature didn't make a move to come out after him. They all seemed more concerned with getting the stake out of Ella's breast.

Chris took a step, then another more hurried one, not bothering to dust off as he finally made it into a full run. He'd failed here, but at least he could try to help out else where. He clenched his fists into knots and hurried on toward the saloon, damning himself the whole way for missing Ella's heart.

Chapter Seventeen

Vin watched the goon writhe on the floor of the bathhouse, a gush of oily black blood issuing forth around the edges of the stake now firmly planted in its chest. It was a male whom Vin thought resembled one of the ranchers, but he couldn't be sure. Even Inez had been hard to recognize. The blanching to the skin, the black eyes, and the fiercely long fangs altered the appearance significantly. When at last the screeching, squirming thing lay still, Vin knelt and with a solid chop severed the head with a machete he'd picked up at Potter's.

Ezra held a hanky over his nose and mouth, offended by the sour odor that drifted off the body. "We are supposed to leave the stake in there, aren't we?"

Vin stood and looked down at the creature, its body twisted awkwardly, one clawed hand still reaching out across the floor like a bug desperately attempting to flee a crushing foot. "I ain't takin' no chances," he said. "Come on, let's get him in the street; sun'll take care of the rest later." He picked the head up by the hair and, as he'd done with Selvik's, hurled it right out the door into the middle of the street.

Ezra cleared his throat. "Well my, that was. . . genteel," he said dryly and moved to help Vin with the body. "No, you get that end," he ordered, taking the feet and leaving Vin with the shoulders and oozing stump of a neck.

Vin didn't reply as he got a grip under the dead fiend's shoulders and hefted it up. He turned his head away, averting his nose from the smell. "I reckon this'un never bathed," he said as he staggered backwards through the door. They turned sideways on the boardwalk and together gave a backward then forward swing, letting go of the body so that it flew through the air and thudded down in the dust.

"What do you think it was in here for?" Ezra asked. "It doesn’t strike me that these abominations would care about personal hygiene."

Vin shrugged. "Pro'ly just wanderin' about. There ain't anymore warm bodies in town, maybe they're just searching aimlessly."

Ezra nodded at that deduction. "I was afraid we'd have to torch this place," he said hollowly and looked up the street in the direction they were going. "But suffices it to say, no matter what happens here, they will all have to move on, us included."

Vin looked down in silent agreement. "Yeah. This town was. . ." He swallowed, glancing at the headless body laced in moonlight, then away in disgust. "I never felt at home any other place."

Ezra looked at him, focusing on his eyes, certain the tracker was about to weep as a glaze formed, but then it was immediately withdrawn and replaced with a vicious grimace.

"I wanna keep killin' these things, Ezra," Vin went on in a low, hissing tone. "I wanna take every one of 'em out of the world."

"That may prove hard, my friend," Ezra replied warily. "They've been roaming the earth for centuries. There is no telling how many of them are out there. . . not to mention, the world is a very big place."

Vin glared with blue acidity in his eyes. "That's why I need to know more. That's why I want you to teach me."

"Huh?" Ezra's mouth fell open.

"In the cave, you said you knew your history. . . Hell, Ez, I didn't know what a crusade was until that Arrant feller brought it up." He shook his head, the vinegar in his gaze gradually leaking out with the confession of ignorance. "Maybe if I'd known more. . . maybe if I had learned to read, or if I knew some history. . . maybe I'd have been more ready for this."

Ezra cocked his head, one brow up. Of all people, he never expected to hear the word history pass Vin Tanner's lips, not the way he was using it right now. The man hadn't seemed to care about anything other than tracking or shooting skills. But the look in Vin's eyes now was sincere, and Ezra dissected it for all that it was worth, recalling what Vin had done to save him from the proverbial fate worse than death. Thinking about the goon in the street, and Inez as examples of what he could have become, versus this, Ezra understood he had to thank Vin. Horrible though the conversion had been in the beginning, he knew it could have been worse, and on that note he couldn’t keep up his usual pretenses. "I guess," he said reluctantly, "I can offer you some education, but honestly, I'm versed on only what was required of me to—“ he paused to look for the right word. "Survive?"

Vin frowned questioningly.

"It's part of the façade, Mr. Tanner," Ezra elaborated. "Maude taught me to blend in with the upper crust when it was required for a con. She put everything at my disposal from the Iliad to Shakespeare, language lessons, and here and there a treatise on warfare so that I might converse with generals where necessary. I suppose she didn't realize how much I enjoyed self-schooling. A great deal of it just. . . stuck." He stopped there, his thoughts taking a new course. Maude. . . He hadn't even considered her until now.

"Ezra?" Vin asked softly. He could swear he felt his own emotions stir heavily and with no relation to his own present thoughts. He was angry, yes, angry for what had happened here, and how powerless he'd been to stop it, but something else was churning within him. Something in Ezra was reaching out at him. He could swear it. He felt like he was sprouting a crop of tingling goose bumps all over his body.

The conman's green eyes drifted slowly up, glossy and tired, wide with the fear that comes with uncertainty as to what the future holds. "I just realized," he said sadly. "I can't ever see her again." On that note he swallowed a hard lump and blinked before his face returned to a mask of calm. "We have to sever all ties to those we know still living, and I'm sure that's easier said than done."

Vin stared, the truth and weight of the statement reaching him. He had no ties to sever, really, except the town itself, and that had already been taken away. So he couldn't even hope to imagine what Ezra must feel, having a human mother still out there. And the others. . . Chris had already lost something; Buck too. Josiah had his God. Nathan. . . well, it would be a matter of Nathan finding some other purpose than medicine, though Vin didn't see why he couldn't continue to practice healing somehow.

The only loss he could think of, that they all shared, was J.D.. The kid had been part of their group, and now, like Ezra's mother, he was a tie to be severed. Hopefully he'd find a future in Casey's arms, living out the rest of his days happily with a slew of lit'luns running around his feet, but he could never know what had become of his fellow regulators. Better he not know and be able to move on than hold on to some painful memory of seeing his friends come back from the dead.

Vin blinked, tried to focus on the now. He and Ezra had more hunting to do.

"Come on," the tracker husked and gave Ezra a pat on the shoulder, not paying attention to how hard he squeezed or how Ezra tensed up at the touch. "Let's kill more goons."

Ezra nodded sadly, gave one final glance at the street and the body, which in a matter of hours would be turned to dust. They didn't say much more as they continued the hunt, keeping to one side of the street.

Their intentions were to cross over at the Stage Company then make their way back down the other side, but they were never meant to get that far. When the single blast of a shotgun cracked the night from somewhere back down the street, everything changed.

-7-7-7-

Buck stepped up onto the boardwalk and looked into the saloon, past the batwing doors, marveling for a moment at how, with his strange new vision, he could still distinguish light from shadow and see in the dark at the same time. Maybe it was more like a feeling of where the shadows fell as opposed to actually visualizing them. He approached to stand at the doors, hands poised on the upper edge of each panel, and frowned as he sniffed the air. Funny, but his heightened sense of smell picked up something new as well. Over the scent of dusty wood on the boardwalk, and the sticky aroma of spilt whiskey and smoke embedded in every nook and crannie of the inner saloon, there burrowed something else, something tangy and coppery-sweet, salty-sweaty, warm. . .

. . . and it had a heartbeat. . .

Buck inhaled again, examining the enticing scent, while noticing that the dull thrum he heard was not steady or slow as his own heart's rhythm. This sound was faster, labored. With a forced step forward, he pushed through the doors and let them go. They flapped on their hinges with a flutter like bird wings bursting into flight out of a quiet patch of grass. His eyes narrowed as he focused first on the bar, and then followed the countertop to the right, across the mess of broken tables, glass shards, and crusts of dried blood on the floor or splattered on the walls. Then his gaze alighted on a solitary living figure sitting in a chair that rested in one of the Seven's favorite planning nooks near the rear entrance.

It took a moment for him to recognize the figure, simply because he had not expected J.D. to be here. The kid sat shirtless, slumped back in the chair, his arms pulled down behind him and tied to the slats in the back of the chair, while his ankles were fastened tightly to the front legs. His head hung heavily, spilling black bangs forward and hiding his face, while his pale body, tanned at the neck, appeared unscathed, but that didn't stop Buck from flying into a panic.

Damnit, what was the kid doing here!

Buck lunged forward, knelt before the chair, and reached out to grasp J.D.'s shoulders. "J.D.!" he rasped, giving a little shake.

Slowly, in a daze, J.D. lifted his head, blinking as he focused, eyes adjusting to the darkness and finding definition via what moonlight fell through the windows. His mouth bobbed open, and his eyes watered as he recognized the voice. "Bu. . . Buck?"

"Yeah, kid, it's me." Buck pulled the youth's shoulders up, examining his body for bite marks, and swept fingers through the dirty raven hair, pushing it back from a face bruised and swollen on one temple, definitely from a blow. Weak doe-brown eyes blinked back at him.

"He said you were. . ." J.D. took a breath. "He said you were one of them."

"He?" Buck gripped J.D.'s chin gently. His greater sensibilities immediately jumped to conclusions. "Did he touch you, J.D.?" he asked angrily, teeth gritted.

J.D.'s brows sank into a confused frown as his vision made out Buck's pale face and eyes that were unnaturally deep blue, catching the slightest rim of moon glow around the edge of one iris. "Awww, God—“ J.D. shook his head. "No. . . Buck. . ." His voice began to rise as he gained more alertness with the shock. "No!"

"I'm afraid so," Buck said, keeping as calm as possible, thinking briefly on a way to convince the kid that he was still the same person on the inside, but that other concern came first. "Now, did he touch you in any way, J.D.?"

J.D. stared, bottom lip trembling so hard it was heartbreaking.

"Goddamnit, J.D., did he fuck you!" Buck clutched the young shoulders a little too tightly, shaking so that J.D.'s head lolled forward then back, but the kid was in too much shock to answer. He immediately backed off, surprised at himself for the burst of rage.

"No, I didn't," that familiar strangely accented voice replied calmly from the small doorway that led into the rear hall.

Buck looked up to see his sire leaning casually against the doorjamb, arms crossed. His hold on J.D.'s shoulders loosened of its own accord and he fell speechless.

"I was saving him for you, actually," the master vampire explained and strolled forward, tilting his head in an animalistic fashion, eyes aglow from within and studying Buck's still kneeling form. "You knew that I knew you'd return," he said with a sardonic smile. "Thought I'd have a welcome home dinner planned for you." He approached the chair from behind and reached up to take J.D.'s head between his hands, long graceful fingers curling toward the kid's frightened eyes, sharp talon tips coming too close for comfort.

"Buck. . ." J.D. murmured pleadingly as tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks.

"This is what you need, isn't it?" Christobal said gently, and tilted J.D.'s head to the side, exposing the side of his neck. He slid a hand down over the skin there, touching at the pulse, which Buck could clearly see now, rising and falling. The blood glowed warm orange from beneath the skin. "You have no idea of the pleasure in taking one of them," Christobal crooned, lips parted, the tips of his fangs visible. The same hand tapping at J.D.'s pulse suddenly slid down over the kid's chest to caress at a nipple, pinching it between thumb and forefinger, bringing it to perk up.

While his flesh responded, J.D. himself did not. He shivered with fear more than pleasure, and Buck noticed the faded pungency of cold urine wafting up from the young man's trousers. Buck gritted his teeth, feeling humiliation for J.D. that he had pissed himself, either from fear or because Christobal had kept him tied up here with no allowance to relieve himself elsewhere.

"Our bodies feel nothing of cold or warmth," Christobal went on explaining, "until we drink from one of them. The blood warms us, gives our flesh color. We can drink from each other as well, for pleasure, and to survive, but it doesn't give us that same surge of life as human blood."

Jaw clenched, Buck felt the words entice him. True, his body felt, in some way, like it was in a state of limbo. The night air should be cool, but he didn't feel it. J.D.'s skin should be warm to the touch, but he couldn't tell. That human lifeblood could bring him out of that limbo hadn't really occurred to him, even when he'd taken a little from Nathan. Maybe since the healer's blood had been infected, he hadn't noticed, or maybe he hadn't taken enough. His stomach lurched with a new found hunger pain and he found himself staring at J.D.'s neck, mesmerized by the pumping patch of skin that marked the pulse rising with the kid's anxiety.

And the fear. . . that was another thing. It pushed Buck's hunger a step further as he scented it, fresh and sweet, his mind imagining the taste of honey on his tongue.

J.D. shuddered as Christobal snaked his hand back up from the nipple and began to massage the warm, throbbing skin above the kid's collarbone again.

"Shhhhh," the vampire whispered to the trembling prisoner. "You want to join us, don't you J.D.?" He looked Buck square on then, smiling wistfully. "Come on, Bucklin, show him there is truly nothing to be afraid of. This is immortality, don’t you want to share it?"

Buck cringed, understanding that J.D. was completely still human, still pure and free of infection. Neither Christobal nor his goons had so much as tasted the kid. And if he was still human. . . that meant he could be spared. Suddenly Buck pushed away, awkwardly backing up a few steps. He opened his mouth to spit out a curse at his sire, but couldn't get his lips to form the right words.

Christobal's brows knitted softly. He stood still, J.D.'s head still clasped between his hands, for a moment in silence, before he let go and stepped around from behind the chair. "Or maybe," he continued with a new strategy, "you just want this." He drew a hand up to the side of his own throat, pulling the long flaxen hair back and tilting his head, and loosening the cravat so that he could pull his collar back. Suppressing a grimace, he bore the tip of one claw into his own skin and pulled down, tearing an oozing seam at a slant down the side of his neck. The stream welled up freely, leaking down underneath his collar where it spread out in a circular stain growing across the fabric. "Come into me, Buck," he whispered as he approached.

The scent of the open wound was twice as powerful and intoxicating as that of the blood trapped in J.D.'s veins. Buck found his feet wouldn't back up any further. His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms, but the sting did little to snap him out of it. He wanted Christobal's blood. Wanted it more than anything. He could feel the stake against his arm, hidden up his shirtsleeve like Ezra's little Derringer, but he couldn’t will himself to let it drop down into his palm.

"Buck, no. . ." J.D. croaked out, head still hanging heavily to the side. "Don't do it. . ."

The reminder of the kid's presence gave Buck a sense for bargaining. If Christobal would let J.D. go. . . "Please don't do this to him," Buck whispered, his eyes locked on the blood, watching with agonizing anticipation as the cut slowly began to heal, sealing up from the corners inward until there was only the stain. "Let the boy go, I'll do anything you want."

Christobal paused in his approach and examined Buck's face plastered with a fusion of desperation and lust. "When I took him, I had no idea how much leverage he would give me," he mused. "You'll do anything, will you?"

"Buck. . ."

"Yes." Buck shivered to hear himself say it. Closer, he thought. If Christobal would come closer, he'd shove the stake in his fucking heart and have done. . .

The stake slipped out from under Buck's sleeve, past his hand, and landed on the floor, rolling away from him.

Thunk. . .

Cursing to himself, he didn't look down. He couldn't tell what exactly had happened. Had he dropped it as a show of surrender, or was Christobal actually controlling his movement? A hard lump gorged his throat, restricting his breathing.

Christobal barely acknowledged the weapon. It was no threat to him lying there on the floor. No threat at all with his progeny standing here, motionless, a statue.

Buck couldn't even blink. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Vin had killed his sire, he thought. Vin could do it, so could he. . .

Any moment now. . . Any moment and he'd find his body again, force it to action, grab the stake and. . .

Any moment now. . .

Without any further word, Christobal stepped in. . . so close now. . . the blood on his neck and collar teasing with its fragrance .

Buck's fangs extended so quickly he barely felt it. Something told him it would get easier like that. To just slip into the change, let the beast out. With a sigh he leaned his head in, opened his mouth, and closed it over where the cut had been, biting, feeling the skin split anew with a succulent pop that unleashed a fresh flow. It wasn't warm, but it flooded his mouth and seemed to go directly to his brain in that now familiar opiate effect. Buck remembered the little taste he'd had before, coming off of Christobal's tongue, almost like touching the divine.

"No. . ." J.D. sputtered. Through the haze of tears, all he saw was that the two silhouettes were now merged, and he could hear the gentle sound of sucking.

The master vampire shivered with pleasure and slid his arms around Buck's waist, pulling him closer. He tilted his head sideways and back, giving his child better access. "Didn't I tell you," he whispered, "that you would like what I had to offer?"

Buck moaned, closed his eyes and swallowed another mouthful, new strength gradually coursing into his limbs, tingling in his middle, from his navel in, until his cock began to push out at the figure cinched up next to him, embracing him. An eternity of this embrace. . . he could live with that. . . he could forget what he was. . . he could. . . love. . . this. . .

Christobal took in a deep breath, exhaled, caressed the back of Buck's head, and his arousal became apparent when it pushed out against Buck's own. His other hand made massaging circles against the small of Buck's back, soothing and sensuous.

Over his own greedy sucking noises, Buck heard the faint sniffle of weeping. His eyes fluttered open, looking passively down past Christobal's shoulder at the floor. He swallowed more, felt it swirl into his belly and then drain out to fuel his body, restoring strength to his extremities. But that weeping sound, it bothered him. He tried to remember who else was in the room, someone he cared about, someone whom he had tried to save and. . .

Down past Christobal's back, within Buck's range of vision, the front of a black boot stepped into view. Then another one beside it. It jarred Buck completely out of his reverie as he recognized that boot and to whom it belonged.

He startled in Christobal's arms, nearly gagging as he found himself again and started to pull away. At the same time, Christobal sensed the other presence and started to turn. Buck shook off the urge to stall, commanded his body to work, and grabbed his sire by the shoulders. He unlatched his mouth from over the bite and stepped back, looking Christobal in the eyes. . . evenly. . . deadly. . .

"What're you. . ." Christobal started to growl out, then Buck forced him around, spun him outward, facing the direction of the attack as Chris, poised with both hands on it, brought the stake down into the master vampire's heart. It slammed past the breastplate with a crunch, and a spurt of blood projected out from the side and spattered Chris' face and shirt. For an instant, Buck could have sworn the stake had gone all the way through Christobal's body and into his own chest. A fiery pain gorged his heart and he staggered backward, Christobal collapsing with him and roaring, hands reaching up to try to pry the stake out. Chris stood back for a moment, shoulders heaving, teeth bared savagely, face painted in the gleam of red-black.

Buck held on to his sire, fighting to get a hold on Christobal's wrists and keep him from wedging the stake back out. "No you don't, you bastard!" he spat and got one wrist in hand, squeezed tightly. He nearly fell over as Christobal tilted his head forward then brought it back hard, ramming Buck right on the nose.

Sparks rained down behind his vision, and Buck thought he might black out, but he shook the pain off and looking past his growling, fighting sire found Chris stepping in again.

Chris rock-punched Christobal across the jaw then reached out with the other hand and shoved the stake in further with the blunt of his hand.

Christobal's body bowed out and his knees buckled. His weight and the loss of balance proved too much for Buck to hold up. Both went over, Chris following, fighting with Christobal's flailing arms and claws to ensure the stake stayed put. Buck gritted his teeth, wracked with his own pain, and strangely felt tears and an overwhelming sadness consume him. Yet he held on to his sire, even as Christobal's claws reached down and skimmed his leg, tearing his trousers and skin.

Chris took a swipe across the face which sent him reeling, and Buck was left to deal with the final struggles as he and Christobal tumbled from side to side. At last the master vampire stilled, all strength slowly seeping out of him, until he coughed up a glob of blood and his weight came down on Buck's lap, his hair a splash of gold over Buck's knees.

Buck uttered a moan of protest as he looked down at the mass lying across his legs. Christobal's eyes stared blankly up at him, pupils dilating until they completely consumed the blue of his irises. Almost as quickly, the pain in Buck's chest subsided, and he felt the connection linking his mind to the other weaken. It remained in place, a tiny thread of will pleading with him to pull the stake out, but it wasn't enough. With a disgusted grunt, Buck scooted himself free of the other body and got to his feet. Shoulders heaving, he remained transfixed for a moment.

"Take off his head," he demanded weakly of Chris.

Chris got up to his feet, his breath equally as labored and stared down at the body lying sprawled, head tossed to the side, face hidden in a sweep of hair. The blood saturating Christobal's shirt formed a chaotic blossom, with the stake as the center. Chris turned about, looking over the place for a blade, or some other means to do the final task. "Hang on, I'll see what I can find."

"Buck. . ." J.D. whispered.

Startled from his stupor, Buck looked up, mouth agape, and slowly registered the world again. "J.D.," he whispered with relief. He took a step forward and froze.

"We'll get that machete from Vin," Chris was saying as he walked along the bar, before he turned and halted. The sensation of ice crystals flooded his stomach as he saw Ella poised there, crouched behind J.D., her fingers on his throat, while her other hand held the stake Chris had used, the point planted beneath J.D.'s heart. She had obviously crept in through the back way, and her goons had followed. They huddled up in the smaller doorway, waiting.

"You will come to me, Chris," she said smoothly while her eyes were aglow with pure madness, her lips drawn back over a grimace of fangs.

"Ella, don't do this," Chris said, shaking his head.

Buck opened his mouth to speak, couldn't find the words. That Chris hadn't taken care of Ella completely hadn't occurred to him. He glimpsed the blood stain caked across her breast and over the edges of her white dress, and she had paled out considerably from the blood loss. "You. .. b-bitch. . ." he stuttered. "If you hurt him. . ."

"Ella, there are more of us here," Chris informed her. "The others, they will find you."

"Maybe," she hissed, and caressed J.D.'s cheek with her free hand. "This isn't over, Chris. We have eternity, remember? It may not happen now, but it will. It's inevitable." She nuzzled at J.D.'s ear lobe with her cheek, taunting the terrified prisoner while her focus remained on Chris. "You belong with me."

J.D. tried to tilt his head away from the cool tickle of her breath near his neck, or the tiny prickle of her claws. Rivers of tears mapped his face from eyes to chin, and his lips trembled in absolute terror. "I'm. . . s-s-s. . . sorry. . ." he uttered. "Buck. . ." Sopping wet lashes blinked pitifully, and then his eyes widened with shock.

In that instant, Buck felt the world around him die too.

With a single thrust, Ella shoved the stake into J.D.'s belly and jerked it out, leaving a gushing hole. J.D. spasmed, a choking gurgle issuing from his throat.

"No!" Buck and Chris cried out in strained unison. Buck started forward and nearly tripped over Christobal's body, while Chris managed to stumble a step in then couldn't move, understanding Ella's intentions completely as if she had spoken them aloud. They could go after her or stay and tend to the wounded youth.

"How much do you value his life?" she asked as she slipped back into the doorway, holding up the stake like a dagger. "Enough to make him one of us?" Two of the goons stepped into the path behind her, blocking Chris or Buck from pursuit.

Buck was too concerned with J.D.. He fell over getting to the kid, frantically worked at the bonds he'd failed to undo before, first getting the ankles untied. The whole time, J.D.'s eyes glimmered at him, wide and frightened, while his young body shuddered and he continued to choke, and blood washed up into his mouth and dammed up on the edge of his lips to be swallowed back down in a convulsive reaction to the pain.

"Buck—" J.D. spat and droplets of red-tinted saliva flew out. "I di-didn't. . ." The two of them stared hopelessly at each other, caught in their own cocoon of infinity.

Chris could only stand paralyzed as Ella slipped back into the shadows, guarded by the last of her goons. He managed a step forward, but her will maintained the barrier, preventing him from chasing after her. "I'll get you," he husked out, shaking his head absently. "I'll fucking rip your heart out. . ."

Only her laughter, echoing on the night and in his head answered back before he realized she was gone. Only then could he move. His body suddenly made the next step forward, and he blinked, turning his head mechanically to see that Buck had gotten J.D. loose and pulled him from the chair.

"Chris!" Buck shouted viciously as J.D. collapsed into his arms and Buck swept him up.

"They. . . used me. . ." J.D. coughed out vacantly, staring ahead as all he came to know in that moment was pain and sadness and disappointment.

"J.D., you hang on," Buck crooned as he carried J.D. out onto the street. Blood leaked around the kid's middle and dripped down onto Buck's pant legs. "I'll get Nathan. . . Nathan'll fix you. . . Nathan. . ."

"Oh, God," Chris hissed, making one very bitter realization. "Buck!" he called, following the desperate man outside. "Buck!"

"Nathan!" Buck shouted as he reached the boardwalk and collapsed to his knees, J.D.'s slack limbs dangling from within the cradle of his arms. "Nathan!" He got his feet back under him and stepped off to come down heavily on the ground and wander out into the middle of the street before collapsing again, dust grinding into his knees and skins, crusting over the blood on his clothes.

"Buck, wait!" Chris stamped after him, and came to kneel before him, eyes roaming over J.D.'s belly and the freely bleeding wound. The scent was intoxicating, forcing Chris to stammer before he got his tongue working again. "That stake had Ella's blood on it, Buck," he said hopelessly. "He's infected."

Buck clutched J.D. in closer, the youth's head falling heavily against his chest. "No," he whispered, shaking his head and glaring defiantly at Chris. "No, it's just a stab wound. He's had worse. . . Haven't you, J.D.?" He cupped J.D.'s chin and lifted it, looking into quivering eyes. "Haven't you?"

"Buck, he is infect—"

"No!"

"Fuck!" Chris gritted his teeth and looked away, eyes reddening with anger that Wilmington was proving more stubborn than ever.

"He can't be," Buck went on. "It's just a stab wound."

Chris took a deep breath. "If he dies," he said huskily, "he will rise."

Buck rocked back and forth. New tears traced where others had dried. His lips curled back as he clenched down on a sob and the truth sank in. Then. . . "I won't let it be like that," he said and looked down at J.D. who was beyond response. "I won't let it." Then almost in a self-induced trance, he held his own wrist up to his mouth and bit down. There was the soft noise of skin breaking, then a slurp as the blood came free.

"Buck!" Chris snarled and reached out to stop Buck's hand in mid air as he brought the bleeding wrist around to poise it over J.D.'s mouth.

"Piss off, Chris!" Buck growled and pulled his arm free, his eyes so vicious, clouded with red veins sliding in around the vibrant blue of his irises. The inner glow warned Chris off from making any further objections. Buck caught a breath, calming himself with alarming ease, and caressed J.D.'s cheek with bloody fingers. "I can't do it to him. . . can't take off his head. . . I can't let him go this way," he whispered and looked into the near-vacant eyes. "J.D., please. . . please. . ." The blood ran over J.D.'s bottom lip.

"Buck," Chris said, summoning up all the patience he could. "Let him decide."

Sniffling, Buck dabbed at the blood, smearing it. "Yeah," he said vacantly. "J.D., tell me." He continued to rock aimlessly, odd locks of J.D.'s hair draped over the crook in his arm. "Tell me if you want it."

J.D. stared up at him, his body tense and shaking. Slowly, his tongue snaked out and licked weakly at the blood. The tainted tip withdrew into the darkness of his mouth.

It was all the answer Buck needed. "All right," he replied and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and held it as he laid his wrist over the open mouth completely. At first he felt some minor sucking, but J.D. was too frail, and distracted as fiercer convulsions began to seize his abdomen. The wrist wound did little more than drizzle down into the youth's mouth. "It's not enough," Buck said with growing worry. "It's not enough!"

Chris gritted his teeth, reason telling him that he should stop this right now. This mad notion Buck had of saving the kid. . . it was all growing out of hand. They had saved Nathan and Josiah this way, but that had been a joint decision. J.D. had to be too out of it to consciously decide. But then, who was to say. If he couldn't decide then what choice did they have?

"Shit," Chris hissed and stood up, spun on his heel and stormed back over to the boardwalk and into the saloon. He crossed the room still shrouded with the thick smell of J.D.'s blood and vaulted the bar to feel around under the counter. Yes, there it was, exactly what he needed. Every bartender kept one around. He withdrew the Winchester, checked to see that it was loaded, and vaulted back over the counter again. Out on the street, he found Buck still aimlessly rocking with the kid's limp body, still whispering sweet pleas that J.D. take the blood.

Turning the barrel to the heavens, Chris fired off a single shot that echoed across the rooftops of the dead town. It was only a matter of minutes before the others came into view, running madly toward the saloon, Vin and Ezra from the North, Nathan and Josiah from the South. They all stopped in their tracks when they saw the seventh member of their group. The now customary reaction of "Oh, God," uttered from their lips as Buck looked up at them, still caught in his bubble of grief.

"Help me," Buck whispered. "I drank but I don't have enough. . . I don't have enough." He wept freely now, the moon, in all of its plump illumination, almost completely reflected in the smears of wetness on his cheeks, in the little dams on the edges of his eyes. "Nathan, Josiah. . . take some of his. . . take it. . ."

The preacher and the healer hesitated, shocked that their first feeding on a human should be thus. But no one dared argue. Once more Chris refused to participate. While Nathan and Josiah took a little from J.D.'s wrists, they also gave back, making cuts in their own hands and dribbling what little blood issued into his mouth. Ezra and Vin offered some too, but by the time Ezra pulled his wrist away from the pale and parched young lips, it occurred to them all that J.D. was already dead and there was no telling how much he had actually managed to swallow.

They stood back and watched for a moment, and Buck closed J.D.'s eyes, held him more tightly and treated him like a broken doll.

Chris, standing with the shotgun propped over one arm, finally looked at Vin and gave a head gesture toward the saloon. "There's a body in there needs decapitatin'."

"Ella?" Josiah asked as the others began to step closer.

Chris shook his head. "Got away," he grated out weakly.

Vin was already walking steadily toward the saloon, machete drawn and ready to go to work. Slowly, they all followed except for Buck, who refused to move from his vigil over the dead body of J.D. Dunne.

Alone in the street with his charge, Buck detached and withdrew into himself. He rocked, and his mouth moved, murmuring whatever came out.

"Hush. . . little baby. . . don't say a. . . word. . . Papa's gonna. . . buy you a. . . mock. . . ing. . .

. . . bird. . ."

The rest was silence.

Part Three - El Camino a la Libertad

"I know fucking well there's a God because I kill
vampires for a living. Are you listening? I kill
vampires for money. A lot of it. So don't tell me
there ain't no God. I know fucking well there's a God.
I just don't understand Him."

- Jack Crow, John Steakley's "Vampire$" -

"I know there's a God now.
We still got our souls even being the creatures we are,
and that to me says it all right there."

- Josiah Sanchez -

Chapter Eighteen

Four Corners Dig Site, Present Day

"We shouldn't be out here, Perkins," Boyd bitched, the beam of his flashlight dancing nervously across the ground ahead of his steps, his eyes wide on the search for scorpions or rattlers or anything else nocturnal and hazardous to his health. "That Larabee guy catches us on his property, we're royally screwed."

"He was cool enough," Tommy said as he moved on ahead. "'sides, I don't expect he's camped out here." He squinted into the night, past the focused glare of his own flashlight, at a landscape washed in silvery light from a gibbous moon. Overhead, a billow of white clouds, rimmed with silvery illumination, framed a black sky dotted with billions of stars. Tommy sighed. "God, I loved it out here at night."

"Not me," Boyd replied. "Too many bugs and shit."

"Then why the hell did you decide to go into a profession that required camping and digging?" Tommy quipped over his shoulder and pushed on ahead. The circle from his torch beam alighted on the rise past the main dig site and he huffed a little harder, rolling his shoulder to adjust against the weight of the spade he carried. His sneakers padded the ground, issuing the soft crunch of brambles and sand.

Boyd didn't answer his teammate's question, in part because he wasn't sure himself why he ever took an interest in digging up bones. Nosing around in other cultures, he loved that, but excavating was hard work with too little reward. That had changed with Four Corners, but in one fell swoop, even that was gone, and Boyd had rather cut losses and move on or he'd be too pissed off to breathe. He turned and looked down at his car, a new model VW Beetle, parked near the main dig site. The whole place was now silent and dead. A few nights ago, there would have been a campsite near by, with a few fires, a lot of late night chatting about academia and telling ghost stories. He did love that, even if he hated watching his ass for biting critters in the dark. Now there was nothing there but some crates of larger equipment that still needed to be picked up, but Professor Jameson had already okayed it with that lawyer guy that the boxes could stay for a couple days. The team also had a grueling trip back in the coming day to cover up the mass grave and erase as much evidence as possible that they had even been here.

It just wasn't fair.

"Why am I doing this?" Boyd asked and paused to drop his own spade so that the edge cleaved into the topsoil and he could prop on the handle. Looking ahead, he watched Perkins' figure, highlighted by the blueness of the moonlight on his white tee shirt, persist on up the rise to stand over the seven cairns. "Why," Boyd more accurately asked himself, "am I doing this with you?" Grumbling, he pulled up the spade, slung it back over his shoulder and trudged on. "Why are we here, Perkins? I mean really, what are you trying to prove?"

"I want to know what's in these graves," Tommy replied, staring down at the cairn where he'd unearthed the old hat. "If there are seven bodies here, they could be the seven regulators of legend."

"Stop it, Perkins. Just fucking stop it right now."

"Shut up, Boyd. You didn't have to come."

"Of course I had to come, it's my car that got us here."

"Then shut your yap and go wait over there." Tommy positioned the spade above the ground, got some shoulder strength behind it, and then shoved the blade edge down. He brought up a foot on the upper side edge and bore down, pushing the blade past the top layer of clay and dried grass. There was a crunch as he levered down the handle and chunked up a load of dribbling dirt and stringy roots. He heaved an exasperated breath when he saw that Boyd was still hanging about. "So. . . you gonna help or what?"

Boyd raked fingers still creased with the afternoon's grime through his dark hair and wandered over, slinging the spade down to the ground while he aimed the flashlight at the patch Perkins had dug up. "Really, man, what's up with this? I can't believe you talked me into coming out here."

"You'll laugh." Tommy dumped the dirt to the side and slid the spade back into the ground, breaking up another chunk.

Boyd stared expectantly at him and blinked.

"All right!" Tommy finally exclaimed under the other young man's heavy stare. "I'm trying to prove the Magnificent Seven really did exist, okay, sue me."

Boyd's brows shot up and he felt a deep laugh begin in his belly. His lips flattened out as he sealed up his mouth, trying not to burst into full gales of delirium right there. "Um. . . excuse me. . . come again on that? I didn't hear you the first time."

"Look, my daddy got me into Westerns, right?" Tommy explained. "I loved all of them, Gene Autry, John Wayne, didn't matter if they were old grainy black and whites or spaghetti flicks. Then one day he gives me this book on the Old West, and I start reading about this town." He gave a gesture down slope to the boxy shadowed form of Four Corners. "I fell in love with it. I mean, this place has more legend around it than Dodge City, and we don’t even know why. Every one just disappeared, including the seven men who protected it. Seven of them, man." He gestured at the cairns then scratched his head. "I haven't quite figured out where Chris Larabee fits in, but I'm workin' on it. I mean, if that guy we met today is the great grandson, then something doesn’t quite jive here." He shrugged and repeated, "But I'm workin' on it."

Boyd reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a half eaten Snickers bar, peeled back the slack wrapper, and took a bite, listening with patience and humor. At least he could give a college buddy the benefit of the doubt. Tommy Perkins' enthusiasm for this sort of thing had helped him get through many a night of hard study to pass exams the next day. "Okay, so they were the Magnificent Seven?" he asked with a shrug. "The ones the movie's about?"

"Yep, that's part of my theory." Tommy looked over the moonlit ground, finding a better place to set his flashlight. "I think it's highly possible that a real legend managed to embed itself in our culture and find its way into fiction, where it has been buried for too long."

"The Magnificent Seven was based on The Seven Samurai, genius. It was a Japanese film to begin with." Boyd nonchalantly took a rich, chewy bite of peanuts and caramel and worked it around in his jaw, smacking loudly on purpose.

"Yeah, well. . ." Tommy started to get back to work digging. "I got that covered too, considering it's highly likely Kurosawa read the Western legend first before he decided to come up with his own version."

"Whatever." Boyd took another bite before he was through chewing up the first, the wrapper crackling in his hand. "Perkins?"

"Yeah?"

"You're fulla crap."

Tommy glared, but traces of humor danced through his eyes. He was about to lever up the end of the spade again when something growled from somewhere out in the high grasses that still surrounded the cairns to the north. A low, menacing snarl that sounded like it had sharp teeth to back it up. He couldn’t tell how close it was, only that it made his skin crawl instantly. "What was that?" he hissed as his heart jumped into his throat.

Boyd swallowed the clot of candy bar in his mouth and stiffened, clutching the Snickers. He raised the flashlight and shone the beam across the grass, seeing nothing but a sea of dried strands and the occasional grasshopper settled for the night. "Sounded like a cougar," he said after a moment.

"Ain't no cougars around here no more," Tommy whispered. "I don't think. . ."

"I told you there was nothing in those graves, boy," a rasp of a voice replied from behind them.

Both let out a gasp, and Tommy spun around so fast that his foot slipped off the edge of the rise and he tumbled down on his ass. Pain cracked up through his tailbone, and he gritted his teeth.

Boyd dropped his flashlight. It clattered down the hill and rolled into a crack where the beam died. He stepped back, catching his breath as his vision made out one. . . two. . . three. . . figures defined by the moonlight on their shoulders. . . and then those numbers continued to grow. He could see others coming in, two of them just within his peripheral vision. Their steps were virtually silent.

Tommy stared up at a man's figure silhouetted against the sky, lean and tall, and clad in what appeared to be a dark long coat. He scrambled for his own flashlight lying by the edge of the spade and shined it up into a vaguely familiar face. "Mr. Larabee?" he gasped in astonishment.

In a second, all he glimpsed were angry eyes so piercingly green as to seem unnatural. The flashlight's beam appeared to reflect out of the back of those eyes, igniting them from within with a burning red. Then the figure squinted away from the glare and a hand, fast as lightning, swatted the light out of Tommy's grasp. Tommy suddenly wasn't so sure this was the same man he had met this past afternoon. He remained leaning back on his elbows, gaping up at the figure, before he registered the others. His vision darted from one to the other, first seeing a taller man moving in behind the one whom he had thought was Chris Larabee. Then another, who looked like the lawyer, who had given Jameson the news on the property, came into view to Tommy's right.

Boyd, still on his feet, now counted the full, and exact number of them.

Seven.

He noticed a tall black man, clad in vest and jeans, while next to that one stood a broader shouldered man whose long gray hair shone white in the night. The gray haired one wore a poncho, which in this light appeared to be striped with only drab gray hues, and his heavy brow shadowed his eyes. But then. . . horror began to creep in over Boyd, forcing him to back up a step. . . from within those shadows, two glowing dots of red scowled evenly at him. Boyd attempted to dismiss this as a trick of the moonlight, though he remained thoroughly chilled inside. He looked down slope at the taller figure standing off to Larabee's right, this one lanky with a head full of dark hair, wearing a leather biker jacket and chaps. Adjacent to that one stood a shorter figure, with lighter hair that cascaded past his shoulders, wearing a long tan duster, jeans and chaps.

Then there was the lawyer. He was easy enough to recognize, for he was still in his blazer and bolo tie, neat hair combed back. Beyond him stood a smaller figure who was far enough away that Boyd couldn't make out more detail, only that he was in black.

The next thing to jump out at both young men, was that the seven mystery men were completely armed. They sported heavily weighted gun belts packed with ready to load clips of ammunition.

"What the hell is this?" Boyd said, trying to get his bearing. "Bikers from hell?"

"Shut up!" Larabee snapped at him.

Although it was only a low, gruff, hiss of an order, Boyd felt like it rammed him in the chest. He lapsed into silence and swallowed hard, his heart slamming against his rib cage.

Tommy tried to scoot back out from under the figure towering over him, as Larabee appeared to ignore him and looked out into the night beyond the low plateau of grasses and cocked an ear. They were all quiet, alert, scanning the entire area for something unseen. The two intruders didn't seem to be of concern at all.

After a long, unnerving silence, the man in black held out one hand and gave a gesture. "Buck, Vin," he said to the two who backed him up on his right and left. Then a nod to the gray-haired one who was nearest to Boyd. "Josiah. . . Watch them."

The tall, lanky man came forward with surprising grace, reached down, gripped Tommy's shoulder, and hauled him to his feet with little effort. Tommy stared, trying not to breathe too heavily or leave his jaw hanging loose.

"What's. . ." the young man stammered. "What's going on?"

The one called Buck cocked his head and, dim and cool though the light was, Tommy could see a warm smile lace his eyes. "Hopefully nothin'," he drawled in a whisper. "Now get on down here, kid, in case I'm wrong." He pulled a half-tripping Tommy Perkins down the slope.

Boyd found his arm clenched up in the massive hand of the gray haired man, whom he figured now for Josiah. He was ushered in the same direction as his teammate. "W-w-what's. . ." he started to ask the same question. It shifted to, "Who-who-who. . . are you?"

"Angels with dirty faces," Josiah replied and hustled him up next to Tommy where the two were virtually surrounded. "Wait there, and get low."

The long-haired one addressed as Vin had not said a word. He only moved in near the two confused hostages but faced out, continuing to probe the night, as did Larabee. As they all did. All creating a circle, tense as coiled vipers, listening and waiting.

Boyd lost his balance on the uneven ground, spun, and found himself looking into the face of the smaller man whom he hadn't completely made out before.

Dark doe-like eyes stared back at him, and yet there was something ancient in that gaze that alarmed Boyd into complete stillness. This other young man's longish hair was so black that it cast a blue gleam against the moon's glow.

"Hey, can I have that?" the young man asked.

Boyd looked down to see that he was still clutching the rest of the Snickers bar. A pale, cool hand removed it from his grasp, the wrapper crackling softly as it was tucked inside the other's leather jacket for later.

"Thanks."

Boyd nodded vacantly. He wanted to burst out in frustration for an explanation of who these guys were, but neither his limbs nor his mouth would obey.

Tommy observed, nerves on edge. He closed his eyes once, held them tightly shut, lids creased, and then opened wide, just to make sure he wasn't dreaming. This was all so damned surreal. Seven men around him and Boyd. . . seven men armed to the teeth and. . .

They were drawing their guns.

The soft slide of metal against leather traveled from figure to figure until each held a piece in his hand.

Shit!

He turned to look at Boyd and shook his head, eyes tearing up with fear at what they had gotten themselves into. At what he had gotten them into. "Man, Johnny. . . I'm so. . . sorry. . ." he uttered.

"Shhhhhhhh," the young man in black hushed gently, a black gloved finger raised to his lips while the other hand held up what appeared to be a Berretta, except that it was equipped with an apparatus on the barrel that didn’t exactly appear to be a silencer. Whatever it was, the gun had been customized, and neither Tommy nor Boyd wanted to know for what. "You heard the man," he said, indicating Josiah, "get low." The same gloved hand made a waving motion toward the ground, and then he returned his attention to the watch.

"Fuck," Boyd exclaimed under his breath before he lost his voice again completely. His lips still mouthed the curse even as he closed his eyes and waited for his life to end. Tommy's hands clutched his arms and pulled him down to the ground slowly, putting both of them on their knees.

There was more silence. Painful, deafening. . . silence. . .

"What do you think they're here for?" Tommy whispered more to himself than his companion.

"I dunno," Boyd said, eyes still closed tightly, and began to pray. "God, please get me out of this and I promise I won't follow this idiot anywhere ever again."

"Boyd, chill out," Tommy hissed, attention on the ring of seven men. His eyes watered, straining to make out other details. The moon gave their skin a luminous, almost ghostly glow, with the exception of the black man, and even he had a more gray pallor in such light. It was roughly two in the morning, so Tommy had never for one moment expected to find Chris Larabee out here, along with six other men and. . . "Seven," Tommy mouthed. It couldn't be, he thought, his mind stumbling on the fact that while they were in modern dress, there was something timeless about them. . . the way they stood, the way they drew their guns. . . and the ghost town looming not far away behind them. Tommy gulped down a breath, started to let it out in a blast that was sure to be loud, and then nearly jumped clean out of his skin when a shriek issued out of the night.

The sound came from out of the grasses, building a Doppler effect as something sprang out along with it, straight for the leader. The Seven spun toward the attack, but Chris Larabee had already opened fire. The humanoid shadow reaching toward him stopped in its advance, spun in mid air, and came down on the ground with a hollow thud.

More figures followed, and it became clear that the growl the two young men had heard before had come from one of these things.

"OhmyGod-OhmyGod-OhmyGod. . ." Boyd began to chant, eyes like saucers as he cringed toward Tommy. There were too many to count, and as rapid gunfire began to crack the air with little pause, they put their backs to each other, butts on the ground, covering their faces when one of their mysterious guardians stumbled in a little too close.

The rotten egg smell of spent gunpowder wafted down over the huddled figures, smarting in their eyes, causing them to cough. The air and ground around them became a confusing circus of roaring and screeching , the overlapping thunder of gunfire, and occasional shouting.

"Come on," Tommy uttered to Boyd, gesturing toward a possible opening in the circle. "That way. . ." He tugged on Boyd's elbow and got up on his wobbly knees.

Boyd wanted to keep his head down and to hell with Tommy Perkins. "No!" he barked back. "Sonofabitch, you got us into this!" He jerked hard on Tommy's shirt-sleeve, pulling his companion down to the ground only to have him bounce back up onto his knees.

"Fine, you stay and get your ass shot up," Tommy said and, remaining low, turned around, about to rise just enough to crawl all the way down the slope to the even ground near the dig site, when he bumped right into a pair of knees clad in black leather chaps.

Wide, blue eyes rolled upward, from the knees, to the waistline and the bulk of the ammunition belt slung low down across one hip, all the way up the tall and towering figure of the one called Buck. Tommy managed to get himself up into a kneel, head craned steeply back as he looked full into the face above his.

The eyes that stared back at him were aglow from within, lit by some supernatural fire. The tall man smiled then, and Tommy could swear that he saw long, pointed canines as the lips moved. It wasn't that it was horrific to look into those eyes or even at those teeth, which gleamed back at Tommy.

It was that all of these things told Tommy that he was dreaming, and eventually he'd wake up, sweaty in his bed, gasping, his heart in his throat. He'd be safe then.

"Now, where do you think yer goin'?" Buck asked, his gun held upward, barrel turned carefully away from the youth before him.

Tommy fell over in a dead faint.

-7-7-7-

Buck tried not to laugh as he watched the kid's eyes stare back at him for a matter of seconds before they rolled up in the head and closed. The body fell over limp, next to his buddy, who was huddled, head down and grasped between his hands. The other youth tried to steal glimpses of what was going on around him but for the most part kept his nose near the dirt. Buck's partial smile melted. He really derived no pleasure in seeing two scared kids. It lightened the load to tease them a little, seeing as how they were still alive and in tact, and that the Seven had arrived just in time.

But then. . . no. . . they had not arrived in time. To have arrived in time would have meant getting here soon enough that the human youths were completely spared witnessing this battle.

Buck took a glance over his shoulder at J.D., who had wandered out further below the rise, spotting goons attempting to sneak up from behind. The kid shot with fervor as he had in the old days, a gun in each hand, firing right handed, then looking left, sighting down his extended arm, and firing again. Over time he had developed a greater smoothness of motion that Buck admired. Buck watched one of the hapless creatures take a shot to the head, not enough to stop it, since the round had to enter the heart. J.D.'s second round took care of that. The goon went over wailing its lament. It thrashed in the dust before it lay still, pitiful and bedraggled.

Further upslope, now on the other side of the cairns Chris advanced into the tall grass, firing systematically, the tails of his long coat billowing behind him, snagging on an occasional thorn branch then tearing free. Josiah and Nathan followed, while Vin advanced northward, and Ezra south.

Goons of every shape and size, men, women, children, came charging with no means to truly fight other than their claws and teeth. Buck scanned across them then back toward the town, looking for their mistress. Surely she was here. Upon meeting Chris and Ezra back at the ranch, he had been livid to hear the suspicion that Ella was in the area, especially around the town. He had not so much as scented her during his visit, but then the unplanned appearance of his personal ghost had been a distraction.

What's your game? Buck asked the air. This made no sense, attacking the group with a small army of slave class who had no chance against seven masters. Makes no sense at all.

"Buuuuuuck!" J.D.'s voice suddenly called as its owner came racing back toward the slope. Buck spun to look down at the kid's dark figure running straight for him, while turning to shoot behind him as he came.

Three goons, once fully grown and healthy young men, came charging at J.D. with coordinated speed. Such a display in goon behavior was rare. It meant Ella was here somewhere, controlling them, sending them psychic messages on how and when to act.

Buck took a step down slope, aimed, fired, and took out one of them.

J.D. had to halt in his retreat to turn and get sufficient aim on his closest attacker. The kid went over backward as the goon lunged. He landed against the slope, curled his body and brought the flats of his feet up to stop the goon's decent. It landed against his soles, claws lashing toward his face, before he raised both guns and fired round after round directly into its head. Black blood sprayed across J.D.'s face as he snarled and bared his own sharp teeth. He kicked out with both feet and launched the goon out away from him, at the same time he bounded back up into a crouch, one arm extended, patiently tracking with the body as it landed and rolled, before he fired, hitting it squarely in the chest as required.

In the same instant, Buck turned from the goon he had taken out and fired a series of shots at the third.

The whole time, the two kids from the anthropology team remained on the ground. One passed out, the other flinching every time a shot went off or a body collapsed. Buck couldn't even guess what a mad house this must be for them. The conscious one gained the courage enough to look up at him with reddened, tearing eyes, lower lip trembling.

Yeah, kid, I know, it's scary as hell.

The din of battle began to ebb, the snarling, wildcat cries of the creatures fading out, while the sound of gunfire scattered over the area grew sparse. A few final shots echoed from the north where Vin had gone. Then one more sounded from the south, where Ezra stood out on his own, gun arm extended and angled downward as he made sure the goon didn't get back up out of the grass. Buck fired a few more into the closest bodies to make sure their hearts were pierced, then gradually full silence descended.

Soon came the singing of metal as Vin drew his machete and began to handle the rest. The others who carried blades drew them as well, Josiah his wakasashi, Nathan a kopesh-type blade he had designed himself.

Buck could see them out in the grass, leaning over to hack with their blades. Ezra roamed the area he'd taken, double-checking for more enemy movement, while Chris turned and plowed back toward the cairns. J.D. wiped blood from his cheek and gave an instinctive snarl down at the goon that had been on top of him. Buck looked over their contorted faces, their open mouths crowded with fangs, and swallowed an angry lump as he waited for Chris to approach.

"Any sign of her?" Chris asked as he strolled down the slop, holstering his guns and reattaching a few of his spent clips to his belt to be refilled later. His coat trailed behind him, presenting the illusion of dark wings folded at his back.

"Nope," Buck said.

J.D. scanned across the three who had targeted him. One body closer to him, another over there, sprawled, enough bullets in its chest to open up a gaping cavity. "No sign of her," he called, "'cept for these three."

"Yep," Buck said to that and explained to Chris. "They came after J.D. fast and hard, coordinated. Might have actually gotten at him."

Chris' liquid-green eyes only alighted on one body for a moment, as he stood quiet, shoulders relaxing slowly, before he turned his full attention on the two youths on the ground. "What happened to that one?" he asked, gesturing at the blond, who lay on his side, head lolling awkwardly on his neck.

"Fainted," Buck said and chuckled dryly. "Sometimes it is a survival instinct."

"Yeah, like a possum playin' dead on the road," J.D. retorted. "I think he hit his head, he's been out a good while."

Buck gave him a glower and looked at the other kid, who was slowly beginning to emerge from his huddle. He slid his gun into its holster and cocked his head as he looked down and relaxed his weight on one hip. "You all right?" he asked more gently.

Brown eyes looked up at him from under dark brows, and slowly the youth dropped his hands away from the sides of his head. His mouth moved, trying to form a full word, but all that came out was a distressed, "Uh huh."

"What're we gonna do with you?" Buck whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

"You take care of it," Chris commanded.

Buck looked up at his friend and lover with a pleading glaze in his eyes. A 'God, don't make me do this' look that literally sent ice shards into Chris' being, but it wasn't enough to make him change his mind. The leader of the Seven turned away casually and walked back out into the grasses to investigate further.

With a sigh, Buck reached out a hand. "Here, let me help you up." He gave a casual nod to the other boy. "Your friend there, I'm sure he'll be okay, but we gotta getcha both out of here. Understand?"

The kid nodded, and the confusion and fear in his eyes began to melt away. Buck could see the questions beginning to pile up in that young mind. As soon as the kid took his hand, he acted. . . quickly, before any of those questions could be organized and vocalized. With sudden force, Buck pulled the kid up off the ground into an unsteady stance and grabbed both shoulders, clamped down and held him, looking directly into his eyes. It took a lot of effort to wade past the other's free will, to break in there without a blood link to guide him, but Buck gritted his teeth and persisted. That, and the fact Buck hated doing it. It was worse than rape, he thought, this violation of a young mind, and he and Chris both had the experience to support that analogy.

The boy was initially captured by fascination with the two embers that peered from within Buck's pupils. He gaped, eyes widening while his brows furrowed, and Buck could easily see that the kid's rational mind was trying to figure this out. But such fascination left him vulnerable, and he opened up, accepting. . .

"What's your name?" Buck asked in an alluring croon.

"B-B-Boyd," the boy rasped. "John Boyd."

"Well, John Boyd, this is what happened," Buck replied, never breaking eye contact. "You and your friend came out here to dig up graves illegally. You encountered a couple of biker gangs having a brawl, but you don’t know if anyone got hurt. You and your friend got to your car and drove off, and that's all you remember. You will not try to come back here again."

Brown eyes plastered to glowing blue ones, Boyd nodded, mouth bobbing open as some part of him in there still wanted to ask questions.

"Dream," Buck said, projecting images of a highway in the headlights, of the upper curve of a steering wheel turning in anxious hands. Of racing away from something frightening, but which, to John Boyd, now had a completely human and normal explanation. Buck reached up, traced fingertips down over the youth's eyelids, and sent him into a deep sleep. The second he let go of Boyd's mind, Buck wavered, tried not to drop the kid completely as he eased him to the ground and fought a wave of dizziness. He felt absolutely vile. . . disgusting. Couldn't clean himself out enough if he drank bleach. As if the others didn't know it enough already from previous experiences, he vocalized his feelings. "God, I hate that."

"I know," J.D. said softly from where he stood behind the taller man, watching the whole thing. "But you're the charming one, Buck." His eyes lit up, warm, comforting. It was all the kid could really offer at the moment, and Buck appreciated every bit of it.

"Feels more like scarin' it into 'em than mesmerism." Buck clenched both hands to his temples, pressed in and massaged in slow circles. "Okay," he said after a moment. "Guess it's up to you and me to get these two out of here." He knelt and patted around John Boyd's jeans pockets until he heard something clink. Reaching in awkwardly, he turned the pocket inside out and came up with a set of car keys, which he dangled in the air. "You drive 'em, I'll follow?"

J.D. nodded and gave an understanding smile. "You mean you don't want to ride my rice rocket back?" he asked to lighten things up.

Buck laughed hollowly and tossed the keys to his companion. "Kid, I got my own rocket," he teased back.

They called over for some help from Vin before they began to get the two humans rounded up and down to their car. As for the rest of the clean up. . . well, Buck figured, the others had always been better at that.

-7-7-7-

Shadows in black BDUs and combat boots, Shaw and Kilroy lay stretched out and prone, bellies uncomfortably flattened to the uneven, rocky, ground. Their heads were barely raised so that they could peer over the ridge and into the valley below and the small plateau marked with seven cairns above the dig site. Night scopes cupped over their eyes, they observed and reported the scene to Gentry and Reeves, who were planted just below them, listening to the distant gunfire.

Shaw switched out his infrared scope for a heavy set of thermal imaging binoculars. It was interesting to see the change in view, as the thermals revealed all active bodies down in the valley almost matched the temperature of the surrounding air. They were hard to see and blended in with the landscape, which—to the thermal eye—appeared in shades of cool blue, and only movement gave the fighting figures away. But then there were the two human anthropology students, whose bodies glowed in bands of hot orange, red, and yellow. It was a good sign. . . the kids were alive, even if they weren't moving, but what was going on down there made no sense at all.

"Why the hell are they killing their own kind?" Shaw asked in a hush-hush tone. He lowered the thermal binoculars and looked down over his shoulder at Gentry, giving a low signal for the other man to crawl up to the ridge and join him and Kilroy.

Elbows and belly scuffling over the ground, Gentry eased his way up, took the binoculars from Shaw, and squinted through them. "So what do we have, exactly?"

Kilroy shook his head in disbelief. "Seven masters killing off some thirty goons."

"Holy fuckin' shit, you're kidding me." Gentry urgently went for the infrared scope lying beside Shaw and took a clearer look. He whistled softly to himself at the activity and suggested with a mixed tone of confusion and sarcasm, "Maybe it's vampire survival of the fittest?"

"You're forgetting something," Shaw said dryly, looking at them both, his almond shaped green eyes clear in the moonlight. "They're using bullets."

Gentry lowered the scope, frowning, while Kilroy continued his watch.

"What are you wankers gabbin' about?" Reeves hissed from his lower point.

Shaw eased himself down from the ridge and rolled onto his side, propped on one elbow, and looked thoughtfully at his teammate. "The Italian knew those kids were going in there," he stated with agitation. "He knew and didn't do a damned thing to stop them."

"You're still bothered by that human bait thing, Shaw?" Gentry grumped. "Fucking get over it."

"Fuck you," Shaw hissed. "I didn't join this mob to sacrifice lives. We're trying to stop a plague here, not spread it around."

"We play human bait all the time," Kilroy said, half serious, half teasing, and completely as unnerved by the concept as Shaw was.

"You know what I mean," Shaw argued. "And this group that supposedly contacted us, the Clarion Group?" He leaned down further, voice rising to a fully suspicious sharpness. "Why the hell aren't they here? We should be joining forces."

"Doesn’t look like we need them, considering," Gentry remarked, throwing another look down into the valley.

Shaw nodded. "Maybe they're just masters cleaning up their mess," he thought aloud then added again, "but they're using bullets, for Christ sakes."

"Bullets don't do a damned sight of good," Kilroy agreed. He patted the little gauntlet of mini crossbow bolts strapped to his arm.

An uncomfortable silence ensnared the hunter unit and they looked over at the grouping of vehicles at the bottom of the ridge, far enough off the main road not to be seen and yet still within partial view of Four Corners. On the other side of the ridge, the sound of gunfire began to die down. Shaw and Kilroy went back to the watch, while Gentry slithered back down the rise and joined Reeves to go make a minor report to The Italian and the rest of the unit.

They were all working out of the open back of the Humvee, using tiny flashlights to go over maps of the area, including the ghost town and every minor road in and out. The priest, Ives, was tucked inside the Humvee's rear passenger space and occupied for the most part with older documents concerning theories on the origins of vampires.

Reeves gave the general report, particularly noting the confusion over seven master vampires shooting down a small hoard of goons. He half sat against the corner of rear bumper and craned his head up to see over The Italian's arm as the quiet man studied an old, yellowed map that Reeves didn't remember seeing before. "Hey, Boss, where'd you get that?"

The leader didn't so much as raise his dark, hooded eyes from the aged parchment. In this lighting, his olive skin had paled out, while the starkness of black eyes and hair rendered him as deadly in appearance as the creatures he hunted. "An old associate," he said, his deep, rolling accent expressing patience. Then it seemed, suddenly, that he looked up, gazing briefly past the rear window of the Humvee's open right door at an almost perfect shot of the south end of Four Corners. Even from here, the blocky shapes of the buildings and their surviving false fronts were clear, defined by an ever-lightening sky as the moon sank lower.

Reeves had to wonder how The Italian's concentration had broken so easily. Perhaps he had heard something out there, and that put Reeves on edge. "What is it?"

"Niènte." The murky eyes rolled back down to full attention on the map. One fingertip gently circled a northern section of the map as if he were actually enjoying the texture of the paper. "There's what we're looking for, gentlemen," he said with a pleased purr.

Standing off from The Italian's right shoulder, Dobson took glimpses at the map, and then threw a look across at Reeves. "Sounds like the shooting's over," he stated. Then he turned at the sound of feet crunching softly closer.

Kilroy and Shaw had gathered all of the scopes and any other gear they'd had up on the ridge and brought it with them.

"They're done down there," Kilroy announced. "Those seven. . . some of them loaded those kids up in the car. One drove out, another went over the far ridge; might have another vehicle parked back there somewhere; would be why we didn't hear them actually come in."

Then as if to verify the report, the hush of tires on the main highway issued from the distance, coming around the ridge and then zooming past the hunters' location. There were no headlights on, but the low moon cast a quick glint of a reflection off the silvery hood of the VW bug.

The Italian immediately began to roll up the old map, his hands almost working on their own. "You two," he indicated Shaw and Kilroy. "You follow that car, keep a safe distance. See where they go. It's almost day-break."

"But, Sir, those kids," Shaw started. "If they've been bitten—“

"Then you know what to do," The Italian replied, completely unconcerned. He held up the roll in his hand. "We've got a location on a possible nest. It's the only place they can go if not to ground."

"What about the town?" Dobson asked. "There has to be some old root cellars down there, places like that."

"It's sacred ground to them," The Italian replied knowingly. "They won't stay there."

"How do you know that?" Shaw asked.

The question didn't even merit a glare, nor even an impatient sigh, from the leader. "Take care of the kids," The Italian reiterated more strongly. Then he turned away, snatching the infrared scope out of Kilroy's hand as he went, and strolled with utter confidence up toward the ridge.

"The hell is he doing?" Kilroy hissed.

In a moment, the black-clad figure stood practically at the top of the ridge. It didn't mean he was in complete and plain sight to the remaining five masters who were working below. But it was still a ballsy risk the rest of the unit frowned upon, even if none of them lifted a finger of warning. The Italian raised the scope to his eye and peered down into the shallow valley.

"I really don't like that man," Shaw murmured to himself, glaring at the strong-shouldered figure poised as if he gave a shit about nothing.

And apparently, he didn't.

Kilroy swallowed and glanced back toward the road where the VW had driven past. Suddenly he reached out and gripped Shaw's elbow and squeezed. "Listen," he hissed.

They all cocked their heads and quieted. Inside the Humvee, Ives lifted his head in curiosity, looking out at the other five members of the unit, and frowned as he strained to hear it too.

It was like wind at first, the sound, then it grew into more of a grating roar, clearly the sound of some large two-wheeled vehicle. It cleared the highway around the ridge and zoomed closer, growing louder, and like the car that had gone before, there were no headlights blazing through the night.

Still holding his own infrared scope, Shaw hurriedly raised it and looked out in time to see the vague shape of a man sitting up in the saddle of a motorcycle. "That's right, you don't need headlights, do you," Shaw murmured casually. He recognized the master vampire as the tall one who had lingered near the two humans, almost as if watching over them, during the goon foray. He turned with the scope, tracking the vehicle's speeding path and happened to note a soft breeze as it caressed his sandy hair. "Glad we're down wind," he stated.

More than a few brows went up at that.

Chapter Nineteen

Dawn light found Shaw, Kilroy, and Reeves inspecting the silver VW out on the side of the road half way to Silver City. They weren't sure at which point it had been pulled over, only that the two kids were in it. Alive, out cold, and both situated in the front seats. No way they could have driven all the way out here in their condition. Back on the ridge looking into the Four Corners valley, the hunters had seen through their scopes that the youngest looking of the seven masters had gotten into the driver's side and taken the car out of the vicinity. The master who followed on a motorcycle must have picked him up later, after they left the car. By now those two were well hidden away somewhere.

Shaw wandered along the quiet roadside scanning the pavement for any possible clues of what direction they'd taken: tread marks, an oil drip, anything. . . He turned to face east where the sun had risen from murky orange, up into full white brilliance against a soft blue sky mildly patched with hazy clouds. The disk appeared to be directly over a series of hazy hills, and here and there the silhouettes of saguaro cacti rose from the desert floor like three-fingered hands reaching for Heaven. The whole was peaceful, a rare comfort to be enjoyed.

Several yards back down the road, Kilroy and Reeves had the two young men up and walking about, both groggy, their shirts removed. Shaw shook his head and gave a grunt of irritation as he watched Reeves throw a dirty white tee at the blond kid.

"Put it back on," the hunter said in resignation, satisfied that there were obviously no bite marks or scratches. Not even a skinned elbow. At most, the blond had a goose egg behind one ear that must hurt like a bitch and needed to be iced, but otherwise. . .

The blond's soft brows knitted and he wiped at his eyes. "I'm tellin' you, I don't remember any more than that," he mumbled, finishing with his vague recount of what had happened.

"They were just bikers," the other kid said and scratched at his cap of dark hair. "I think anyway. . . a lot of black leather. . ."

Kilroy reached up and gave him a careful examination around the neck. "You're sure?" he asked. "They didn't do anything, um. . . profane?"

Shaw tried not to cringe at Kilroy's choice of words.

"Like what?" the blond asked as he pulled his shirt back down over his head.

"Like bite you, scratch you?"

"Looked like they were too busy fighting each other," the dark haired one replied and sniffled back the morning congestion resulting from what had obviously been a long night for him. He didn't seem to have even registered Kilroy's complete question. "Seriously though, I was scared shitless." He held up one hand and gazed at it, observing how it shook. "Damn," he whispered and allowed Kilroy to tilt his head back in the other direction. "What is it you said we coulda been exposed to?"

"You don't wanna know," the hunter replied. "Besides, looks like you're okay." He gave the kid a casual pat on the shoulder and handed his shirt back.

Shaw had been a vampire hunter for three years now, which was a decent running time, really, but never had he encountered anything like this. . . victims who had gotten out alive, intact, still human. Something here was too fucked up for words. Generally, these two young men should not be standing here talking. They should be dead. . . throats ripped out, blood drained. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the R-T off his utility belt and zoned out the loose discussion still going on. The little speaker spit static as he hit the send button with his thumb and lifted the unit to his mouth.

"Lone Wolf to Alpha, you read me?"

There was a pause before The Italian's voice crackled back. "Go ahead."

"We've found the two kids, checked them over. No scratches or bites."

The silence that followed did not bode well. Shaw frowned, eyes roaming back toward the climbing sun. A locust burst into full symphonic buzzing somewhere out in the sands and grasses, forcing Shaw to stick a finger in one ear and press the speaker closer to the other.

"Alpha?"

"Take care of it."

What did that mean? "Sir, there's nothing more we need to do here," he said, unnerved. "They're not infected."

"You can't be sure."

Shaw tried not to clench his teeth as he replied, "Yes, Sir."

"When you're finished, report to the rendezvous point. We have a bead on the nest."

"Really?" Shaw asked, arching one brow. "Any sign of that other motorcycle?"

"Si, and four others."

The R-T spit static again, and Shaw pulled it back a little, wincing. "All right, we'll be there in," he checked his watch, "thirty."

"Right. Out."

Slowly the sound of youthful chatter began to come back, melting into Shaw's ears as he pulled his hands away and focused over the persistent insect. They were just kids, for crying out loud. Grad students with everything to live for. And they were not infected. He was sure of that. Reeves and Kilroy had convinced them that they might have contacted a virus that would already be showing signs via rash on the body. The two were so out of it with fatigue that they had bought the story and cooperated. Being yanked from your car by a team of commandos in armored Jeeps tended to convince one of anything. Hooking the R-T back onto his belt, Shaw turned and strolled back to the car.

"So," Kilroy called over to him, "what's the plan?"

Thank God for that noisy little locust. The others hadn't heard a thing. Shaw took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out with the casual order:

"Let 'em go."

At that, he knew he'd be handing in his resignation soon.

-7-7-7-

Don't be afraid. . .

The voice touched Chris' mind on the edge of a dream, causing him first to twitch in his sleep. He struggled up to the lower levels of consciousness, registering Buck's shoulder serving as his pillow. The man lying alongside him was completely motionless, not breathing, and alarming though that stillness had been in the early days, now it was nothing. He automatically acknowledged this false death and the preternatural heartbeat beneath it. Then Chris started to sink back into his own dark nether regions, breath fading.

Don't be afraid, and don't fight. . .

"Ella!" he hissed, snapping to. His shallow gasp echoed within the little rocky nook that he and Buck had chosen for their bed. Her voice had been so clear just then, and frighteningly close. He cast it away by focusing on where he really was. . . here, tucked against his blood host and lover on the floor of the old mineshaft. . . camping out with the bats that clutched up in various corners throughout the entire underground stretch.

The Seven had all known that there would be no getting back to the ranch in time, so that left the old mineshaft north of Four Corners. It had become their back up shelter several times in the past, but this time was different. They'd never been forced into it under such duress as this morning, following the one-sided shootout. Buck and J.D. had returned in time to join them, reporting that they'd left the two young men from the dig site in their car on the side of the road.

As Chris remembered all of this and registered his surroundings, shaking the grogginess of sleep off, he glanced around, saw J.D. curled against the wall in a nearby corner. Nathan, Josiah, and Ezra had all gone deeper into the tunnel, while Vin had staked out a niche closer to the opening, acting as something of a sentry.

The most comforting thing about this place was the darkness, for at this time of day, their minds became terribly aware of the light outside and what it could do to them. It was like having a precise internal clock that told them when those rays were tolerable and when they were deadly.

Safety assured, Chris looked down at Buck, who faced up into the rocky ceiling, eyes closed peacefully, his thick wavy hair spilling back from his temples and forehead. Chris' gaze intensified as it roamed over the soft rise of Buck's cheek, then down into the hollow right above the jaw line, then around to the mouth and lips that were not exactly voluminous but still well molded. And that little dip there on the upper lip. Without thinking Chris slipped a fingertip into it, caressed gently.

Buck didn't so much as stir.

Chris stared, recalling how there had once been a lush mustache covering that little bowl. It was in the first year of change that Buck had lost a bet with Ezra and had to shave it off. He bitched and moaned at first, and then it occurred to him that going clean-shaven made feeding much less messy. It had been another lesson for all of the Seven, actually, as they learned more about their new bodies and the best methods of survival. They found out that certain aspects of their human physicality did not change. They didn’t age, but their hair still grew, whiskers and all. Eating food was impossible, but they could still drink almost anything within reason and piss it right back out. Their bodies seemed lighter, yet were more corded and much stronger than they had been as humans. A lot of new discoveries were made along with that damned mustache getting shaved.

Amused at this recollection though he was, Chris suddenly found himself frowning, overwhelmed with a strange sadness as he examined the upward sweep of the sleeping man's eyelashes. Without the mustache, Buck looked younger, especially with his eyes closed. Once opened, those eyes revealed his true age with their storms of warmth and hardness battling in that sapphire hue.

Gorgeous.

Buck. . . Chris gritted his teeth at the continued inner bombardment. . . Buck. . . who had been propping him up all this time. It seemed to be growing ever more unfair, and the humiliation of the situation. . . well, that was another matter. Buck never spoke of it, sparing Chris any reminders of what it did to his pride. Chris sighed and laid his head back down against the other's shoulder, unable to really determine where this rush of emotion came from, but at least he was certain it was his own. Maybe it was that face before him, so still and closed to the world, hiding everything inside that made Buck so special, all the things that Chris realized he had never actually acknowledged, that he took for granted. Hell, Buck never indicated that he wanted those things to be acknowledged, and. . .

Fuck me, Chris thought, it was so frightening to even think about it, let alone vocalize gratitude.

God, he so wanted to be able to cut Buck loose. Let the man be free of this shackling responsibility. Chris' eyes examined the upward jut of Buck's chin, and then roamed down to the extended neck and Adam's apple. Would be easier if Buck complained now and then. But a complainer. . . Buck was never that. Maybe about his once-beloved mustache, but not about things that really mattered.

Damn you, Buck.

Chris brought his hand down from its gentle probe of that mouth and laid it on Buck's chest. He closed his eyes and listened to the heartbeat. . . never changing. . . forever caught in the same undying rhythm.

Ga-gong. . . . ga-gong. . . ga-gong. . .

Swept up somewhere in the river of that rhythm, Chris went back to sleep.

When next he awoke, he found himself alone, one cheek to the ground. Buck was gone, and over in the corner there. . . J.D. was gone too. His senses told him that dusk had arrived and it was safe to go outside, but he couldn't imagine Buck leaving with such urgency as to dump him on his face. Unless, Chris figured, he hadn't been dumped but laid on his side, and from there managed to roll into the awkward position in which he now found himself. He was huddled in a partial fetal curl, the tails of his long coat strewn over the ground behind him and thoroughly embedded with dust. Probably got some bat shit on him too.

"Buck?" he called, voice as crusty as an old crow's caw.

The mineshaft returned a hollow echo, but no one actually answered him. He cleared his throat and looked around, sniffing the air for the familiar scents of the others. Vin's earthiness. . . Ezra's cologne. . . these aromas lingered along with other recognizable odors like gun oil and the charcoal used in fashioning ammunition. But those last two usually weren't so strong unless they had been in immediate use.

Frowning deeply, Chris got to his knees and listened to a mournful wind howl around the opening of the shaft.

"Buck!" he called more loudly. Then, "Vin!" He waited a moment, and when he once more heard nothing, he began to walk up toward the opening, easing his way around some of the rockier areas that had, in their day, occurred from blast zones. The others must all be outside, he figured, and damn it, how had he managed to sleep in? Why hadn't Buck awakened him sooner? Had they been back at the ranch house, he might have understood, but he didn't exactly appreciate being left in a grimy old tunnel. Buck, and anyone standing within the vicinity of him, would soon get a good tearing of a new one, and. . .

Then the new smell hit him.

Chris stopped and took a deeper breath, analyzing a distinct pungency that he recognized from a long time ago. The charred, smoky scent outweighed the worst of it, but beneath that wafted a dryness, like dead leaves, earthy, stale. . .

He remembered it from as far back as his human life. . . returning from Mexico that day. . .

Before he caught it, a murmur of protest to the scent issued from his throat, weak and pitiful. His feet practically began to walk on their own, then picked up pace, hurrying toward the mouth. He passed through a thin veil of smoke near the opening, and then he was out in the night, looking at a horizon of mountain ridge and sky. The landscape seemed a blend of lavender and gray, cool and motionless, the desert transformed into an arctic region before his eyes as he looked down and saw them there.

Nothing left but remotely human-shaped chunks of crackling charcoal and some ashes shifted by the wind. Unable to move at first, Chris found his eyes darting from one to the other, unconsciously counting.

One. . . two. . . These were closer to the mouth of the mineshaft, just at his feet. Three. . . four. . . five. . . Chris felt as if his tongue swelled in his mouth and his throat tightened. The fifth one had to be J.D., the mass of ashes and fragmented bones looked so small; so much of it had been blown away that what was left barely constituted the remains of a child. And then. . .

Six.

Chris stumbled awkwardly forward, past the other bodies. Almost everything was so burned that he couldn't recognize one from the other. Only a turquoise ring lying where a hand had been told him that one was Ezra. And that one over there. . . might be Vin. The three larger forms. . . he couldn't tell for sure. . . couldn't. . .

Chris collapsed to his knees before the nearest one, mouth forming a name for it. Whether it was Nathan, or Josiah, or Buck, it served as a proxy for only one of them. Little ribbons of smoke still curled up out of the ashes, the overall form suggesting that the body had fallen forward, one arm pinned beneath it, while the other reached out across the ground.

How had they gotten out here and left him inside?

The only words that Chris could think of were, Too late. He reached out, hand hovering in the air, before he plunged his spread fingers into the smoldering remains and pulled up a handful of hot ash. A chip of bone, probably from a rib, shifted to the top of the little pile in his palm.

"Ahhhh. . ." he groaned, watching pieces of black and dust stream through his fingers. "God. . . no. . ." His eyes burned, but he felt too dried out for tears. As if his own body had burned with those of the other six, and there was nothing left to give.

How could they have gone without him?

He shuddered, knees rooted into the ground. His other hand dove into the pile and came up, fingers curling to contain the ashes, soot digging under his nails and in the creases of his knuckles. Dry sobs racked his frame, and he gritted his teeth, canines extending to the extreme that they cut into his lower gums.

Paralyzed-scared-angry-hopeless. . . he felt a hand descend on his shoulder and knew without looking who stood behind him.

Chris, it's over.

Her voice was all around him, inside him. He wanted to vomit, expel her from his mind and body. . . from his blood. . .

"You bitch. . ."

It's time to stop playing this game.

"You go to hell. . ."

He felt her thumb waver back and forth in a casual caress and for all that he hated her so much, he couldn't bring himself to stand, turn around, and confront her.

"How. . ." he coughed out pitifully. "How did this hap. . . pen?" Saliva amassed in the corners of his mouth and spilt past his teeth, over his lips, and dripped down his chin.

You destroyed them, Chris. You brought this on your friends.

He realized it wasn't just her presence at his back that he felt. It was all around him, ushering in the scent of blood and jasmine. If the tears would only fall, he would be free. They would wash him out of this hell. If only. . .

If only. . .

You can't keep me out, Chris. You never could.

If only he'd told Buck. . .

If only. . .

Chris leaned back into the hand on his shoulder, tilted his face toward the violet sky, and roared out his pain.

-7-7-7-

"Would you fucking snap out of it, already!"

Buck Wilmington had not been this scared in a very long time. Clutching Chris' shoulders, he gave a desperate shake, causing the seizing man's head to loll from side to side. Chris mumbled something unintelligible and coughed, sending out a spray of spit and blood; he'd bitten his tongue, released a free flow of red-black that spilled out of his mouth. Buck cupped at a tightly clenched chin and angled Chris' face toward his own, finding the eyes partially open, rolling up and back, lids fluttering. This degree of seizure had never happened before. Not like this, so violent and consuming.

And never in the middle of a fight.

It was Vin's agony-laden scream that had announced the arrival of the chaos. Buck startled out of his sleep to find Chris already caught in the throws, turned on his side and curled up, little choking noises and gurgles his only means of telling Buck that he was falling into an abyss and was going to need some serious help climbing back out.

Not now! Buck thought. NOT NOW!!! He started to shake Chris one more time and was then forced to drop the man as a beam of light flashed across his position, prompting him into new action.

Hunters.

Buck glimpsed the figure in black past the glaring utility light rigged to the underside of the massive crossbow the hunter was carrying. He ducked and dove forward, head on into the hunter. Both went staggering up against the far wall where Buck heard a pained, "Oomph!" come out of the figure. The impact caused the man to incidentally squeeze the trigger on the weapon, and with a solid twang the bolt released to sing through the air and slam into the opposing rock wall where it splintered into two neatly ricocheting pieces that left a trail of steel cable in the dirt.

Even while in motion, Buck remained aware of Chris, helpless on the floor. He caught sight of J.D. moving in, forming a guard against the entry into the nook where Chris huddled, but this only disturbed Buck more. As if J.D. couldn't take care of himself these days, he started worrying about the kid's life too. Before Buck could even think twice about it, the beast was out, fangs budding to full length, claws extending. He grabbed the hunter by the shoulders and spun out, slinging the man deeper into the mineshaft where he hit the wall and slumped to the ground stunned. The empty crossbow clattered to the stone. Freed of this first obstacle, Buck poised, half crouched and ready to spring at the next.

The commotion had already brought Nathan, Josiah, and Ezra from the back of the shaft. It took a matter of seconds to assess the situation, that there were five hunters in all, and likely more outside. The Seven knew the methods the hunters were using, and that gave them some preparation. It was the sight of Vin Tanner that halted them for a millisecond, chilled by the wild, frantic and yet savage shrieks issuing from his throat. Ezra took two anxious steps closer before he was forced to dodge an attack.

Having found a comfortable spot against a ledge in the wall, that formed a natural chair, Vin had finally dozed off, lulled by the hazy light he could see from this angle on the shaft's opening. At first the titanium spearhead hadn't even hurt. He heard it pierce his lower belly before he actually felt it. One side of the blade was edged with a series of graduated barbs, ensuring that the weapon snagged itself securely inside him. It was when the hunter started to lever up on the spear's long pole, tearing up through intestine to get the point under his rib cage and into his heart, that Vin cried out. One hand reached down and grabbed the handle at the base of the spearhead, preventing it from moving, while the other hand lashed out with sharp talons, attempting to reach the other end of the pole.

The hunter hissed an unintelligible curse through his gritted teeth, and sweat beaded on his brow, leaked down around his eyes. The smell of salt and pumping blood grew strong around him.

Vin bared his teeth, a viper-like hiss emanating from deep inside him, before he got full hold on the spearhead with both hands, and turned, forcing the pole out of his assailant's hands. But the pain grew blinding, and before Vin could pull the point all the way out, the hunter had a grip on the pole again, pushing it sideways.

"Aaaaaaahhhh! God!"

Strength threatening to flee him completely, Vin fought against the path into which he was being forced, straight for the shaft opening and the ray of brilliant sunlight that would scorch his life away. He kicked, lashed out with one hand again while the other grasped at the wall. Talon tips found tiny crags to hook into, anchoring him from being pulled into the light.

Nathan and Josiah vouched to go for their guns, as did J.D.. But before any shots were fired, Josiah took a bolt to the right shoulder. It embedded with a firm thunk, and partially immobilized his joint. The big preacher cried out and immediately reached up to grasp at the arrow shaft protruding from his flesh, while awkwardly holding onto his gun. A small blotch of red began to spread out from the entry point, staining his poncho.

The hunter who fired the bolt dropped his spent crossbow, raised an R-T to his mouth and shouted, "Go-go-go!"

"Shit!" Nathan hissed, diving for Josiah as the cable line attached to the bolt pulled taut.

Josiah fell over, rolled onto his back, and went sliding across the floor, hands flailing to find some solid rock to grab onto. In a moment he would be mere feet away from the sun's rays.

They knew the line ran outside, where it was attached to one of the hunters' vehicles. It was a very similar method to that which Michael Arrant had told them about all those years ago. The vehicle was either being backed up away from the shaft or the line was being spooled onto a rig mounted on the bumper. Nathan had already drawn his gun, making it awkward as hell when he managed to tackle Josiah's leg. The former healer was pulled along with the preacher, shouting for help at the same time he extended his arm and began to fire the Beretta at the line ahead, hoping to sever it.

Meanwhile, Buck bared his teeth as he stampeded forward, reaching out for the next hunter to pass his way. This man wielded a spear like the one that was lodged in Vin's gut. Buck slashed out with one hand while sweeping the other down and forward, catching the pole just past the spearhead against his wrist as he circled his arm outward, creating an opening to slip past the point of the weapon. The slashing hand came down close to the hunter's face, but with trained nimbleness the man veered sideways and Buck's strike merely swept at empty air.

The hunter turned back to face his opponent full on. His eyes narrowed with fury, changing from brown to black. Hunter and vampire stared at each other for a split second that could have been its own eternity, and then gradually Buck's brow furrowed and the blaze in his eyes grew.

The Italian, Buck thought, recognizing the other's face from a thumbnail he'd seen on Nathan's computer.

"Bastardo," the hunter snarled back and started to bring the spear back around for another slash.

Buck smoothly slid his gun out of its holster, raised and leveled it almost at point blank with the hunter's nose. "Hey, I take that personally," he said under his breath.

It gave The Italian cause to freeze, backing up a step before Buck moved in and back handed him. The man dropped the spear and went spinning, landing up against a boulder where he remained stunned for a moment before shaking it off and turning to face his enemy. His hands clenched in the air, but he dared make no move while facing down the barrel of Buck's Beretta. Out of the corner of his eye, Buck also kept sight of Nathan and Josiah's struggles with the towline dragging them both toward final death.

"J.D.!"

The kid sprang out of the cubby where he had been guarding Chris, and scrambled after the two on the ground.

"Hurry!" Nathan shouted, his amber eyes aglow as he saw J.D. arriving just in time. The graphite rounds weren't enough to destroy the line. They could pierce flesh and bone, but they were too soft against the steel cable. "J.D., my blade!"

J.D. slid into first beside Nathan, reached down to the black man's hip and drew the kopesh. The metal rang as it unsheathed, and J.D. raised the blade high. He got his feet beneath him, and sprang over the two struggling men. Josiah managed to claw at and snag one of the old support beams in the mine wall, and with brute strength and strained tears, managed to stall against the pull. J.D. brought the blade down on the cable, hacking it completely in two. The exodus into the daylight ended completely, and Josiah groaned relief as the pulling on his injured arm stopped. While Nathan helped Josiah up, J.D. turned one of his Berettas on the hunter who had fired the bolt.

"Freeze, asshole," the kid ordered and then grinned when it got results. He'd always wanted to say that.

Still caught on the spear's end and now being levered up the wall, Vin had ceased with the harsh shrieks as he focused on getting free. His jaw clenched and pale lips curled back over fangs glistening with saliva. He grabbed for his belt and got a hold on his gun, dislodging one of his spare ammo clips in the process. He started to raise the Berretta on his attacker, but his hand shook too much. Couldn't get past the pain. Couldn't think around his instincts, which were to keep clawing and gnashing his teeth until something gave. Shards of red crept into his eyes as his pupils constricted and he became too aware of how close the light was. No time for regrets, or fear, or sorrow. No time for anything.

Then a new shout carried over all others, closing the distance from the deeper shaft toward the opening. Ezra's steps pounded the floor as he worked up ramming speed. To Vin it seemed the conman appeared out of nowhere, slamming into the side of the hunter on the other end of the spear. The hunter let go and both went rolling dangerously close to the light. The tension on the spear released, Vin slid down the wall, groaning as he gripped the section of blade protruding out of his belly and tried to pull it out. He could imagine the tip in there right under his heart, the point teasing with deadly sharpness at the beating organ.

Ezra rolled up on top of the figure in black, straddled him, and began to deliver a series of punches that tossed the hunter's face from one side to the other. A splat of blood trailed across the ground from the man's nose.

"Ezra!" Nathan shouted and came forward to grab him by the arms and pull him back to safety.

The hunter glimpsed the blazing green eyes boring into him, reddened around the edges and angry. Ezra was hardly aware of the shaft of sunbeam that fell across the hunter's face. Every time one of his fists came down, it grazed the light and burned, knuckles charring and smoking. The human tried to shove Ezra off, but when that didn't work, he folded his arms over his head for protection.

"Ez. . .ra. . ." Vin grated as he managed to get his knees awkwardly under him and sat on his haunches with the spear still dangling out of him. The far end of the pole sketched random patterns in the dust at his slightest movement. "Ezra. . . stop. . ."

And then he was looking up into the face of another hunter.

A pair of gray eyes smoldered down at Vin, and slowly the hunter raised a miniature crossbow, much like the ones the Seven used as backup on their own hunts.

Vin still grimaced, baring his teeth. His eyes paled to ice, his pupils narrowing to fine points as he focused first on the very tip point of the arrow with his name on it. Then out of his lower peripheral vision, he noticed the hunter had come to stand with a foot to either side of the spear pole.

"Ezra, for fuck's sake!" Josiah's voice came from somewhere, and Vin could still hear the sound of fists hitting jawbone. "They're human. . . we can't. . ."

This had all happened so fast, Vin considered in that moment, and he found it suddenly funny as hell that Ezra had saved his life. Ezra who should be seriously hating him right now.

Not to mention, in the hundred and twenty-five years that they had been roaming, never had they managed to get themselves in a situation like this. Seven against five, and he had managed to get a glimpse outside where a priest—defined by his black uniform and white collar—and another hunter stood near a line of dust-blotched black vehicles. That made it seven against seven. Both teams on the same side but still beating the crap out of each other.

His eyes shifted, moving from the point on the bolt and over the hand, up the arm to the face, and back to those gray eyes. From deeper in the mine, Buck cursed and shouted at Chris to snap out of it, while splitting his attention to keep The Italian at gunpoint. J.D. kept his gun focused on the hunter who had tried to target Josiah. Nathan dragged a kicking, cursing, angry conman off a very bloody-nosed hunter.

And look at me, on my knees about to take an arrow between the eyes.

With that, the wounded tracker began to laugh with morbid glee. He couldn't help himself, and had no idea where it came from. It bubbled up out of him, grating and shaky like a sick old toad, and it hurt like hellfire in his belly when he shook like that.

The sound drew attention from the others, including the murky-eyed leader of the hunters. From Buck, who was now scooping up a shivering but unconscious Chris Larabee in his arms; from J.D. who was ushering his hunter toward the mouth of the shaft with one gun and covering The Italian with the other for Buck; from Josiah who tolerated the bolt still lodged in his shoulder while keeping his firearm trained to back up J.D.; and utmost from Ezra, who stopped fighting Nathan and let the hunter he had pummeled crawl out into the safety of daylight. They all frowned, both parties perplexed.

"What the fuck is so funny?" the hunter demanded, waggling the tip of the bolt back and forth before Vin's eyes as if to recapture his attention with it.

Vin coughed. "You. . ." His hands wavered around the base of the blood-slicked spearhead and then found a firm grip under the pole. He cleared his throat and wheezed, "I'm about to nail you in the nuts."

The hunter glared defiantly, and his finger tightened on the trigger. Vin leaned slightly sideways at the same time he put all the strength he had left behind lifting the pole end of the spear. It came up with a sturdy smack directly between the hunter's legs.

Everyone winced, even Buck, despite most of his attention being on Chris.

The bolt released, skimmed harmlessly past Vin's ear, and hit the rock wall behind him

Ezra took that as his cue to step forward again and shove Vin's second assailant out into the opening. The man went over on his side, clutching at his aching balls, and landed next to his fellow hunter with the bloody nose.

Ezra dusted off his hands, took an extra couple of seconds to straighten his blazer and bolo tie, ignoring that the backs of his hands were singed. Then he strolled over to his downed companion, took the end of the spear, and looked up into Vin's eyes with a dangerous steadiness that almost made Vin wonder if he should accept this help or not. Ezra had various poker faces, but none of them quite matched this one.

"Now?" Ezra asked, but before Vin could answer, the conman gave a steady jerk outward, dislodging the spear. It came loose with the suctioning sound of ripping muscle, the barbed edge dripping blood and tissue.

Vin screamed with the same unnatural wildcat wail that had announced the arrival of the hunters, and fell back on his ass, a blood-soaked hand cupped to his belly. "Jesus Christ, Ezra. . ." he groaned.

That seemed to be the end of it. Everything at a standstill. The hunters weren't going to chance getting shot inside the mineshaft. The Seven couldn't risk staying so close to the mine's opening, and they weren’t going to try to further deal with The Italian, especially with Chris' current condition.

From his point at the back of the group—Chris cradled awkwardly in his arms and J.D. now back at his side—Buck barked orders. "All of you, out—“ to the two hunters, including The Italian, who remained inside. "J.D., grab that one—" over the one whom he had tossed against the wall and stunned. "Keep him quiet."

"We're bringing him?" J.D. asked incredulously as he took the man by the upper arm and laid the barrel of his gun against the hunter's head.

"Something's fucked here," Buck growled. "I want some answers."

The two hunters left standing inched their way outside to join their injured teammates. The Italian, standing with a defiant sneer at the front of the group, squinted back into the shadows, noon sun highlighting his wavy black hair. Behind him, the sixth hunter, who had been operating the vehicle, approached with a look of confusion as to why everyone was suddenly outside the mine and not inside fighting. The priest only took a few steps closer, but the Seven could see his lips working and vaguely hear the prayer vocalized in frenzied Latin.

"This isn't over," The Italian said with clear maliciousness as he pointed specifically at Buck. He didn’t even glance at the prisoner, whom J.D. kept close and under trigger.

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Buck said and boosted up his armload. Chris moaned and one arm dangled free over the support of Buck's strong embrace, while his head leaned in and rested against Buck's shoulder. "Come on," Buck said to the others and turned to go into the darkness.

J.D. carefully backed up, making sure until the last moment that the other hunters could see the prisoner. The human staggered alongside him, glaring with bloodshot and tired green eyes. To emphasize his strength despite his size, J.D. dug a sharp thumb into the soft tissue of the man's inner arm, eliciting a sharp intake of breath at the pain. Then he dragged his burden along, following Buck into one of the shaft's side tunnels that led farther back into the earth than they had ever had to go before. Down there, where only the Seven could see without aid of flashlight or otherwise, the dark would render their prisoner even more helpless.

Josiah and Nathan remained steady, guns out, keeping the hunters at bay, while Ezra helped a grunting, groaning Vin to his feet and aided him in walking into the deeper sectors of the mine. When the conman and the tracker were out of range of the opening, Nathan and Josiah backed up, eyes fixed on the threat, until finally they lost the view of the mouth, and the hunters. They turned and followed their companions into the safe underworld.

-7-7-7-

The Italian had ripped everyone a new asshole, and Ives had delivered a closing blessing for the unit and then a separate prayer for Shaw's soul. Gentry had salvaged some half-melted ice from a cooler to ease his throbbing groin. Dobson had vocalized his disappointment that he hadn't gotten to drag any vamps out in the sun and give barbeque a bad name. The worst, it seemed, was over. For now.

Kilroy was still in shock an hour later.

"I don’t get it," he said as he paced just inside the opening to the mineshaft, "they didn't even really try to kill us." He held a damp cloth to the swollen corner of his mouth.

"Tell that to Gentry," Reeves said and glanced out toward the Humvee where the man in question was sitting back against the wheel, in the shade with his ice pack, his brows fixed in a permanent knit. "Nothing like having your 'nads shoved up inside you to make you wish for death." Reeves went back to his examination of some fallen shell casings and gave a sigh of remorse. "And then there's Shaw," he added. Then, "And you." He looked at the other man's bruised face and the little crusts of dried blood around the edges of Kilroy's nostrils. "How you feeling?"

"Like a meat factory, but I've been through worse." Kilroy shrugged. The priest had already looked him over, treated any cuts with ointment and told him that he would live. He was essentially under a sort of undeclared quarantine for the next forty-eight hours since he had come into closest contact. It wasn't too obvious, but the others were keeping an eye on him, especially The Italian. Kilroy glanced out into the open where The Italian and Ives had now found a place to speak. Now that the general chewing-out was over, the leader wasn't speaking to anyone but Ives, so this whole thing gave Kilroy a terribly uneasy feeling. He was beginning to understand how Shaw felt. "Man," he murmured more to himself than to Reeves, "I can't wait to move to another unit."

"You and me both, buddy."

Kilroy wandered the areas where the greater scuffles had taken place, finding the ashen remnants of bloodstains, the type which only the undead left behind. This was where he'd had that one on the end of his pig sticker. There were scuffs of boot prints in the dust, and the spear itself still lay there, but he didn't feel like picking it up yet. The thing needed a thorough cleaning anyway. Kilroy could feel every inch of his bruised face but like he'd said, he'd been through worse, and right now, what really bothered him was the recollection of looking into the eyes of the one who had pinned and beaten him.

He recalled the rage in that face, the lips drawn back over sharp, gritted teeth, and the smell of burning skin. He'd never seen a vampire, master or otherwise, tolerate even that much direct sun. It usually sent one shrieking into the darkest hellhole it could find. Kilroy wasn’t sure of every action that had taken place, only that by some unknown virtue, his attacker had been pulled off him and not by any of his fellow hunters.

Ezra. . . They had called that one Ezra.

Okay, so why didn't they just let Ezra kill him?

I should be dead, he kept thinking. He had visions of himself lying there, half-in, half-out of the mineshaft, his throat ripped out. That was how it should have turned out. Wonder he hadn't shit his fatigues.

The scene kept replaying behind his eyes, and each time he tried to find something that would tell him exactly what had happened. Kilroy nudged the toe of one combat boot at a few splinters from one of the crossbow bolts. He looked across the shaft floor then, noticing a piece of towing cable. Nothing about these things was out of the ordinary; every hunt left behind some garbage.

He went back to the place where he'd had that one vampire against the wall kicking and screeching. Kilroy had felt the struggles from his end of the spear, every movement sending a powerful vibration down the length of the pole, forcing him to hold on tighter until the creature began to weaken. Like the one named Ezra, there had been something about this one too. The way it struggled, its watery eyes both glaring and pleading, cursing and forgiving. It was easy, in this job, to forget that a vampire had once been human, but this one somehow reminded Kilroy of that fact. Maybe it was that vampires were not known to cry out to God, even when they were hanging on the end of a lance.

"What do you think they'll do with Shaw?" he asked as he laid the damp, bloodstained cloth on a rock and knelt down. He pulled a mini utility light out of one of his cargo pockets, and shone it over the area, then down in behind some rocks. Something down there, wedged between a boulder and the wall, glimmered back at him.

"What do vampires usually do with humans, Kilroy?" Reeves replied as if it was a stupid question.

"Hey," Kilroy argued casually as he strained to reach his hand down inside the crevice, "they had us at gunpoint. Maybe they couldn't go out in the sun after us, but they sure could have shot us. And that one. . . could have kept beating me." He paused to swallow against the sudden sensation of bile rising in his throat. Too late, enough made it onto his tongue that he wanted to gag. It burned its way back down, and he coughed, tried to work up some saliva to make the acidic aftertaste go away.

Reeves turned his attention back toward the rear of the cave. "Well, they definitely weren't expecting us. You'd think they'd have gone further in. Nice and dark back there." He pulled out his own utility light and swept the beam into one of the nooks that was especially shaded. "Come to think of it," he thought aloud. "One of them was down when we got here. Like. . . like he was sick."

"I didn't notice, too busy getting my ass kicked."

Reeves turned a questioning look on the other man, who was now so wedged down close to the floor, Kilroy looked like he'd managed to get himself pinned under the boulder by the arm. "You ever heard of a sick vampire?"

Kilroy grunted, his fingers just touching the object, jarring it loose. He could feel that it was metallic and cool. "You mean one that ain't on the sharp end of a stake?" Crystal-blue eyes full of pain flashed in his mind. "Or a spear," he added with a grunt as he reached a little harder.

Reeves shook his head and looked back out at The Italian. "He's up to something," he said. "We haven't gotten half the information we've needed on this hunt."

"No fuckin' shit." Kilroy let out a relieved sigh as he grasped the thing awkwardly between his fingers, chopstick fashion, and began to ease it out slowly so as not to drop it any deeper into the crevice where it might become completely irretrievable. "Maybe here's something. . ." He pulled it out to find a fully loaded ammunition clip. "The one I almost had. . . he dropped it."

"What'cha got there?" Reeves went over to help his teammate up. He took the clip and held it up into the light, frowning. "Strange looking slugs." He pushed the top one in with his thumb, felt it give with the spring action inside the clip and then eased it out to hold up a single bullet. Transferring it from one hand to the other, he noticed chalky smears coming off the tip. "What the. . ." he smelled the black stuff on his fingertips and paused in thought. "It smells like. . . like pencil lead." Turning his hand out, he let Kilroy get a quick sniff.

"What do you think. . . " Kilroy started to say, getting another smell. Pencil lead? He hadn't exactly smelled something like that since he was in high school, but come to think of it, the scent was rather nostalgic, woody and stark. "Pencil lead," he confirmed.

"Oh, my God," Reeves said, holding up the bullet and grinning. "It's made of graphite. Ho-ly sheeee-ite."

"Graphite?" Kilroy felt his own grin coming on. God, no, he couldn't grin now, it would hurt too fucking much. "You mean this thing is a tiny stake?"

Reeves nodded his head and before he could stop it, chuckled with glee at the discovery. "It's fuckin' brilliant!" he burst out. His voice rose enough to capture the attention of the other men out in the full light. The Italian turned away from Ives and glared up toward the mineshaft, but Reeves was too excited to really notice. "These masters—“ he went on. "They're not like any others we’ve ever fought."

Kilroy took a deep breath and eyed the tip of the bullet and the smears it had left on his teammate's hand. "You thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked more quietly, aware of the attention they had attracted.

Reeves nodded. "We wondered how they were taking out those goons with bullets," he said. "This is how. What they must have gone through to create these things. I mean, the technology isn't impossible, but who would have thought it?"

Nerves humming at the implications, Kilroy was both amused and distraught. Hard to know what to actually feel just now. A vampire had nearly turned his face to pulp, and here he was feeling sorry for the bastard and his kin. "They didn't hurt those kids," he recalled suddenly. "Not a mark on 'em, remember?"

"Uh huh."

"Which means Shaw. . . He may be okay." It was wishful thinking, he knew. Reason, and experience, told him not to hope too much.

Reeves nodded and slowly lowered the bullet to peer out into the daylight at the other hunters, wondering what they would think if the theory were put before them. But it was now more than a theory. He was sure they had the proof right here, but these were master vampires they were dealing with. . . intelligent. . . unpredictable. "They're looking for more efficient ways to kill their own kind," he said softly. "What does it mean though?" He stared, blinking in astonishment as he mouthed his next thought. "You ever heard of a good vampire?"

"Nope. Just like I never heard of a sick vampire," Kilroy said, giving the other man a rough pat on the shoulder. "Breathe, dude. They're vampires hunting other vampires," he concluded, "but that didn't stop one of them from tenderizin' my face."

Reeves turned slowly and looked back down into the foreboding of the dark shaft, chilled by the knowing that they were in there somewhere, hidden deep out of reach. The question remained why they were killing their own kind. . . for what purpose. . . and what would it mean to put that in a report to the Vatican?

Chapter Twenty

The dam was breaking.

One hundred and twenty-five years of her whispers were leaking through. He could see the writing on the wall, that they were married for eternity, tied by blood, no less, and that she would never give up.

I can wait for you until the stars fall, Chris. No matter how long you run, I will still be your destiny. Sooner or later, you'll see. . .

. . . you'll see. . .

. . . and then we'll be together. . . you'll see. . . all others be damned. . .

He still heard her even as he made the climb back into consciousness and found his mouth filling with tepid blood. Something swept against his tongue, and he felt fingertips pressing against the sides of his throat, gently massaging, helping him swallow. Chris opened his eyes and moaned, tears stinging his eyes to realize he'd only been dreaming, and the blood he tasted now was Buck's, anchoring him back into the real world.

Buck had tried wedging a wrist into Chris' mouth, but the seizure caused him to spit more out than went down his throat. Droplets flew up and splattered on Buck's cheeks and dribbled down.

Damn it, Chris, help me out here.

So Buck tried another method.

Cradling Chris in his lap as he sat on the cavern floor, he leaned down and pressed his lips over the other man's. He met resistance as Chris' teeth clenched shut like a steel trap, but with some coaxing, Buck worked that other mouth open, covered it completely with his own, worked his lips until he pried the others open. He raked his tongue hard against the point of one of his extended canines, tearing deep into the vein. It didn't sting too much. Blood swirled in with his saliva and he pushed it into Chris' mouth. Ensuring the seal between their lips was tight, he felt the mouth below his fill up. One hand spread across Chris' exposed throat, he massaged the muscles, triggering the reflexes so that the blood went down in a loud gulp.

As the cut healed, Buck drew his tongue back, slit it again over the point, and pushed it forward, sending forth another fount of blood. He continued the process, creating a rhythm, fucking Chris' mouth with his tongue, until he began to feel a conscious response. The other's lips locked on more tightly, and Chris moaned, the vibration tickling the back of Buck's throat. Chris' breath picked up. . . anxious. . .desperate. . . in and out of his nose. . . while he began to suck fiercely at the flow. Soon the cut had no time to heal as Chris kept it open himself.

Suddenly light headed, Buck realized his body was reaching a critical low. If he gave any more, he'd need human blood, and the nearest human was only a few feet away. He pushed down, gently at first, a muffled protest vibrating into Chris' mouth. When Chris held on tighter, depleting more sustenance to find his ground again, Buck clamped his hand on the other's throat, tight enough to let Chris swallow his last draught before he squeezed, cutting off the reflex.

Chris opened his mouth, let go with a slurp, and choked back an objection. The last rivulets of blood spiraled down his throat, causing him to cough. Deep jade eyes blinked open and peered into the gray light.

"B-Buck?" Chris spat out incredulously.

Buck's eyes smoldered back with a conglomeration of both relief and anger. Blood traces lined the inner edges of his lips. "Welcome back, sunshine," he said hoarsely. "Ella?"

Chris nodded and wiped a thread of blood from the corner of his mouth. "She's in. . ." He coughed again, cleared his throat. "I thought that you were. . ." Disbelief tripped him up after stepping from such a vivid dream dimension into the real here-and-now. "Ella. . . she's in the town. . .”

"Shhhhhhh," Buck hushed him. "You rest, just. . . just a moment. Be right back with you. . ." Then abruptly he clambered up to his feet to pace, letting off steam before Chris even knew why. Buck turned to face into a corner of the cavern, glaring at a form huddled there.

Chris lifted a shaking hand and rubbed crust from his eyes as he focused. He heard the frenzied heartbeat, smelled the warm blood before he actually saw the human. Following his nose, he eased up into a sit, slouched back on his arms—the taste of Buck's blood still in his mouth—and took in the full view.

A man in perhaps his late twenties or early thirties, light haired and clad in black BDUs, sat against the opposite wall. He hugged his knees like a terrified child, staring into what was for him a pitch-black void, and flinched at the echoing slap of noises and voices against the walls.

Chris understood by the clothing alone.

A hunter.

Then before any questions could be asked, a tirade of fury erupted out of Buck, some of it aimed at the human, most of it just piss-and-wind frustration.

"How the fuck did those fuckin' fucks—. . . How did they fuckin'. . . grrrrrrr. . . FUCK! How'd they fuckin' find us!"

Ezra, propped casually against a stalagmite, watched the spectacle of flailing arms. He cocked his head in a manner of amusement. "Definitely exhibits the multiplicity of the word," he said dryly and returned his attention to the human while he blew gently on the backs of his hands almost as if he were drying his nails.

If the hunter tried to back himself up any harder, he'd be going through the rock wall.

Chris looked about, recognizing that they were not near the front of the mineshaft, but in the extensive natural caverns that connected to it and burrowed deep into the mountain. The Seven had mapped them out a long time ago, gotten to know them well, including any other exits. He started to ask what had happened, but it was clear Buck was on a roll with his rage, and for the moment it was easier to sit back, watch the show, and wait for the chance to speak when his head was more clear.

Buck stopped his pacing to stand seething for a moment as he organized his demands into a slightly less vulgar expression. He wavered, dizzy, then his lips curled back and he snarled, "I wanna know how those fuckers knew where to find us."

The hunter's eyes darted from one sound to another, but utmost focused on the area in which he could hear the shouting. His lips pursed as though he wanted to give an answer but couldn't find one.

Chris looked about to locate the others. It took little time for him to deduce that a major kicking of asses had been had. Their own asses.

Vin sat close by, on the floor and slouched against the adjacent wall, the front of his tank shirt and the waist of his jeans caked with blood-ashes, while he used his tan duster as a pillow. The wound he'd sustained had mostly healed, but still oozed somewhat, so he obviously wasn't ready to get up and walk about yet. His fingers, thoroughly drenched in gore, still clenched at his belly while he stared at Buck's display.

J.D. had perched himself up on a high ledge in the wall where he faced out into the opening of the greater cavern beyond. He squatted with flexible ease, elbows propped on his knees, one hand draped casually down against his inner thigh and clutching one of his Berettas. When J.D. turned his head and looked down on the group, the glow in his eyes flashed, reminding Chris of a vigilant young barn owl.

Nathan knelt between Vin and Josiah. His attention was primarily focused on an arrow embedded in Josiah's shoulder, though he took glances at Vin to check his healing progress. "I saw those other bolts they were using. Thing's got barbs on it like that spear went in Vin," he informed the preacher with a gentle tone as he examined where the shaft on the bolt had pinned Josiah's poncho to his shoulder. "Might be better to push it all the way through."

Josiah groaned and nodded in resignation. "Whatever it takes." He sat up straight, clenched his teeth, and waited while Nathan broke off the tail on the bolt and prepared to give the shaft a hard push.

The pop of skin breaking as the arrow was forced through, and the roar of pain that echoed through the cavern, startled the young hunter. He let go of his knees and came out of his huddle to grab at the wall behind him. He started to his feet, using the stone support as a guide, and tried to ease away from the heart of the noise, combat boots scuffling on the uneven rock beneath him. He appeared as a blind man, eyes wide open and only appearing to see, though they didn't move, having nothing to focus on.

"Oh, for Pete's sake," Ezra grumbled and pushed away from his rest. He wandered into a branch of the tunnel and retrieved an old lantern left on their last visit to these regions. He gave it a little shake, listening to the remaining kerosene splash about in the reservoir and blew some of the dust off the globe. "Let's shed a little light on the subject," he said and fished a book of matches out of the inside pocket of his blazer. He fumbled with the wick for a moment before a soft glow issued from within the globe. Then he carried it over to the prisoner, who squinted at the sudden flare of light.

The man raised a hand, shielding his eyes until they adjusted. Then gradually he began to look cautiously about. Ezra went to perch the lantern on a natural shelf in the wall. The light gradually diffused throughout the room, until everyone was illuminated just enough. The bewilderment in the hunter's eyes began to blink away to be replaced by cold composure.

"Better?" Ezra asked him.

The man stared back evenly, while his brows sank into a full glower. His jaw tightened up as if to indicate he wasn't going to say a damned thing.

Ezra stood observing the prisoner, head still cocked as if amused, while his eyes hardened. "The man asked a question," he said, indicating Buck. "I suggest you answer it."

Buck paced like an agitated tiger, creating a wall of movement between the hunter and Chris, who continued to put piece after piece of the full situation together. "How'd you and your buddies find us?" Buck asked again gruffly. His eyes, and nostrils, still flared viciously even if he had put a damper on his tantrum.

The hunter remained backed against the wall, eyes narrowed. His lips parted just so, while his jaw remained clenched, on the verge of a snarl. Such defiance was betrayed by the stench of his fear, sour as piss and salty-sweaty.

"Guess we'll just have to make him one of us to get some answers out of him," Buck growled and moved in, nudged Ezra aside, and reached straight for the hunter's shoulders. He grabbed the man, jerking him forward from his wall refuge, grabbed a handful of his hair, and forced his head to the side, exposing a tempting length of corded neck. Buck opened his mouth wide, fangs at full bud, and started to dive right in.

"No!" the hunter cried out, kicking and pushing back. If he had any combat skills, they were forgotten in such close proximity to imminent un-death. "Please, no!"

Buck stopped short of piercing the skin and closed his mouth, waiting, smelling the rich aroma of the blood. He watched the pulse that, to his vision, manifested as a soft warm glow beneath the skin. "Then talk," he whispered in the hunter's ear.

"Careful, Buck," J.D. chimed in casually from his perch, "you'll scare 'im whiter than we are."

Ignoring the remark, Buck cinched his body up closer to the hunter, so tempted, if nothing else, to brush his lips along the course of the quickening pulse. He never got this close to a human who wasn't a mark; it was too risky, too enticing. "Talk," he said more softly, "'cause after what I just had to do, I'm feeling a mite bit parched." With a sigh he sent a gust of cool breath across the exposed skin before he stepped back and let go, shoving the man back against the wall. He was tired now, and craving, and while another mesmerism stunt would probably get him answers faster, he simply refused to go there.

The hunter worked his mouth, lips pursing. He looked like he was going to spit in Buck's face, but he was only working up moisture, which he swallowed before speaking. "This mine—“ his gazed darted past Buck to Ezra, "—it's the perfect place for a nest."

"Wrong answer," Buck growled. "There's more to it than that. You're working for The Italian. Don't think we don't know who he is, boy."

"What do you mean?" the hunter replied. "You weren't staying in town, this was the next best place. The Italian had a map."

"Impossible," Ezra stated. "How'd you know we weren't staying in town?" He approached Buck's side, his thumbs hitched casually into his belt. "And, no, the mine is not the next best place, not to an outsider."

The man's brows knitted and he shook his head with a shrug of confusion.

"What he's saying—“ Chris' voice suddenly grated from behind them.

Buck and Ezra looked over their shoulders as their leader got to his feet with a grunt. Vin, Nathan, and Josiah all watched him saunter forward and come to a casual stance next to Buck, face pale, eyes blazing from within.

"Is that this mine isn't on any modern map," Chris explained and stared intently at the hunter. "It's in no county or state records to date, so how your boss even found it is beyond us. Better yet, how did he even know it was a nest?"

"I told you, he had a map," the hunter replied then added, "but it was an old map. Said he got it from an associate."

"No way in hell," Buck said. "The last man to hold a map that included the mine was Michael Arrant," he paused before emphasizing, "a hunter. He died the same night this happened to us, and that was over a hundred years ago." He started to step forward again, hands twitching at his sides as if ready to grab at the prisoner again.

The hunter maintained a steady glare, and the Seven could see his bravery was slowly climbing.

"Buck," Chris warned the other man off. He stared at the prisoner for a moment, frowning as he examined the green eyes, so much like his own when he was human and young. "What's your name, son?"

The question, so personal on various levels, startled the man. "Um. . . Shaw," he said. "Alan Shaw."

"Well, Mr. Shaw," Ezra replied, "today is your lucky day. You get to tell us everything you know about The Italian and where he got his information."

From his place on the floor, Vin began to ease up, testing his strength, and the lingering soreness in his lower belly. The gore on his hands had now completely turned to dust, which he swiped off on the backs of his jeans, leaving dark smears above the rims of his chaps. Then as if cued, he stepped in closer, adding another barrier to the semi-circle of men around the prisoner.

J.D. came down from his ledge with a graceful leap and landed on both feet not far behind Ezra.

Nathan had helped Josiah remove his poncho and continued to examine the preacher's wound until he saw that it had completely closed up. Then they also got to their feet and joined the group.

Alan Shaw shook his head, defiance bleeding out of his eyes and turning to curiosity. "You aren't going to kill me, are you?" It was really more of a statement than a question. He didn't sound at all surprised. When they all frowned suspiciously at such an about-face, he explained. "I saw you last night. We were watching you kill off those goons. With your guns." He gestured at the weapon hanging low on Buck's hip. "How did you keep them down with bullets?"

"Ancient Chinese secret," Buck replied. "You were watching us?"

"Saw you with those kids, and how you took them out of there." At last Shaw dared to stepfurther away from the wall. He straightened up to full height, more resembling the commando he was. "You were protecting them, weren't you?"

"Now that's a question we don't hear every day," Ezra remarked.

"Yeah," Buck said with a sigh. "Yeah, we were."

"I saw them. After you took them out to the north road and left them, we dropped in, checked them out for infection. Nothing." Shaw shook his head and threw out his arms in resignation, slapped them down loudly on his thighs and cocked his head. Knowing that he was not really in any danger did wonders for his confidence, and his honesty. He paced slowly for a moment before he turned to them, planted his feet again, and asked outright, "Who the hell are you?"

"That," Buck said, "is a long story."

"Obviously. In three years of hunting I've never seen anything like this. You kill your own kind."

"Ain't our own kind we kill," Vin said defensively.

Shaw's eyes darted to stare at him and then lowered, focusing on the lingering smears of blood-dust on the front of Vin's clothing and his flat belly visible through the hole in his shirt. "But. . . you're vampires," he stated as if that were all the argument he needed. "Undead."

"We prefer life-challenged," Josiah said and more than a few smirks were repressed around the rocky room.

"No need for exposition." Ezra backed up until he found another comfortable stalagmite to lean on. "So, we have a situation here, gentlemen. The Italian knew we were here, but how?" He looked at Shaw. "How did he get that map?"

"I told you, he said from an associate." He paced again. "Hell, he doesn't tell us much, just where the bad guys are, and then he sends us in and we clean house."

"Like the automaton you are?" Ezra said with cold irony in his tone. "That all you do is follow orders?"

"No." Shaw glared disgustedly.

"Who gave him the map?" Chris rasped, his voice suddenly so weakened as to draw Buck's attention.

"I don't know," Shaw barked in frustration. "We were doing a routine run along the border, cleaning up after some brood that was attacking ranches and other places out in the middle of nowhere. Then on our last clean up, The Italian reports we're heading to Four Corners, that we have a contract to kill seven masters who might be the ones responsible for the massacre."

"What?" Buck gasped.

"It sounded weird to all of us; masters don't usually travel in groups that large, and not for any long period of time. And then there was the dig site. I thought The Italian was breaking the rules, using civilians for bait, but we came in, set up camp and monitoring, and nothing happened, not until last night."

"And you finally got a look at your seven masters," Buck followed up that last statement.

Shaw sighed and nodded. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, gathering his thoughts anew. "Look," he finally confessed, "the assignment came in from an affiliate group." He took a breath as he recalled the name. "Clarion."

Everyone stiffened, looked at each other, stunned and speechless for a moment.

"That can't be right," Buck said, eyes on Chris who stared back at him, both attempting to guess at this reasoning.

"Excuse me," Ezra tried to clarify, "did you just say Clarion?"

"Yeah, why is that so strange? I mean, I never heard of them, but. . ." Shaw did a double take on the grim expressions coursing the room, the lantern light dancing over stern brows and slowly shaking heads. "You seem to know them."

"Of course we know them," Buck replied sadly and turned to walk a few steps away, head bowed. "Shit," he said under his breath.

"We started Clarion," Chris finished for his friend. He turned too, and moved to Buck's side. "Sounds like we have a leak of some kind. Someone inside doesn't like us."

Buck nodded.

"Wait now." Ezra held up his hands in a gesture that they not be so hasty. "How can we be sure? I mean that was an extremely isolated incident."

"Doesn't mean it couldn't happen again," Nathan said and a few vacant nods responded.

Before they could brood on it any further, Shaw vocalized his amazement at this new information. "What? You mean to tell me you started a hunter group?"

"Yep," Josiah said.

"Just after this happened to us," Nathan filled in. "Took a while to adapt, but we'd heard of hunter groups, including the Vatican's. Decided to start one of our own."

Shaw fell into utter silence, mouth agape, eyes wide and blinking.

"I know, son," Ezra replied to the dumbfounded expression, "it is a lot to digest."

Then the conman began to fill in the hunter, starting with a history lesson on the ill fates of seven regulators who used to guard a little outpost in the Old West. He kept his narrative to the human as short as possible, while the rest of the Seven remembered it all in painful detail. Then he brought the story up to the first anniversary of the Seven's change.

They had already begun to seek out and kill some of the surviving goons Ella, Christobal, and Selvik had left in the territory. From there they had moved on to continue their hunt for Ella, always a step behind her, always losing her. They hunted for Cletus Fowler, too, but to not even the slightest avail. Since horses wouldn’t tolerate their presence, they were limited to travel by foot or train, which made the search more difficult.

The decision to form their own hunter group came then, but the need for outside help was so great that they were forced to take a chance and make contact with someone of measure, someone whom they could convince. And so one winter evening, they found themselves assembled on the front porch of Judge Orin Travis' home.

The shock on the old man's face, when he opened the door, was priceless. Like the rest of the citizens of Four Corners, they were supposed to be dead, so Chris quickly spoke up that there was an explanation for their appearance. After some whispered debate with the judge, he got them all invited inside.

A grandfather clock ticked in the front hallway, and the warm colors of an oriental rug greeted them. Mrs. Travis stood at the foot of a staircase that was aglow with the dancing light of candles burning in a brass chandelier overhead. Young Billy stood in front of her. He was a year older than when the Seven had last seen him, though it didn't really show. The boy's eyes were wide as saucers, for while he recognized them, there seemed to be a child's instinct at work, telling him that they weren't the same men he had known before, that there was something different about them and that they were dangerous.

Billy did not go near them, and a brief expression of sadness ghosted over Chris' face that the little boy didn't call out his name or run to hug his neck like he used to. But then Chris did not really expect this. Billy had lost his mother by mysterious circumstances, and here stood the men who were supposed to protect her and the rest of Four Corners. Here stood the men who had failed at that task.

They tipped their hats to the missus as they were guided into the study, where a fire crackled in a cast iron stove, and Travis sat down behind a great mahogany desk to slip on his specs. He gazed at them all sourly, his lower jaw jutting out defiantly, a trait Chris had often noticed when witnessing a hearing ruled by the old man.

"So you say you have a good explanation for this?" Travis asked. He focused on Chris as the leader of the Seven took a seat before the desk and leaned back casually.

"Yep."

Travis could see intent in Larabee's eyes, a scowl that ensured that the former regulator could back up everything he had come to say. Then suddenly there was an orange-ish glow behind those eyes, embers embedded deep inside the pupils. Travis blinked, certain he was seeing things. He refocused, and the glow was gone. Taking off his specs, he picked up a cloth on the desk and began to rub at the lenses. "All right," he said, calming somewhat. "I don't expect you would be here without a reason. But first, I want to know where you've been all this time." He lowered his voice only to have it build back up again with agitation, "And what the hell happened in Four Corners? The place is deserted. . . dead. . ." He gestured toward the door as if to indicate his wife and grandson where they had been standing in the hallway. "Billy's still wondering what happened to his mother. I can't tell him a goddamned thing."

Chris nodded, tension saturating every muscle. "Sir, it's a hard story to tell, and not one you're gonna believe easily. We can prove what happened. At least, we can prove to you what happened to us, but what you make of it, that'll be up to you. You may curse us later, and we won't blame you."

Travis' brows knitted as he listened to this, and he slid his specs back on. "I'm listening."

He hadn't known what to expect. That the town had been attacked by Indians would have been easier to believe. Or that the ranchers had rallied again, run off half the citizens and massacred the others. Anything would have been more believable, but that creatures of myth had attacked the place and drained it of life. . .

Travis worked up a steady, angered glare well before Chris finished explaining.

"That's the truth, Sir," Vin put in as soon as Chris was done.

They could only guess what kind of speech the judge was preparing in his mind to tell them all that they had gone mad. Perhaps he was even pondering how to get them under lock and key.

"Vin," Chris said, giving a head nod toward the desk. "I told you we could prove it," he reminded Travis. "We know it sounds crazy, Sir. We could hardly believe it ourselves when it started happening, but everything's changed, and we need your help."

"Took us so long to come to you," Buck added, "because. . . because we had to learn to live this way."

"What way?" Travis kept his gaze on Vin Tanner as the tracker stepped up to the desk.

Vin's sharp eyes roamed across the mahogany surface and leather protector pad until he found exactly the thing he was looking for: an ornate, dagger-style, brass letter opener. He would have drawn his own hunting knife out, but they didn't want to frighten the judge any more than necessary. They aimed to gain a believer, and this seemed the only other way short of showing their teeth at full bud.

"Mr. Tanner, what are you doing?" Travis asked as Vin leaned over the desk, scooped up the letter opener in his right hand, and then flattened his left hand down on the leather pad.

Vin looked down at the startled old man as he raised the letter opener, tip down. "It's the best way we could think to prove it to ya, Sir." His jaw clenched tightly before he stabbed straight down and right through the back of his left hand.

Travis yelped in alarm, one hand flying up to cover his eyes from the sight, and backed up in his chair. The tip of the substitute weapon broke through flesh and bone and made a solid thunk noise in the leather beneath. In the silence that followed, Travis lowered his hand and gazed over it, blinking, beads of sweat gathering on his brow.

Vin stood there a moment, staring back, his left hand pinned to the desk via the letter opener, before he worked the blade back and forth to lever it free, and it came loose with the tip coated in blood. He held up his spread hand before the judge's eyes and watched as Travis' look of horror at such self-mutilation turned to one of amazement.

The wound sealed back up neatly, leaving only a small stain of blood that dried in Vin's palm and began to turn to dust when the oozing stopped. The dust trickled down through the air and onto the desktop.

Before Travis could say anything, the door to the office flung open. "Orin?" his wife said with a shiver in her voice, responding to the old man's outburst.

He continued to stare at Vin's hand for a moment, before his eyes seemed to cut themselves loose from the spectacle and he looked stiffly over at her. "It's all right, Evie," he informed her hoarsely. He took a loud gulp of a swallow before he explained, "I was just surprised by something Mr. Tanner showed me."

She hesitated, glancing from one visitor to the other, her wizened face cold and untrusting.

"Evie," the judge spoke up more clearly. "I told you, it's all right. Leave us be."

After a moment, she listened to him and departed, closing the door behind her. Outside, Billy's little voice could be heard asking her, "What happened, Gran?"

"Nothing, Billy. It's your bedtime now. Come along."

They heard the footsteps moving away outside, floorboards creaking. It was another long moment of silence before Travis found what he wanted to say next.

"What are you?"

He looked at them all again as Vin laid the letter opener back down and stepped away from the desk. The fire snapped loudly in the stove as if it attempted to answer for them. They could all smell the old man's blood heating, hear his heart racing.

"We don't even really know ourselves," Buck said.

"Indeed," Ezra chimed in, "as Mr. Wilmington made mention, we took the last year to attempt to make that discovery."

"So. . . it's true then." Travis leaned hard against the padded armrest on his chair. His hand came up to cradle the side of his face as he fought a dizzy rush. Fingers threaded through the gray hair at his temple and clenched in while one eye peered at them through the crevice between pinky and ring finger.

They all nursed the old man through his shock with gentle words about the rules they had created and applied to their existence to separate them from the creatures who had done this to them. They explained vampires to him, masters and goons, and how it was Ella Gaines who, with the help of Cletus Fowler, had brought this ill fate to Four Corners. They told him about Michael Arrant, the young hunter who had taught them a thing or two before his death. They took him step by step through how they had each become a master, only leaving out a few of the harsher details.

It was a very long night.

Before dawn they bid the Judge goodbye with plans to meet him again the next evening to discuss the further reasons for their appearance. Knowing that he was a man whose interests were firmly vested in the good of mankind, they were certain they'd made the right decision.

"So that's how Clarion Group was formed?" Shaw asked now, looking from one to the other of the Seven.

"It took a few years really getting the show off the ground," Nathan explained. "We had full human contact back then, needed to be around just to prove to possible recruits that vampires existed. Then when we were in the field we only had telegraph and letter for communication."

"Found a few of the town's survivors along the way," J.D. added, "ones who witnessed the slayings in the cemetery that first day. Eventually got a circuit hooked up and just went from there."

"And you still hunt with Clarion Group as a guide? I mean, it's just you here. Do they have other hunters in the field? Human hunters?"

"Absolutely," Ezra replied. "They aren't just our information gatherers."

"We work as a separate team from the main group now," Buck further explained. "It's for security reasons, no direct human contact with the group unless necessary. Nathan's our liaison via internet and phone."

"And I love technology," the black man said with a smile. "Makes my job easier."

"We fund ourselves separately as well," Ezra added smugly.

Buck gave a patient grunt. "Our stock broker."

"So, where is Clarion based then?" Shaw looked like he was getting ideas already, but none of the Seven were ready to give him the full benefit of the doubt yet, even with the progress they had made in their discussion.

"We don't know," Chris replied. "It's safer for them."

Shaw frowned in confusion.

"It's like this," Buck said, "we don't know where they are. If one or all of us lost it, Clarion would be in danger. Comprende?"

Shaw nodded, the frown still etched between his brows. "This is—“ he continued after a moment, suppressing excitement. "This is just. . . incredible."

"Oh without a doubt, we're a genuine enigma," Ezra remarked.

"You're still human. That's what I'm trying to say."

They all stared, silenced by the statement. It was their turn to frown as they looked at the prisoner who had somehow turned into more of a guest.

"Whatever you are outside," Shaw went on, "you're still yourselves on the inside. You're like a breed apart. It's really. . . just. . . incred—“

"That's enough," Chris cut him off. "We're still monsters too, boy. You never forget that." With that he turned on his heel and walked into a corner to simmer down, head bowed as he rested one hand against a bulge in the wall. He stayed there, just within the shadows, the lantern light barely contouring across his shoulders.

Shaw stood nodding with respect to the leader's last statement. "Um, yeah, I. . . meant no disrespect. . . You've all been through a lot."

"Ah, don't worry about him," Nathan said softly and approached the hunter. "We got our sensitive issues still. Always will."

Seeing that the others were working to keep the ground they'd covered with the hunter, Buck excused himself to follow Chris. Shaw, Nathan, and Ezra continued to chat softly.

Approaching Chris from behind, Buck reached up and touched a shoulder. He felt the muscles beneath the coat sleeve clench up and turned the simple touch into a caress.

"Hey," he whispered, "you okay?"

Chris nodded, head still bowed. "Hunters, huh?" he asked after a moment. "How'd you deal?"

Buck threw a glance over his shoulder at Vin, who had settled himself against the wall again and was absently chewing on a hangnail on his thumb while he listened to the others. "Good alarm system. Shrieked so loud it nearly brought down the mine on our heads."

Chris made a half-turn and stared at the now-healed wound in the tracker's belly. Judging by that hole in his shirt, whatever had gone in Vin's gut had been huge. "A hunter's spear?" Chris guessed shakily.

Buck nodded, noticing the glassy sheen washing over Chris' eyes. "Hey," he repeated in a rasp and reached up to cup the side of Chris' face. "Hey, you with me?"

Chris' focus lingered on Vin then shifted with mechanical stiffness to Josiah and the bloodstain on his shirt to the right of his collarbone. "Yeah. . . um, yeah. . ."

"What happened back there? You remember anything?"

Chris shook his head, but Buck got the distinct feeling he wasn't being honest.

"What did she do to you?"

"Let it go, Buck," Chris griped back.

"Let it go?" Buck raised his brows in astonishment. "Chris, you were having a full seizure while we were getting our asses kicked. Good thing we carry guns, because those guys certainly didn't want to get shot. Guess they figured they can't hunt if they got a bullet in 'em, no matter what it's made of." He glared, forcing Chris to face him. "Now you tell me, what did she do to drop you like that?"

Chris swallowed stiffly, his Adam's apple flexing upward then dropping heavily. "She was. . . she. . ." He couldn't say it, couldn't explain the visions. That whole time he'd literally felt himself in another world with no sense of his real body. "I. . . Buck. . . I. . ." He felt frozen suddenly. The animated corpse that was his body flooded with the sensation of ice in his veins.

Buck could see that he was trying hard. Too hard. Chris couldn't get a full sentence out without choking on his own tongue. "All right," he concluded. "You get a grip, but when we get home tonight, we're having a talk. Got it?"

Chris stared at him, eyes unreadable.

Buck huffed out a tired and frustrated breath, closed his eyes tightly for a second as he shook his head to himself. "Chris?"

Chris nodded slowly.

Buck was inclined to pressure the other for a more solid answer than that, but suddenly Nathan called over.

"Buck, Chris, ya'll need to come hear this."

"Yeah, okay, be right there, Nathan." Buck gave one last severe glance at Chris before turning to go join the group.

Chris followed at a slower pace and lingered on the edge of the gathering.

"Now tell them what you just told us about Fowler," Nathan told Shaw.

All eyes on the young hunter, Shaw nodded and looked at Buck. "I was just saying that when Ezra mentioned that name, and its variation, Kleitos, it sounded familiar."

"That so?" Buck's brows shot up, his interest instantly piqued.

"Yes, see, there's a Kleitos in the Vatican files on master activity. I'm not sure his activity in the US is very well documented, but in the mid '60s he allegedly emerged in Spain."

"That snake," Buck said more to himself. "Probably fled Dodge the second he got wind about Four Corners. We guessed he wasn't in the area anymore, but it still didn't hurt to look."

"That sounds like him," Shaw replied. "He's efficient, doesn't care for the responsibility of too many goons around him. Travels light that way and leaves fewer blood trails to follow and document."

"Just like the way he killed the men he hired," Buck reflected with an agreeing nod. "Left no witnesses."

"And his hand?" Chris asked gruffly from the back of the group. "The Fowler we met had a crippled right hand. That sound familiar?"

"Oh yeah, makes me sure it's him." Shaw rolled his eyes upward as if accessing some deeply stored data in his brain. "I haven't been in the Vatican files in a while, but there are a few names that stand out from the Middle Ages."

"Take your time," Nathan replied.

"Well, I think the story is Kleitos was a foot soldier for the Church of Rome in the 1200's. . . I think. . . during the Albigensian Crusades." Shaw ran a hand through his bangs. "I don't think he was a true believer himself. He was just good at killing. Then in one of those crusades, his hand was injured, crushed somehow. The master who approached him was was apparently impressed with Kleitos' methods and promised him that eternal life would also give back the use of his hand."

"Not so, huh?" Buck said lowly and added, "What a bitch."

"It was a rare occurrence, apparently. Kleitos killed his creator almost immediately after he had risen, when he realized he was crippled forever. That's another rare thing, probably why that story stuck in my memory. You just don't see many cases of vampires killing their sires like that."

"Karma, plain and simple," Josiah said, "for both parties involved."

The others threw glances at Vin, gestures which only Alan Shaw did not notice.

The tracker shuffled uneasily on his feet, and readjusted himself against the wall, still fingering absently at the damage to his shirt. "So," he said and cleared his throat, "this sounds like our mark. You got any more on him?"

"Sorry, no."

"Well, it's a start," Nathan said.

"I feel a bit better thinking we might know more about him than he does us now." Buck took a cautionary step forward, reached out, and gave Shaw a hearty pat on the shoulder. "Thanks, kid, really. You've been real helpful. You've told us more than Clarion could dig up in a hundred years. I'm sorry about dragging you down this dark hole."

Shaw held up his hands as if calling a truce. "Hey, we're clear now. I really am still. . . just. . . just amazed at all of this."

"Well, take that amazement and tell your buddies," Buck said, "we can use all the allies we can get."

"Sure." Shaw took a deep breath and appeared to be reorganizing his thoughts.

"Not long before sundown," Vin said then. "Pro'ly won't get you outside in time to prove to your team we didn’t turn you."

"As long as they can see I'm cooperating, I'll be quarantined. Usual time's forty-eight hours. Then some of them will be more ready to listen to—“ He broke off as if something had suddenly occurred to him, and his features sank into a frown. Whatever it was, he shook his head and sighed. He examined the faces around him bathed in lantern light. "You said something like this thing with Clarion happened before? Someone inside betrayed you?"

Buck addressed that question quickly. "It's not something we like to talk about." He was glancing around at the others again, when he stopped and did a double take on an empty space at the rear of the gathering. "Where's Chris?"

He straightened, craning his head up and looking over Vin's bronze mane and around behind Josiah. Everyone else looked too, stepping away from the tighter clutch to scan the cavern.

"Chris?" Buck called, his voice echoed by Vin also calling the leader's name. "Shit," he hissed and stamped over to one of the two tunnels leading into and out of this section of cavern. "Chris?" When there was no answer, his voice rose with a conglomeration of worry and irritation. "Chris!"

"Aw, hell," Vin's soft drawl suddenly answered as the tracker peered toward the opposite tunnel. "Buck, come here."

Buck turned and stormed over to the opening, looking down the length of winding stone enclosure. A damp and rank draft carried up from the depths, bearing Chris' musky-earthy scent with it. "He went this way."

"That ain't the point."

Buck turned and looked over at the thing that really had the tracker's attention. Draped over the lumpy top of one of the stalagmites at the tunnel's opening was Chris' gun belt. The twin Berettas were still holstered, their barrels pointing downward and slanted toward each other to almost form a heart shape against the rock. All unused ammunition clips were still in their slots.

The message was clear and stirred every nerve in Buck's body as he stared, momentarily speechless, at the abandoned weapons.

"Oh my God," he finally uttered. "He's going to her."

"What!" Vin startled and looked frantically to the others. "We gotta go after him!" He hurried over to his previous resting spot on the floor, and scooped up his duster.

"Wait a moment, brother Vin," Josiah said sternly and reached out swiftly to grab the tracker's elbow as Vin came sweeping by.

Vin veered around with a snarl. "Don't start preachin' now, Josiah. You heard Buck."

"He went that way," Buck said, pointing down the tunnel past the stalagmite displaying the gun belt like some museum exhibit. "That's the quickest way back toward town on foot."

"If we hurry," J.D. said, "we might get there just behind him."

Buck groaned, laden with fatigue and uncertainty, thoughts racing to put together a plan, any plan. Time only allowed for the simplest of strategies.

"What about your bikes?" Shaw asked, squinting to see as far past the lantern light as his vision would allow.

J.D. went to remove the little lamp from its ledge and handed it to the hunter. "What about them?" he asked.

"My guess is that's where the rest of the team is camped out, waiting for you to come out of here so they can track you. They probably won't attack, so you can still get to your bikes."

"The bikes wouldn't do us any good," Buck replied. "They're parked too far away in the other direction, and no tellin' what kind of lead Chris has on us."

"Damned straight," Vin added. "Didn't even make a sound." He shook his head and turned to suddenly find himself staring into two cool green eyes. Vin nearly flinched as Ezra studied him a few seconds more before returning full attention to the situation.

"But maybe I could try to get the others to listen to me," Shaw explained further. "If they know the one they really want. . . Ella Gaines. . . is in Four Corners right now."

"Think they'd dare face her at night?" Nathan asked.

"Pu-lease," Ezra said. "The Italian?" He rolled his eyes and gave a sour mock chuckle.

"Okay, so maybe he would." Buck recalled the cold, dark eyes that had glared defiantly back at him during the mineshaft brawl. "Here's the deal. Nathan, you and Josiah take the kid out the main entrance of the mine and back to our bikes, if that's where the hunters are. Let him go ahead of you to talk to his buddies. If he can't convince them we're on the same side, fall back. Get out of there and down to town. Vin, Ezra, J.D., come with me. We get into town and split up. Whoever finds Chris first, try to reason with him, but if that fails. . ." His voice cut off as if hands had wrapped around and squeezed his throat. ". . . if that fails. . . or if he's with Ella. . ."

"What?" Vin asked anxiously, eyes narrowed and storming with mixed emotions that came aglow within his pupils.

Buck blinked, eyes watering, the edges of his lids reddening while he swallowed a hard lump and forced breath up through his thickened throat to finish out his orders.

". . . Shoot him. . ."

Chapter Twenty-One

"Wasn't me got my face pulped," a gruff and familiar voice said from somewhere just over the rise. It belonged to Gentry.

"No, but I hope you weren't planning on having kids someday," Kilroy replied.

They both sounded snappish, up each other's ass, attitudes and egos on the defense.

Shaw crouched ahead of Nathan and Josiah, listening in. The three had found the hunters exactly where Shaw had said they would be. They had taken a safe distance back from the row of motorcycles parked in a line under the protection of a stone outcrop in the side of the ridge near the mineshaft's entrance.

"Harleys," Dobson was musing more to himself than anyone else. "You believe vampires would have taste enough to ride Harleys?"

"Two of 'em are Big Dogs," Kilroy corrected him, voice now muffled as if he were chewing on something. "That other thing though. . . now that is out of place."

"The rice burner?"

"Yep. Something about that picture is just. . . just. . . wrong."

Shaw smirked at that. He had thought the same thing earlier today.

The golden evening glow was comfortable, just enough illumination that he could clearly see details in the landscape without a flashlight, and Nathan and Josiah were able to come out of their shelter. Seeing them now, shrouded in dusk, they looked more human than they had in the cavern. In the dark of the mineshaft, swathed only in lantern light, the Seven's preternatural features had been more obvious, their eyes aglow, their skin luminous; even with their fangs retracted, when the lantern light flashed on their canines, the sharp points gleamed lethally. Now, seeing the two with him in partial, if fading, daylight, Shaw felt a little more at ease. Indeed, as the one named Ezra had stated, they were not interested in exhibition, and any show of their vampire characteristics occurred via instinct or emotional stimulus. Having just been attacked by hunters at that time, they had certainly had plenty to be emotional about, but they were all calmer now, focused on recovering their wayward comrade.

The walk back out, lantern in hand, had put Shaw's nerves on end. Inclined though he was to trust them, he never let it slip his mind that they were predators. As Chris Larabee had reminded him: We're still monsters too, boy. You never forget that. But considering what they could have done to him yet did not, and the story they had told, there was now no doubt in Shaw's mind that the Seven would be an asset to hunters everywhere. Vampires hunting other vampires; it was a perfect set-up, considering the heightened senses and night vision, the speed, and the strength at their disposal. All of these things constituted the reason human hunters didn't work in the field at night, especially when dealing with masters. The Seven were on level ground with their prey in that respect. Not to mention, they were more proficient in weapons creation and use than any other hunters Shaw had encountered. His own unit only used crossbows of various sizes, spears and stakes. They never bothered with guns since bullets were useless against the undead. Well, regular bullets anyway, and who would have thought to mold graphite into a projectile?

Shaw took a deep breath and considered his only real options. Still crouched, he crept backward until he reached Josiah's and Nathan's positions. "Okay, I'm rethinking this," he said. "They see you, they'll be easily provoked."

"You think?" Josiah arched a brow at the hunter. "You're going to have to prove we didn't turn you. Can you do that?"

Shaw nodded as he looked into the deep-set crystal-blue of the immortal preacher's eyes. "Yeah." He looked down at Josiah's gun belt, nodding toward one of the Berettas. "I need one of those guns, if you will trust me with it."

Josiah's eyes darkened as if in warning.

"Gotta hold 'em back," Shaw explained. "They might rush me if I don't."

"Here, take one of mine," Nathan said, drawing one of his Berettas, turning it around, and presenting it handle up toward Shaw. "We trust you."

Shaw held up the weapon and examined the modification to the end of the barrel. "What'd you do to it? I guess this adjusts the spiraling on the projectile?"

"Something like that," Josiah replied. "We have a second design that doubles as a silencer."

"Nice."

Nathan looked back toward the rise, and paused to listen to the voices coming from the other side. Just hushed and mundane conversation among the hunters, nothing more. "All right, let's do this thing."

Shaw tucked the gun into the back of his belt, out of sight but easy to reach. "Me first." He stood, took a deep breath, and walked toward the rise, shoulders hitched back confidently. He intentionally took loud, dirt scuffling steps, and listened as the voices of the other hunters dropped off in reaction to his approach.

They heard him coming and had already veered around, preparing to draw up their crossbows by the time he stood at the top of the rise, looking down at the little gathering. They had opened a small cooler of food and passed around bottles of water. In the distance, past a patch of prickly pear and brambles, he could see the Seven's motorcycles tucked beneath the rock outcrop on the hillside as if parked in a natural garage.

"Nice picnic," Shaw called out, raising one hand, palm flat and presented to his comrades. He paused to give them a moment of recognition. "Easy now. It's me."

"Shaw?" Kilroy gasped. He had half a sandwich in one hand, a corner bitten out of it. "Man, what the hell happened to you?"

"Hold it!" Gentry hissed suspiciously. "He was captured. He's one of them."

Shaw shook his head and couldn't help smirking. "Sorry to disappoint you, but no."

"Bullshit." Gentry's face looked oddly flushed.

Shaw frowned and did a double take on Kilroy as well, noticing minor swells and bruises on his cheekbones and jaw line, and enflamed nostrils that might be the remnants of a bloody nose. "Would I be turned this soon?" he asked. "It's only been—“ he checked his watch, "—five hours."

They all blinked at him. Something was off, and he didn't realize exactly what it was until he did a head count. Gentry, Dobson, Kilroy, Reeves. . . they were present. . . but where was. . .

"Stranger things have happened," Kilroy said warily.

"Hey, I know how this looks," Shaw said casually. "But if you don't believe me, look at my heat pattern."

Reeves' brows sank down while the corner of his mouth twitched upward. He retrieved his thermal scope from the clutch of equipment near his feet. "You," he said sternly to Shaw, "stay put."

Shaw shrugged and waited while Reeves examined him through the scope.

After a moment the other hunter lowered the instrument and gave a startled, "Huh."

"I know the regulations," Shaw went on, acting terribly cooperative. "I'll obey the quarantine."

"Heh," Kilroy muttered, "join the club."

"Where's the boss and the priest?"

"Beats the hell out of us," Reeves replied. "After we fucked up today, The Italian nearly decommissioned the unit. Near sundown he told us to stay here and took the Humvee. Said he needed to run into that ghost town. Refused to give a reason."

Shaw inadvertently glared at them, pondering the unit leader's intentions. "And Ives?"

"He insisted on going. The Italian was pissed off as all get out, but he couldn't talk Ives into staying." Kilroy forgot his sandwich and his hand dropped to his side. His thoughts were quickly drawn elsewhere as evidenced in his next question. "What did they do with you, Shaw? Seven masters, man. . . how did you get away?"

Shaw looked down, sighed, and pondered how to explain. He went for simple. "They let me go."

Again they blinked at him, a variety of frowns and twitches lacing their brows and the corners of their mouths.

Shaw turned his head slightly and called over his shoulder. "Did you hear that, gentlemen?"

"We sure did," Josiah replied as he came up over the rise. His guns were drawn but dangled in his hands at his sides. "No sudden moves now. I know you boys are a bit jumpy."

Nathan appeared beside him, his second Beretta in one hand, also down at his side.

"You sonofabitch!" Gentry shouted at Shaw. "You're in their thrall!" His arm tensed and he started to raise the crossbow again.

"Nope." Shaw reached smoothly behind his back and drew Nathan's other Beretta out of his belt and aimed it with a cool glare in his eyes. "Don't even think about it, Gentry. I've got something to tell you, and you're all gonna be cool and listen."

Reeves twitched, Kilroy's sandwich slipped to the ground, and Dobson started to raise his own crossbow. The movement provoked Josiah and Nathan into hoisting up their guns, holding them out casually at waist level.

"Déjà vu," the preacher commented, voice a silky deep purr of amusement. He smiled lightly, and then winked at Reeves.

"Shaw, buddy, don't do this."

"Shut up, Kilroy." Shaw gave a gesture with his free hand for Josiah and Nathan to come down from the rise. "Sit tight now," he told the hunters. "We're going to let these men get to their bikes, and then you're going to hear what I have to say."

"You think you'll be okay?" Nathan asked as he crept past Shaw, skirting the group.

Josiah took the opposite flank, never taking his eyes off the hunters. Dusky golden light slipped along the barrel of the gun toward his hand as he crept on around the group.

"Yeah, I'll be fine." Shaw remained steady.

"We'll be on our way then," Josiah said as he reached the brush and rocks and stepped carefully past the prickly pears. Then he and Nathan both slipped out of sight. As they moved into the shadows at the base of the hills, their figures were almost completely lost, swallowed by the landscape.

Shaw stood his ground for another few minutes, the tension graced by the lonely howl of wind across the far prairie grasses. The sun dipped further behind the horizon, amber light dimming to a muddy hue. When he heard one of the bikes crank up and roar to life, he threw a glance over to see the vehicle speed away from the outcrop, ridden by Josiah with Nathan on the back seat, arms secured around the preacher's waist.

"All right, gentlemen," he said, and cringed slightly, realizing the authority in his voice sounded like The Italian. "Story time."

They looked ready to hang him, but at least they listened.

-7-7-7-

Buck stumbled against the side of the old First National Bank, fighting a sudden dizzy spell and clenching a hand over his chest. Fiery pain wrenched his heart, which continued to beat in its usual sluggish rhythm yet pumped too little blood. His stomach knotted, the hunger at its gnawing worst. He fought back tears, feeling as if Chris were already lost. His mind reached out for the tenuous link he'd managed to establish with that last furious feeding, and found nothing on the other end of it. And damned if his senses weren’t so wound up now he couldn't distinguish one scent from another.

He, Vin, Ezra, and J.D. had tracked Chris as far as the tunnel's mouth, which came out amid some rocks to the southwest of Four Corners. Within the gradually narrowing tunnel, that specific musky scent had been clear and easy to follow, until the passage met the surface ground some five hills over from where the mine's main entrance was located.

New scents accosted them upon meeting open air.

Sand. . . dried grasses. . . scaly creatures. . . Chris. . .

They had wound their way down out of the hills before the town came into view, a long mass of shadow and dead wood on the plain before them. Night insects buzzed, a rodent skittered by. Finding not a single footprint, they had no choice but to move on and split up to widen their search. No way to tell which way Chris had gone in, and no telling how far he'd gotten

Now, some three hundred yards later, the others out of sight, Buck felt the drain and found his fingertips numb, his feet like lead weights stuffed into his boots. He figured he should have kept J.D. with him for back up, but he hadn't realized how bad his condition was. Chris had taken more from him than he'd thought, apparently. Waiting, taking a series of long deep breaths, he found the pain subsiding. It was only temporary, he was sure of that, but if he could hold out a little longer, get this done. He couldn't fail Chris. . . just couldn't. . .

Vin and Ezra had gone to the southeastern bend, while J.D. had taken the northeastern route up and around the old Stage Company. With any luck they would hem in their quarry and stop Chris before he made physical contact with Ella.

Buck was heading back to the place where it all started. That was where his gut told him to go, but then maybe he was just operating on hindsight.

One hand extended out to find support against the gritty wall of the bank, he made his way down the alley, Main Street coming into view ahead. Directly to the northeast, he saw the corner of the saloon and the alleyway beside it. Looking up the street, then down again, he found no sign of movement. He took a deep breath to analyze the scents again. Just dusty night air, nothing to even indicate the presence of a goon nearby.

Buck pushed away from the wall, wavered, waited for his head to clear, then crossed the street. Veering toward the hollowed out shell of the hardware store, he reached the entrance to the alleyway and stopped to look up onto the boardwalk leading into the saloon where Christobal had died and Ella had mortally wounded, and infected, J.D..

Even with the kid coming in at one end of town, Vin and Ezra at the other, and Chris somewhere in the midst of it all, Buck suddenly felt alone, cold. Maybe it was madness brought on by the hunger, or the sickening memory of that last night they saw Ella.

For a moment he looked up the street, and everything changed. The sun appeared, white hot and centered in a pale blue sky, shining on freshly painted buildings and the rumps of three impatient horses tethered to the hitching post outside the saloon.

Buck gaped and stared around him, ears perking up as piano music poured out of the saloon doors, and three ladies in fine dresses giggled about something as they walked along the boardwalk. They lifted their parasols and stepped down from the boardwalk to cross the street to Potter's store. Buck turned stiffly and looked over his shoulder to find Mrs. Potter in the doorway, sweeping out the main entrance. Suddenly three children burst past her out the door, nearly knocking her over, and she scolded after them, shaking a finger. The horses shifted, a hoof or two clomping on the ground, the leather of their saddles creaking.

Buck let out a grunt of denial then swallowed a hard lump. For all that the world had changed around him, he still felt the same, a dead thing standing here in the middle of the street. The sun overhead should have been ripping his skin apart right now, burning him to the bone.

He closed his eyes and shuddered, the brilliant daylight penetrating his lids so that he saw the web of dark veins in the delicate skin.

"It's not. . . Not real."

No sooner had he spoken than all the sounds died, borne away on the evening breeze. Buck opened his eyes. All the colors and movement that had brought the place to life were gone again, replaced by worn wood and sand, and there were no horses at the hitching post. There wasn't even a hitching post. The sun had transformed into the pearl ornament of the moon dangling low on the horizon beyond the town.

Great, I'm hallucinating, Buck rationalized and, taking another breath, moved on before it could happen again. Peering down the alleyway that led to the hotel, he drew his guns from his belt and crept forward. The pains in his chest returned, not as intense as the first round had been. He could tolerate them at this level. He listened, and walked, and ahead saw the corner of the hotel with its front porch and double doors that had been left wide open and back against the outside wall. The glass in the panels had long since fallen out, the hinges had rusted through and each had become one solid lump of crud that would probably crumble if anyone tried to close one of the doors.

Stepping up onto the porch, Buck kept his guns lowered, out from his body, sweeping the perimeter around him. Wouldn't want to have them pointed up and accidentally fire at Chris should they bump into each other. He wanted to be sure of Chris' frame of mind first.

And what if Chris was already with Ella?

Buck's heart stabbed a little harder at him, and nausea washed his stomach. Even if Ella were in control, deep inside, Chris would be screaming for release.

Chris would want death. . . final. . . complete. . .

Then a warm, salty scent billowed out of the hotel doors, and Buck suddenly forgot about Chris. He proceeded, guns still in their ready positions, and couldn't help but follow that delicious aroma.

Blood, freshly spilled. . . intoxicating. . .

The hotel's gray lobby met him, and he scoped it out, noting the blood scent was more intense past the old desk, and down the hallway. For a moment the hallucinations threatened to return. The desk, currently a colony of splintered wood, dust, and cobwebs, turned into a polished mahogany stand, complete with a guest book, and the form of the old lady who owned the place appeared, a mere phantom against the wall.

Buck blinked, shook his head, and the vision disappeared. The smell kept him grounded as he searched out its source. He tracked it into the corridor, remembering how once long ago, and still human, he had stumbled through here into the old kitchen, looking for a weapon of some kind. Before he reached the kitchen this time, however, he stopped when he spotted a form sprawled on the floor, blocking his passage. Buck looked past the body in black clothing, then back over his shoulder.

He could smell shit, the bowels having released at the moment of death, which, besides the blood scent, told him exactly how fresh the corpse was. Wrinkling his nose, he crept over and eased down onto one knee to look into the vacant face. Next he noticed the stiff black collar and the white Roman band accompanying it. No question that this was the priest who worked with the Vatican team. He'd glimpsed the full team from within the mineshaft, but his focus had primarily been on The Italian. The priest's neck was turned to the side, revealing a gaping wound that still oozed, but for the most part the body was drained. A crimson stain was seeping through the Roman band.

Buck stared, fangs budding to half-length.

Instinct to feed threatened to take him, his mind flooding with all means of rationalizing it if he leaned down and tasted the remaining blood. His lips parted, eager, and he felt the burning behind his eyes, before he gasped, closed his mouth, and pulled himself back, forced himself to stand.

Dizzy, he once more closed his eyes and took deep breaths, turning his thoughts toward the fact that tasting the blood would do nothing for him. There wasn't enough left in the body, and to taste would only mean to drive his own hunger on. That matter under control, he got to the real issue.

How had the priest gotten here, and who had killed him?

Buck drew in another breath, analyzing the blood scent and attempting to sort any others around it. He didn't think he detected Chris' soft musk, but then there was that ungodly awful shit smell. If he were human he would have puked by now. His nerves crawled at the worry that an Ella-crazed Chris Larabee had done this. Could Chris be so consumed? Could he have finally succumbed and let the beast take full reign?

Buck shook that thought away immediately.

No. . . no way. . .

And then he caught it barely, the tiniest thread of jasmine curling up from the body.

The scent faded quickly, lost to the other overpowering molecules invading the air.

Buck gritted his teeth, knowing full well what it meant. And with that he noticed a creaking from above. Somewhere up there, feet were moving over the floorboards. There was a louder creak, as if weight had shifted, but the sound was muffled, proving that the old hotel was still quite sturdy, even after a century and no upkeep. Might even be two sets of footfalls up there.

Greater urgency moved him back out of the hallway and into the lobby. He turned toward the great staircase, his gaze following it up along the wall to the balcony and its railing draped with thick laces of cobwebs. Only one way to find out who was up there. He moved to the steps and ascended with caution, pausing when his head started to swim. He waited until the dizziness cleared again before continuing.

On the top landing, he cocked an ear toward the main corridor up the way, and listened, certain he heard voices. One female, the other male, low and gruff.

Chris?

He couldn't be sure. Something about the second voice was off. He moved across the long stretch of rug that had rotted and all but become one with the floorboards. Then he turned into the corridor, moved down two doors, and looked ahead, finding the open doorway from which the voices came.

The woman's voice, familiar and cold, was much clearer now. Moonlight fell through the windows in the rooms, and from the one at the end of the hall. The panel of silver lying across the floor cast a hint of a shadow, including slender shoulders and a head. Whoever else was in there wasn't standing where the light fell.

"I fulfilled most of my side of the bargain," Ella hissed angrily. "I allowed those bastards to kill my minions for you, Mr. Donati. What have you done? Nothing."

The shadow moved. Buck could see her thin waist alongside the cascade of her hair, tossed like a veil back from her face, and for a moment he glimpsed a profile distorted by the elongation of the shadow's angle.

The man in there with her responded with equal coldness, not a shred of fear in his voice. But it was the rolling accent that caught Buck's attention.

"Look, bitch, when you give me solid information on how to take them out. . ."

"How fucking hard could it be?" she snapped back. "They won't hurt your men."

"Want to bet?"

More pain jerked in Buck's chest, half of it from hunger, the other half shock. She had The Italian in there with her. He sucked in a breath, held it, realizing it was almost loud enough for them to hear. Slowly he began to raise his hands, guns pointed toward the door, but damned if he wasn't shaking too much. The Berettas felt so heavy. At full strength he could hold them out like this forever and never tire, but not now.

Ella's shadow paced again then came to a halt, suggesting that she might be facing into the room. She took a moment, calming. "As it is, Mr. Larabee is on his way here now. I feel him. The others will come to look for him, but we will be gone by then. They'll be forced to return to the mine, or take sanctuary in this town."

"You're so certain of that?"

Her shadow gave what looked like a subtle nod. "Absolutely. You can blast the mine, or burn this place down, whichever you like."

Buck's mouth dropped open. The words spoken with venom, so much hate. The dizziness returned, and he cursed at himself, determining to keep a clear head, to stand still and not make a sound. They would come out of that room and he'd open fire, shoot the shit out of them both. His throat knotting, he fought to keep the guns raised.

"Very well," The Italian replied. "But when this is over. . ."

"I know. You will never see me or Chris again."

The Italian drew in a long breath and exhaled, the sound reminding Buck of a pit viper coiling to strike. "I see you again, either of you, I will kill you."

"I believe we've already covered this ground, Mr. Donati, and you shall have the blood of six masters on your resume. That should please the Pope. You'll be the first hunter to retire alive, with full benefits."

She sounded so sickeningly smarmy. Buck closed his mouth, gritted his teeth, and tensed, certain they were about to emerge from their meeting place. He was ready, his forefingers caressing each trigger, hot-wired and ready to squeeze.

He was dizzy again.

Shit. . .

Buck stumbled back a step for balance, his heel coming down too hard on the floorboards.

Ella's head turned at the muted thump, and she froze, the shadow of her profile in full view now, angled as if she were looking over her shoulder. Then with movement so swift as to be a blur, she spun and stepped directly out into the hallway.

Buck tried not to gasp, but started to pull the trigger, fingers cinching in then. . . freezing. He couldn't move. Rooted to the spot, he stared at Ella. She was clad in clinging black pants and riding boots, with a gauzy see-through blouse. The dark circles of her nipples stared back at him through the flimsy material. Her hair, groomed to a silky sheen, framed her face and spilt around her shoulders.

So here she was, a vision of the modern woman, and yet still the same insane creature she had been a century ago. Her dark eyes narrowed at him, a cat-like sleekness in the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the exotic sweep of her lashes. Her dark lips parted, revealing a hint of long canines as she merely observed him, so eerily calm.

"Mr. Wilmington," she purred then, shaking her head gently as if to indicate that she too had been surprised. "Whatever are you doing out here?" She took a silent, graceful step toward him.

Behind her, The Italian appeared in the doorway, watching cautiously.

"Don't. . ." Buck uttered and tried to command his arms to lift the guns higher, to aim for her heart. Just shoot her, right there, between those two teasing tits of hers.

"You're not going to shoot me, are you?" she asked in mock fright.

The Italian looked rather amused.

Buck stiffened, forced his right arm to cooperate, and pulled the gun up to eye level, sighted down the barrel right at his target.

There was a sweep of movement, faster than a blink, and suddenly Ella was right in front of him. She moved in, brought both hands up under his wrists, and forced his hands upward, the guns pointing uselessly at the ceiling. In that same moment, sharp talons sprouted from her fingertips. Her thumbs bore into his inside wrists, tearing deep gashes, ripping the muscle so that he cried out. His hands lost their grip and both Berettas tumbled free, hitting the floor and clattering into the shadows along the corridor.

Ella let go of one bleeding wrist and took the other with her as she smoothly stepped around behind him, pulling his arm into a lock, and one sharp boot kicked him in the back of the leg. His knee buckled and he went down into a partial kneel.

"Bitch," he whispered, grimacing as she pulled up on his arm, twisting his shoulder joint.

"That," she replied and pulled harder, "is getting so old."

Her lips descended beside his ear, and he felt a stray lock of her hair tickle his cheek. In this close proximity, Buck smelled the jasmine perfume again, and with it the tang of fresh blood on her breath. She was sated on the priest, and far stronger than Buck could ever have expected her to be. His chest thrust out, his one free hand struggling to reach up and grab at her eyes, her hair, anything to force her to let go. His vision danced, first to the floor, then to the figure of The Italian watching the show, then up to the ceiling. The pain in his chest exploded anew as what little blood he had left in his body began to seep through his open wrists.

Buck groaned, the only sound he could manage as his throat constricted. The wounds in his wrists weren't healing. Helpless, he hung in her arms with no choice but to listen to her voice.

"So fortuitous that you should be here. I've waited a hundred and twenty-five long years for this," she crooned. "You thought you could keep Chris from me." Then her thumb talon, wielded like a switchblade, slashed down along the side of his throat up under his jaw line, neatly opening jugular and carotid. A weak spurt of blood emerged, followed by another that drained down inside his collar. "What's wrong? No gas in the tank?"

Buck's weight sank with him, and Ella let go, dumping him on both knees. He swayed, falling back on his haunches and only shaky balance held him upright. Briefly he thought he heard gunshots somewhere far away, maybe even horses whinnying.

Damn hallucinations coming back. . .

Ella stepped around in front of him, admiring her work for a matter of seconds. She looked almost sweet, smiling at him, and some part of him understood how she'd been so able to charm Chris that time on the Petrie ranch, before everything turned sour, before her true nature came to light. Then her lips curled back and she bared all of her teeth, fangs fully extended, glossy and marbled with remnants of blood. She raised her hand, the thumb still out, and slashed down again, opening a second gash in the other side of his neck.

The force with which she delivered the cut sent him falling over backward. He rolled onto his side, tried absently to pull himself away. His limbs wouldn't cooperate, and that damnable pain grew in his chest. Tears glazed his eyes as he registered that soon he'd be dead.

She had won.

No, please, this is a nightmare. . . Wake up, Bucklin. . .

So many nightmares before. . . why couldn't he wake up from this one?

Ella kicked him in the side, the blow sending him flopping onto his back and staring up into the ceiling. His lips parted as if instinct still hoped to find some sustenance to allow him to heal, even if he only drew it from the air above him. Limp arms sprawled out from his body, he lay breathless.

In a state of bodily limbo, he watched Ella hover over him, before she knelt down and bent forward. She reached toward him, caressed his cheek. He could see that her nipples had hardened beneath the gauzy material.

Bitch got off on his pain, but he expected no less of her.

"Chris is on his way," she purred happily, one hand reaching down to run across his chest. Graceful feminine fingers slid under the front of his shirt and then pulled back forcefully. The material ripped back, exposing pale skin and sending three of his buttons flying into the air. He heard them clatter on the floor around his head. She extended her pinky finger, as she would holding a delicate brandy glass, and brought the talon down in a diagonal sweep. "Cross your heart and hope to die?" She made a second sweep across the first. The full cut, an X-form right over his breastplate, looked more like a burn mark as it refused to bleed. That of his blood already on her hands was drying into dust. "Die for me, Mr. Wilmington."

She stood up, gloating silently, before she looked back down the corridor toward the front of the building. "He's here," she whispered.

No.

Buck visualized himself finding some miraculous strength to bound to his feet, grab her around the neck, twist her head off. But nothing happened. He remained a dead weight, about to become no more than a memory, as he watched Ella step over him. She stared straight ahead, almost in a trance, a crazed smile touching her eyes.

No. . . No. . . And he thought of the worst thing he could possibly fling at her. Cunt. . . you fucking. . . goddamned. . . cunt. . .

But she was safe from his slander, walled off by his inability to speak. He lost sight of her out of the corner of his eye and new movement drew his attention.

The Italian came toward him, carrying a black duffel bag that gave a wooden rattle from within. As the icy grip of fear took hold, Buck ceased flinging mental insults at Ella. The Italian gazed down at him, face unmoving, nowhere near expressing the sick joy Ella had gotten out of all of this. It seemed like it was business as usual to him.

"I told you it wasn't over," the hunter said.

Buck would have felt better if the man gloated. The lack of emotion was more disturbing than being spit upon. Then, as if to make matters worse, he saw something move just behind The Italian.

The apparition of Christobal faded into view standing to the side behind the hunter. It didn't completely solidify, but the face and form were evident. Head tilted, eyes even, he stared down at the helpless mass of Buck Wilmington on the floor.

Internally, Buck felt as if he were shaking his head, denying the vision. To look at The Italian was nothing compared to this, to seeing his sire waiting for him.

You can't. . . you can't have me. . .

New tears flooded his eyes, spilled over, his only means of expression. His attention fixated on the ghost while the rest of the world blurred away, lost to tunnel vision.

The Italian eased the duffel bag down beside Buck and reached inside. He drew out a long, wooden stake, expertly carved to a fine point that looked like it could pierce metal.

Buck felt the sting of the point when it came to rest in the center of the X on his chest. At least, some part of him rationalized, the torture of his empty heart still beating, and the hunger, would soon end. He didn't take his eyes off the ghost.

Now you will see what it feels like, Christobal's deep, ethereal voice drifted around Buck and penetrated him. The wounds in his wrists and on his neck, and the blood pooled around the openings, seemed to transform into iron shackles and chains with which the spirit would drag him off.

The Italian held the stake firmly in place while his free hand reached back into the duffel bag, dug around, and emerged with a sturdy mallet.

Buck recalled the night Christobal had died, how he had felt his sire's pain and even remorse with it.

Been there, done that.

The mallet came down in one neat blow and pounded the stake home.

Chapter Twenty-Two

J.D. had just made his way around the north wall of the weathered old Stage Company building when he stopped short. Across the entrance to Main Street, and parked near the hotel, he spotted a black Humvee. The silvery disk of the moon reflected clearly off the vehicle's passenger side window. He inched up against the wall and peered around the corner, sharp eyes scanning the area for signs of human movement, while he sniffed the air for various scents. What he got back was vague, just remnants of human pheromones, but recent enough to keep him on edge.

Drawing his guns, J.D. eased around the corner, crouched for stealth as he looked down the street as far as this angle would allow, and listened. Other than the usual evening trills of insects and distant night birds, he heard neither footstep nor breath. Taking swift steps, he hurried across the street to investigate the vehicle, finding it unlocked, but no keys in the ignition.

Damn.

Some of the Vatican crew were in the area. J.D. wondered if Alan Shaw was making any headway with the hunters, or if he, Nathan, and Josiah had had any luck finding them to begin with. The three of them might have discovered the bikes unwatched.

Or what if the hunters were pissed off and trashed the bikes!

J.D. perked up and gritted his teeth in a silent curse. They'd better leave his Ninja alone or heads would roll, and he didn't care if they were human heads either. Scouting around the Humvee, he looked for tracks, and found two sets. He couldn't tell whom they belonged to. Probably The Italian, and of course one other from the Vatican team. The lingering scents didn't help since during the fight in the mineshaft all human odors had been tangled up, and J.D. had been more focused on getting Josiah free of the towing cable, or helping Buck keep an eye on Chris.

And Buck. . .

J.D. felt a little stir in his belly at thoughts of the big guy. Buck hadn't looked too hot when they'd split up. He insisted all was well, that he could hold it together, and thought it better if they all went separate ways, covering more ground to find their leader. No denying Buck could take care of himself, but that was when his blood reserves were normal. He'd been so pale, and his eyes had faded from sapphire to ice. His lids were reddened, fatigued, and it seemed that his only source of energy derived from his anxiety over Chris.

Shaking off his concerns, J.D. moved on from the Humvee to peek around the corner of the hotel. He stepped up onto the porch, crossed to drop back down to the ground, and pulled back to hide in the shadows of the little wedge of space between the hotel and the next building. Leaning out again, he looked across the street, keen vision examining every doorway and busted out window along the rows of buildings. Much further down, under the awning of the boardwalk near the Sheriff's office, he caught movement.

Stiffening with anticipation, J.D. squinted to identify the individual. He could see that the figure was in black, but that could be any one of the hunters in their fatigues. Waiting, he watched the figure approach and then turn and come down off the boardwalk. He saw the long black tails of a coat as they billowed along behind the figure as it crossed the street and passed the dry lump of a tumbleweed.

"Chris," J.D. said under his breath and leaned out a little further. "Shit," he hissed and scurried around the corner and along the front of the buildings toward Digger Dave's, trying to keep sight of Larabee. The figure disappeared down the alleyway on the other side of the neighboring saloon, the one which J.D. remembered most of all the places in town. Buck hadn't discussed what to do if any of them actually saw Chris. Approach him, try to talk to him? Or just follow?

J.D.'s best guess was that Chris was headed for the hotel behind the saloon. He stepped out from the walk and toward the street, eyes still on the other side of the saloon, and glimpsed one last flash of black coattail. From this angle, he couldn't see any further down the alley without running over there, and Chris had a good distance on him already.

Yep, going to the hotel. Gotcha.

More movement further down the street drew his eye and he squinted to see Ezra working his way along the other side. A moment later, Vin emerged from the shadows around the livery. J.D. started to hail them both with a wave, wondering if Buck would soon appear as well.

Before he could lift a finger, a savage shriek arose, gaining volume. J.D. spun to face back toward Digger Dave's in time to see the goon diving at him from the boardwalk, its claws reaching for his throat. In the split second that followed, J.D. bared his own sharp teeth and fired at the creature. His first shot skimmed its shoulder, slowing it down before it plowed into him. Both went over. J.D. dropped one gun intentionally, held on tightly to the other, and used his now empty hand to grab the front of the goon's tattered shirt. He fell back and curled his body, rolling over and dragging his attacker along. Sharp claws grazed his cheek before he completed the backward somersault and threw the goon free.

The creature went over and came down flat on its back, dust billowing out around its flailing limbs. J.D. flipped onto his belly, pulled one knee under him and rose up to look down at the contorted face of what had been a young man. Probably a survivor of last night's shootout over by the burial ground. He brought his gun around and fired into the fiend's chest. The body bucked as one. . . two. . . three. . . rounds pierced its chest cavity and stopped its heart.

The gunfire sent a signal up the street, bringing Vin and Ezra running.

J.D. drew back and rose to his feet, eyes pinned on the dying goon, the collective bullet holes in its chest gushing, the blood spilling over and pooling around its upper body.

Poor bastard. J.D. holstered his gun and looked about, locating the other. He strolled over, scooped it up, and checked it before returning it to his belt.

"J.D., you alright?" Vin called as he came closer, overtaking Ezra.

"Yep." J.D. looked past the pair, hoping to see Buck also appear from somewhere up the street. Then he remembered the Humvee and that the town had other visitors who were just as unwelcome as Ella and her goons. "There are hunters here," he announced, voice a low growl. He gestured toward the alleyway. "And I saw Chris go that way."

"Buck?"

"Don't know where he is, but—“

From the distance behind him, the rumble of a Big Dog engine approached. All three turned to look up the street toward the Stage Company. They heard the bike putter as it decelerated, before it came around the bend and picked up speed.

Josiah was at the helm with Nathan holding on behind him. They cruised up alongside the gathering, the preacher bringing the bike to a stop and looking down at the body on the ground.

"You saw the Humvee," J.D. stated when Josiah killed the engine.

"Yeah, The Italian and the priest are here," Nathan said. "Shaw's explaining everything to the other hunters right now, but those two had already come down here by the time we found their camp."

"What the hell for?" Vin muttered.

"Ah, man." J.D. shook his head, brows furrowing with dread. "I don't like this."

"I don't expect any of us do," Ezra replied.

"If Chris went to the hotel, that's where Ella is," Vin said, staring off toward the alleyway in question. "That's where we need to go."

Nathan swung his leg up over the bike and stepped away while Josiah put down the kickstand before dismounting.

"What say you then, gentlemen?" Ezra gestured onward. "The hour of reckoning is at hand. Shall we?"

A series of head nods went around the circle. They couldn't find any other words and, even without Buck there with them, they knew there was no choice but to proceed. Steeling themselves, they turned and walked together toward the alleyway.

-7-7-7-

Chris had not gone directly into town. He'd detoured southward, toward the church and the burial site, and up to the row of seven cairns. A breeze carried a smoky, dry scent, all that remained of the dead goons. Wind and sand had already swept most of them away. For a long moment he stood over the cairn that was his own, in which he'd buried Sarah's locket. Back when the little stone mound had first been erected, he'd said goodbye to his human life. As far as he was concerned, it was buried under those stones. It actually had helped him move on and embrace this dark eternity. He'd even accepted the struggle with Ella to the point it was almost commonplace.

At least, it was commonplace so long as it was restricted to a certain level, but the nightmare that had embraced him earlier today changed everything. The bar had been raised, and his resistance collapsed when he awoke to discover how close that nightmare had come to reality.

What lay ahead, he couldn't guess. Ella had given him this moment, a chance to say goodbye. The whiskey-and-fire glow of sunset cast upon the rocks before him, but he perceived only that frigid landscape that had surrounded him along with the charred remains of his friends.

Now there were two Chris Larabees under the cairn: the human one from the time before, and a second from this life on the run. He thought he might attempt to stand here until sunrise, just let the rays consume and cleanse him and wipe him out of existence. But he recalled Vin's attempt to do this, and how the tracker had failed despite his determination. So Chris knew that, no matter what he wanted, instinct would rule him.

He wondered what eternity with Ella would be like. If he let her feed him, would he find oblivion in her thrall?

Etiam periere ruinae.

Even the ruins have perished.

Chris turned and walked down the slope and toward the town.

He didn't take Main Street but detoured around the backs of the buildings, planning on seeing as little of the place as possible as he kept his eyes straight ahead or slanted toward the ground. Behind the First National Bank, he slipped into the alleyway, but upon reaching the other end he chose to stroll one last time along the boardwalk. He stepped up and passed Potter's store, listening to the hollow thump of his boots on the wood. At the Sheriff's office, he stepped back down, aligned with the opposite alleyway leading to the hotel. By then the sun had completely set, replaced by the moon.

The whole time, he listened to his own heart beating, the unchanging rhythm serving as a distraction. For each beat, he took a step, drawing closer, until the hotel came into view. He stepped up onto the porch and looked into the mouth-like opening.

Gunshots sounded from somewhere to the north. Chris paused to tilt his head in that direction, but the interruption didn't fully register. He crossed the threshold, and waited, gazing around the lobby. Veils of cobwebs draped from the high corners and billowed at the slightest stir of air. The smell of human blood wafted toward him, but like the gunshots, it didn't motivate him to any action.

Slowly, his vision rose to meet the sound of footsteps above him, and he saw a figure emerging from the hallway that led onto the balcony.

"Ella?" he rasped.

"Yes, darling." She came into full view and stood at the railing, looking down at him.

He didn't know what he had expected her to look like now. The last time he'd seen her she was in a corseted white dress, and perhaps he'd thought she would be in similar attire. Of course, her face was the same: chiseled, graced with a generous mouth, and dark eyes that penetrated him.

He noticed that she wasn't in white, but black, and as he took a breath, beholding her feminine shape, her breasts draped over with whispery, transparent silk, he thought how he hadn't touched a woman in over a century. It would feel strange—he knew—but it wasn't a desire that had completely gone away, even though he found Buck's embrace rich and satisfying.

"At last," she said happily and turned to walk toward the stairs, her head tilted down at him, one fingertip running along the dusty railing. "I told you this was inevitable," she purred as she reached the steps.

He watched her descend with casual grace, hips swaying with each step down. He already imagined that tiny waist in his hands, her dark lips pressed against his own. Nodding vacantly, he took a step, then another.

She came down off the last step and went to meet him in the center of the room, reaching out. Small hands delicately crawled up the sides of his arms, caressing the dusty sleeves of his long coat. Chris shivered, on the brink of collapsing into her. Something about her smelled warm, soft and familiar, even though reason argued with him that this couldn't possibly be.

She was the killer who had destroyed his family, his life, and then, smiling seductively, crawled into bed with him. He felt nauseated, as if he were wavering on the edge of a cliff, poised on tiptoes and looking down into a ravine, the vertigo of it all about to pull him down.

"You must be so hungry," she said. "Remember this?" One hand slipped up between their bodies and she tilted her neck to the side, pressed the edge of one nail into the skin, and drew a faint line of blood.

Almost of their own accord, Chris' hands drew up and came to rest on her hips. He leaned down, smelling the blood, seeing it as a potent drug. If he drank, and went away with her, could he find the strength later to kill her? The dark garnet fluid welled up from the cut and streamed gently down over her sleek collarbone. The cut healed, but the blood that had made it to the surface lingered. It didn't dry right away but continued to tempt him.

The building creaked somewhere on the upper floor, the noise a mild distraction.

"Take it, Chris," she whispered, voice smoky and inviting, pulling his attention back in. "It's the only peace you'll ever have."

Breath hissed desperately through his teeth and he leaned down, fangs extending. His mouth opened wider, and he fancied how her skin would sound breaking under the pressure of his bite.

"That's it, lover. Just drink, and you'll know happiness again." She reached up and caressed his face. "I promise you. No more nightmares, no more running." The pad of her thumb slid softly over the rise of his cheekbone, her palm cupped around his chin. "I'll open your eyes and show you the world again."

The warm and familiar scent grew stronger, and Chris tilted his cheek deeper into her hand. The scent of blood was there too, but something about it was different compared to that on her neck.

"What. . . ?" he murmured and pulled back slightly, looking down into her eyes. "What is that?" He pulled one hand from her hip and reached up to slide his larger fingers over hers.

"Hmm?" She smiled back, not at all put off by the intensity of the gaze he returned.

Something in him snapped as he realized the smell on her hands definitely did not match her. It was musky-rusty, sharper.

"Bu. . ." he mouthed before he even thought about it, and he pulled her hand more forcefully away from his face.

"Chris," she objected and started to pull free.

He held on tightly, gritting his teeth, and pulled back, turning her palm out and exposing it so he could get a better look. Smeared on her fingertips, and ingrained in the little creases, were traces of blood-ash. It was recent enough to still hold the scent of the substance from which it had derived, but how it had gotten there was the next question to cross Chris' mind.

"What did you do?" He stared blankly while his thoughts backtracked. She had come from upstairs, and he had heard a noise up there.

Could mean anything. . . could mean. . .

He stepped back from her, eyes blazing with a fusion of horror and anger. "What did you do?" he hissed and looked up toward the balcony.

"Chris, it was necessary." She stepped closer again, reaching for him.

He had to know. . . had to be sure. . . If it was nothing, he'd join her, just go away from here and leave his friends safely behind. But if. . .

Shoving her back, he spun and stormed toward the steps. The false sensation of a racing heart consumed his chest. She was on his heels, grabbing for his elbow.

"Chris!" Small as her hands were, they were strong and gripped him tightly. She pulled him stumbling backward several feet.

"No!" He jerked his elbow free, tearing the sleeve half off his arm, and turned back toward her. One hand thrust out, knotted into a firm fist, and caught her in the center of the chest.

Surprised by the blow, she fell backward, and landed on her side, her hair falling around her face. She scurried to get back to her feet, shouting after him as he once more bolted for the staircase. He had his confirmation before he had gone three steps.

"You're too late!" She started after him.

No. Desperation forced his pace, and he took the steps three at a time, bounding up onto the top landing and racing toward the hallway. He skidded around the corner, so focused on what lay ahead he didn't realize Ella was had not followed him.

He first looked straight ahead, noticing how intense moonlight fell through the window. Then his gaze dropped to the two figures on the floor. One was The Italian, kneeling with a short sword in his hands, preparing to slash downward.

The other, sprawled, not moving, was Buck.

An intense jolt of emotional pain stabbed into Chris as he saw the top end of a stake protruding out of Buck's chest, and the eyes that stared up into the ceiling, seeing nothing.

The Italian, startled at the intrusion, looked up.

In that moment, the beast in Chris Larabee found complete and total freedom.

-7-7-7-

"Chris, no, please! I couldn't let him stand in the way!" Ella raged after the object of her desire as Chris rounded the first landing in the steps and was now on the second flight, a blur of black, his coat tails sailing behind him like furiously flapping wings.

Before she got to the steps after him, something thrust into her path. The toe of her boot caught firmly and she pitched forward, landing on her knees and the flats of her hands with a less than graceful thud on the floorboards.

Again her hair cascaded around her face and, stunned by the abrupt fall, she looked down for a second, blinking in confusion as a pair of feet clad in boots, and legs sheathed in black leather, stepped into view.

Ella eased back from the new barrier that blocked her way to the steps, and looked up, tossing hair out of her face, to turn black and angry eyes up at the owner of the boots. Her lips curled back and she bared her fangs, a growl rippling out of her throat.

"Get out of my way!" she commanded as she rose to her feet, fingers curling anxiously, her disheveled mane casting the illusion of an infuriated banshee about to rip out the soul of its mark.

Vin Tanner raised his Beretta and trained it on her heart. He didn't glare, didn't snarl or growl back at her. His cool eyes alone pinned her in place.

Ella backed up, staring at the gun as if it were some holy object, and clearly she knew it was no ordinary Beretta. It, and its brethren, had already exterminated her minions. She shifted her weight, instinct searching for the best way to spring at him and gain control of the weapon. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw more movement. Two figures disappeared around behind her, one of them reappearing on the other side. Two others covered her left flank, all five pointing weapons at her.

She looked around, at the even faces of Ezra Standish, J.D. Dunne, Josiah Sanchez, and Nathan Jackson. And back to Vin Tanner. Five masters; all victims of her excesses, all as deserving of revenge as the man whom they followed.

"Bastards," she growled, teeth still gritted.

They opened fire, heedless of each other's stray rounds. The chorus of gunshots thundered through the hotel.

-7-7-7-

Without conscious thought, Chris roared, baring extended fangs and charging forward. His eyes blazed with hellfire, and his claws lengthened into deadly points. The Italian rose away from Buck's body and turned, swinging the blade around to sever his attacker's head.

Chris dropped low and the metal sang through the air above him as he barreled forward, tackling the other man around the waist. The hurtling weight was enough to take The Italian off his feet, and both flew through the air, Chris' talons caught in the sides of the hunter's torso. The Italian hit the wall beside the far window with a grunt and twisted to get free. Like a tiger wrestling with a tribesman, they fell over and rolled across the floor. The sword remained firmly gripped in the hunter's hand, but he couldn't get a good angle on Chris.

The Italian fought to keep Chris' gnashing teeth away from his face, and snarled back, arms straining, breaking a sweat that permeated the air with the reek of salt. His heating blood titillated Chris' savage senses.

"I told her I'd kill you both," the hunter hissed through his teeth and brought his hand up, using the pommel like a hammer to strike across Chris' jaw.

The bone issued a loud crrrrack, and the strike forced Chris' head to the side, but he rebounded in a split second, grabbed the wrist and squeezed. "You were working with her," he snarled back, some modicum of sense putting the pieces together. He rolled on top of the hunter and pinned him. Their eyes met in a heated glare of scathing jade versus black-brown. "We're on the same side. Why make a deal with the devil?"

"Because," The Italian spat, "no matter what you do, you're still an abomination!"

Chris stared, taken aback by the retort, all of his rage and anguish clutching up in his heart and head. "You have no idea what we are."

Neither combatant acknowledged the boom of gunfire rattling the building. The hunter bowed out his body, trying to buck free, and curled forward, head butting Chris on the bridge of the nose. Chris howled in pain and unwittingly loosened his grip. The Italian twisted over, reaching across the floor for something, fingers clawing past a crust of rotted old carpet. Chris shook off the blow and refocused to look past his opponent's out-stretched arm, and saw feet away one of Buck's guns.

And near it Buck's slack hand lay, turned upward, the wrist bared so that Chris could see that it had been slashed open. Tatters of skin jutted out around the inflamed edges. Blood-ashes were matted to the floor around the body.

It felt like an eternity in hell passed in that tiny fragment of time that Chris stared at his best-friend-host-lover lying lifeless before him.

Buck. . . God, no. . .

His eyes burned at the fleeting thought that he'd killed his best friend, and Ella had been right all along.

He'd brought this on the Seven.

It was all his fault.

-7-7-7-

Ella's body jolted and twitched violently as round after round slammed into her, riddling her heart and mid-section with profusely bleeding holes. They pierced her from behind, from the front and sides, the rapid fire keeping her erect and immobilized, and even as the majority of slugs made it into her heart and stopped it from beating, she continued to bare her teeth defiantly.

When the gunfire stopped, the five had managed to graze each other. . . on a shoulder. . . a hip. . . nowhere critical.

They remained standing.

She did not.

Ella collapsed to her knees, the viciousness seeping out of her eyes until they softened from black to a chocolate brown. Her arms swung boneless at her sides, while her shoulders managed to hold erect and proud.

Vin drew his machete, stepped in, and with one swipe severed her head from her neck.

-7-7-7-

And then just like that. . .

Chris' mind cleared of a haze he had never realized was there—so long had he lived with it—and he gasped as the world around him came vibrantly aglow, fresh and new and free, and he knew exactly what he wanted and what he was willing to do for it.

A strength he knew to completely be his own poured into him and he shuddered with excitement. He grasped a mass of The Italian's thick, black hair in his fingers and jerked at it. The hunter cried out, his quest for the stray gun forgotten as he was pulled back and forced onto his knees.

Chris backed up, got to his feet, and dragged the cursing human with him. He angled the head to the side, exposing the strongly corded neck and the tight olive skin. Leaning down, he tore into the flesh, felt his fangs break through and find the vein. He pulled back, raking the skin away.

The Italian's curses, growls, and snarls dropped into a deep, gurgling scream as Chris locked his mouth over the wound and drank furiously. Hands grasped uselessly around to try to pry him loose, and the body in his arms stiffened, chest thrust out as Chris gulped down mouthful after mouthful of the precious fluid, remembering after so many years of drinking from Buck what fresh blood from a human was like. . .

. . . hot and tangy and oh-so-delightful. . .

With a predatory purr he dug in deeper, held on tighter, as his own body heated, taking in and distributing the flow to his extremities. His prick hardened, and he murmured happily into the messy wound in his prey's neck. He didn't notice when the struggling ended, only that suddenly there was nothing left to drink, and he was holding a limp form, the head lolling forward, face hidden by The Italian's long black hair.

Chris straightened. Scooping the body up under the arms, he hauled it over to the window and with no effort at all hoisted it up and threw it outside. It plummeted the two stories and landed in the dust face down. Chris stared, entranced for a moment as he relished the newfound power in his body. Such a victory was short lived, for he blinked, remembering why he was here, and what had provoked him to such violence.

He closed his eyes, braced himself, and then turned back around to face into the hallway again.

-7-7-7-

Vin and J.D. were up the steps first, all but tripping over each other. Josiah followed, along with Nathan and Ezra, but upon reaching the landing and hurrying to veer into the hallway, none of them expected what came next.

J.D. halted, gasped out a cry, and turned on his heel so fast to get away from the sight that before him, that he bumped smack into Josiah's chest. His hands came up to grip the big preacher's shoulders and keep himself from falling over.

"Whoa," Josiah murmured and caught the kid, understanding the reaction. The leather of J.D.'s jacket creaked and rustled against his poncho.

Eyes wide with shock, J.D. slowly turned his head sideways and peered back over his shoulder while he remained draped against Josiah.

They all stared, dumbfounded, eyes glazed with disbelief.

Chris sat on the floor, head bowed as he cradled Buck's body. His hand hovered over the end of the stake lodged in Buck's chest as if he couldn't bring himself to clutch it. He shook nervously, and when he looked up at them, they saw the blood on his lips, saw how his flesh was flushed and healthy. The scent of a fresh killing permeated the passage, and moonlight glinted off the still orbs of Buck's eyes.

"Nathan," Chris said hoarsely. "Help me." He tried to touch the stake again and then drew back as if sickened.

Nathan nodded vacantly, unable to tear his gaze away, even to blink, and approached.

Chris threaded his fingers through the thick waves of Buck's hair to hold his head up. "It'll be all right," he whispered. "It'll be. . ."

Easing down beside the mass of limbs and bodies pressed together, Nathan examined the wound and the weapon that had dealt it, firmly lodged in the chest cavity and held in place by splintered ribs and constricted muscle. It was like nothing they had ever dealt with before, and that was the real horror of it. The open wounds, the crusts of dried blood everywhere, the void in Buck's eyes. . . it was all so pitiful. . . so damned painful to behold.

In theory, Buck wasn't dead yet. He was still whole, so long as his head was attached to his neck.

In theory. . .

Was he trapped in there, feeling that stake continuously and unable to move? Or was he out cold, lost within the depths of unconsciousness?

Chris sniffled and swallowed, one shaking hand sliding around to press against Buck's upper chest, above the wound, while the other still cradled the heavy head. He stiffened uncomfortably when J.D. suddenly appeared beside Nathan, offering assistance. The kid and the former healer worked silently together, joining their hands over each other and gripping tightly. Nathan nodded a silent count down.

One. . . two. . . three. . .

Tears welled up in Chris' eyes as the point on the weapon came free, the crunch of bone and tissue releasing it, leaving a gaping cavity. Everyone cringed at the awful bile-provoking sound. "Ah. . ." he moaned, suppressing a sob as he pulled Buck tighter in and rocked with him. "I'm so. . . so. . . sorry."

J.D.'s tears came more quietly.

-7-7-7-

There were no dreams here.

No pain. No sorrow. No happiness. No-thing at all. . .

Just time between time. . . adrift. . . content in this No-state. . .

And then that nothing transmogrified into something, starting with a single sound. It came steady and rhythmic, a drum with a double beat of ga-gong. . . calling inward. . . pulling him outward.

It took him a long time to realize that it was his own heart finding itself again. The pain returned first—throbbing, empty, accompanied by that wretched hunger. It ramified out from his middle, threatening to drive him insane, before soothing warmth washed down over it. The taste of blood gave him recognition that he had a tongue, just like he had a stomach, and a heart. When he swallowed, a completely reflexive action, he identified his throat, connecting stomach to mouth.

More of the warm, coppery fluid flooded in, and he swallowed again, this time consciously, and gradually he began to find the other pieces of himself. Sensation spiraled out into his limbs, tingling sharply with the needles and pins of reawakening circulation. His face warmed, and the sense of hearing began to bud, muted as if he were listening from under water.

That's it, a husky voice whispered close to his ear, and he tried to snuggle toward it.

Someone nearby laughed happily, a young laugh accompanied by a sniffle.

Careful now, Chris, don’t let him take too much.

Think I'm one to deny him taking too much?

He drank more deeply, and now he felt hands on his wrists, massaging below the heels of his hands. It took a moment for him to understand why, that he'd been injured there, and the fingers pressing against his growing pulse were ensuring that the flesh mended. He heard himself slurp greedily, and a grunt sounded above him.

Slowly, clearing away the filmy residue that had settled over his eyes, he blinked and stared into a silvery haze. Then his vision opened up, light at the end of the tunnel growing outward, as he approached full consciousness, a speeding train, hungry for life. He identified that the silvery haze above was moonlight reflected onto the crackled ceiling of the old hotel.

Water dripped onto his upper cheek, near his eye, and he blinked again, frowning as his mind wandered with the ungrounded thought, Damned ceiling's leaking.

But he didn't hear any rain, only the odd creak of a floorboard, and as he continued to focus, five figures crowded around him came into view. Then he looked directly up and saw Chris Larabee's eyes above him, washed with tears and a growing glimmer of relief.

He drew in one last drink from Chris' wrist and swallowed too quickly, causing the blood to tickle his throat, and he coughed. Eyes watering, he settled back down as the pad of a thumb caress his temple. The wrist was taken out of his way so he could speak.

"Hey, cowboy," Buck rasped, and thought for a moment that maybe he'd made it to Heaven after all.

Chapter Twenty-Three

J.D. and Chris had already found the keys to the Humvee on the Italian and headed back to the ranch with Buck before Shaw arrived with Kilroy and Reeves. By the wee morning hours, the hotel had become a minor forensics scene.

"Ella killed the priest," Nathan was explaining to the three hunters as they all examined the body in the hallway downstairs, "and I'd say The Italian allowed it since, as you mentioned, Ives insisted on coming with him. Couldn't risk word getting back to the Vatican."

"And here we thought they were so close." Kilroy shook his head and stood up from a squat. He held a flashlight beam over the dead priest with one hand and scratched his head with the other.

"How do you mean?"

"They were always like this," Shaw said, lacing his fingers together in a tight bond. "Always having private discussions. Frankly, it pissed us all off. Guess we felt like they were holding back intel."

Nathan chuckled and shook his head.

"We'd never have thought the boss was in cahoots with that." The hunter pointed out into the lobby where Ella Gaines' body and head lay separated, a sprawled shadow next to a smaller, more contained one.

"Well, I still gotta say," Nathan went on, "we're all sorry it went that way with your boss. Chris wouldn't have killed him without a damned good reason."

Shaw shrugged. "No love lost there." He looked at his fellows and bowed his head almost sheepishly. "Actually, I have a confession."

"What's that?" Reeves crossed his arms and stared grimly across the beam of Kilroy's utility light. Clearly he was still digesting all of this with caution. That he had decided to continue into town with Shaw said a lot, for they were going beyond breaking their hunter's code. Their boss had made a deal with a master vampire, and now they were doing no less, even if the grounds for the latter were completely different.

"Those two kids on the highway," Shaw began. "They weren't infected, right?"

"Yeah?" Kilroy suddenly swung the beam around and landed it smack on Shaw's face, causing the other to flinch.

"Hey, man, goddammit." One hand flew up to shade against the intense light. Shaw waited for Kilroy to angle the beam down. "They weren't infected, but The Italian gave me orders to terminate them anyway. Said we couldn't be sure."

"But we were sure," Reeves said. "We examined those kids ourselves."

"Yeah, well, I went against orders. I told you to let them go. It just seemed so. . ."

"Wrong."

"Yeah."

Nathan let them finish the uncomfortable exchange before gesturing for them to follow him out the back to where the Italian's body was still sprawled face down in the dirt. "Come take another look. I know you'll all have to send in a report before your resignations are official."

Reeves dropped his arms at his sides with an exasperated ssssslap! "Oh, I'm tempted to say to hell with the reports. This whole thing got fucked faster than a jackrabbit on a date."

Nathan threw him a glance, chuckled again, and proceeded on out the back door, talking over his shoulder. "Well, I'm sorry the rest of your teammates didn't join on, but everyone's got a choice here, understand?"

"Don't worry," Shaw said, "we're certain this is what we want to do. Besides, it won't surprise anyone to hear another hunter bit the dust." He frowned and blinked. "I just made a really bad pun, didn't I?"

They followed the former healer on, while Vin stood at the end of the hallway, just around the corner out of sight, listening in.

The tracker stared out into the lobby at Ella's corpse, her head turned toward him with open eyes empty, a glint of lingering moonlight casting off her cheek and the sweeps of her glossy tresses. He replayed the execution in his mind, finding sick satisfaction in the memory of how her head had hit the floor and rolled, hair spinning about. He had seen the same satisfaction in the faces of the others as they stood in a circle, their jaws set, eyes hardened with intent and glowing like hot coals. But then satisfaction in the kill had evaporated as Vin stumbled upstairs, J.D. at his side, and rounded the corner to stare down at Buck's body.

He'd blinked, thought at first that he was imagining it, and wondered how the hell Buck had gotten here ahead of them all. Then clear thinking tumbled off into pain as his throat constricted and he clearly comprehended what had happened here.

Buck was dead. Or, at least, that was Vin's first thought. Was killing Ella worth this?

Vin had assisted the others in dispatching Ella, but here lay the man who had sacrificed the most for Chris. On occasion, over the past century, Vin had resented him, felt intense jealousy that Buck could be so strong, but that strength had all been poured into Chris. In the end, Buck hadn't even saved any for himself. The stake jutting up out of his chest proved that. It reminded them all that immortality and invulnerability were not the same thing.

The idea of the Seven being reduced to the Six stirred Vin around inside while he continued to stand, a statue, seeing more clearly than before, and feeling bitterly ashamed. His jealousy of Buck. . . that was just plain stupid. All this time, he had refused to see that what Buck had done was for all of them. He'd taken on the responsibility of hosting Chris, thus freeing the others to face their demons and move on, make the best of this eternity. It wasn't a conscious effort on Buck's part, but it was, nevertheless, a gift. Nathan and Josiah had accepted it, and J.D., and even Ezra.

And what have I done? Vin thought.

He'd brooded, hated, and fought the world.

His desire for Chris was inconsistent and based on a great many things, including lust, but none of them justified his actions. Rather than take the freedom he'd been given to work with, to create something new, he'd fashioned his self-hatred into an invisible shackle. He'd clamped it on himself and when he was in the mood, he attempted to push its weight off onto Ezra.

Vin felt filthy. . . no different from that moment when he had first awakened to the sight, and smell, of his sire. He shuddered, angry with himself for being so blind. All this time, he had still been under Selvik's control, an abusive child following the example of his parent. This revelation kept him locked in time; a dirty, pathetic creature, self-condemned. It had been easier to externalize this loathing, to believe that he would be happy if only he could have that thing outside himself. He'd thought that thing was Chris, but Chris had Buck, whom he had known longer and who could take care of his needs. Vin recalled his failure to provide for Chris, and understood now that it had not been some test of his fortitude or his friendship. It was just something that happened. Just a thing. Simple as that.

And here lay Buck. . . dead. . .

When Nathan and J.D. pulled the stake out, Vin almost had to turn away. The sound of splintered wood sliding free of broken bone and flesh gave him chills, and empathically the sharp point tore into his own chest. He waited, still frozen, so close to releasing his own anguish, and yet it was contained, a poisoned thorn deep in his heart.

He watched a beautiful thing occur as Chris opened a wrist and wedged it into Buck's mouth. The lips looked so stiff, cracked and dry and unresponsive. Chris urged his companion with whispers, massaging at his neck, getting the blood into him. J.D. and Nathan each took one of Buck's limp wrists and pinched the gashes closed to help them heal as quickly as possible. And slowly, first with a little turn of the head, then a blink and a cough, Buck came out of his death stasis.

A tear dashed upon Buck's cheek. Chris' tear. . . perfect, and soft and glittering like some precious jewel, and Vin understood that this was how it was meant to be.

Everything had always been as it should be.

It seemed hours passed as they all stood around Buck, offering silent comfort, until he grew strong enough to get on his feet, awkward as a new colt discovering its legs. They wasted no time in finding a way to get him out of town. Then the hunters arrived, just the three, and Nathan had to take them through the evening's events step by step, showing them every speck of evidence—and detailing with honesty how, and why, Chris had killed The Italian—so that they could form their own opinions. So far it seemed to be working out well.

Vin wandered now, elated that his comrade lived, and hoped that he, too, could find the means to heal himself. At the foot of the staircase, he laid a hand on the banister and propped one foot on the lowest step as he looked up toward the balcony. He could hear Josiah's deep voice discussing something with Ezra up there, and soon the two emerged from the hallway where Buck had so recently died and been restored.

"Vin," Josiah said as he came down the steps.

"Josiah."

Ezra loitered on the balcony, hands propped on the railing, and surveyed the lobby below. As Vin's eyes lingered on the conman, an image from long ago jumped forward in his mind. Ezra had stood there once, in his frilly white Parisian shirt and red vest, looking down on the lobby and the hotel's patrons, perhaps scouting for some sport. Whatever the case, he'd been the image of gentlemanly beauty, auburn hair swept back, sideburns neatly trimmed. His fingers curled over the banister, showing off the big turquoise ring on his pinky.

But the gaze boring into Vin now was anything but that of a gentleman. It was that of a cautionary predator. The eyes, once forgiving, were closed off, sharing only their emerald hue, emotion not an option to be risked.

Vin swallowed, understanding how he'd destroyed what he had with Ezra with only a few bitter words. He wanted to speak to Ezra about it, wanted to find the right way to undo the damage he'd done. But first he needed time to himself, to sort it out, to slay his dragon and put Selvik in his grave once and for all. He had no idea how, but with Ella gone, he had new focus.

"Now, you understand, this is probably the last time you'll actually see us," Nathan was explaining to the hunters as they all came back through the hallway. "I'll email Clarion and put you in touch, then they'll set up the meeting and interview, but from here on. . ."

"We get you," Shaw replied.

Ezra stepped away from the railing and turned to follow Josiah down the steps, a false lightness in his stride as he joined the others. "As it was explained, it is for your own security."

"Duly noted," Shaw said and stuck out his hand. "Mr. Standish."

The conman shook the hunter's hand firmly and then turned to Kilroy. They stared with uncertainty at each other for a few seconds before a weasel's smile crept over Ezra's lips and he said, "Kilroy, I certainly hope there are no hard feelings." With a careful gesture he indicated the other man's bruised face.

"Nah," Kilroy said and finally accepted the handshake. "You had your reasons." Then, when he drew his hand back, he pointed stiffly at Ezra and gritted his teeth. "But if you do it again, I'll stake your ass."

The smile fell away and Ezra blinked as if to declare how rude that was, then a second smirk twitched at the corners of his lips before he gave a dry chuckle. "Oh, I get it, hunter humor." Then the second smile was gone. "How. . . droll." Ezra cleared his throat. "I see. Well, if you don't mind, dawn will approach soon, and some of us are rather averse to the pitiless glare of Helios."

The hunters nodded and exchanged further handshakes with Josiah, Vin, and Nathan.

"We'll stay and clean up here," Shaw said, gesturing down the hallway and at Ella's body. "Tell your friends hello, and thank you. . . for the job, I mean."

"Hey, we appreciate you joining up," Nathan replied. "What you have to share on hunting will probably advance Clarion by years."

"Certainly, considering we're only a cottage industry," Ezra said wryly.

"And we'll see that the Humvee is returned," Nathan added quickly with a sideways glare.

Vin stood back, keeping a neutral gaze, though in truth the air in the place thickened with tension. The hunters, vampire and human alike, all sensed the boundaries between their two worlds. "Well, guess I'm gonna go caving." He gave a nod, and an awkward excuse for a wave of goodbye, and turned to depart.

"Don’t worry about the Humvee," Shaw said as he watched the figure of the tracker disappear through the open doors. "You might offer it as a peace trade to Dobson and Gentry."

"They weren't so convinced, eh?" Josiah chimed in.

"Well, Dobson didn't see what happened in the mine like we did. He was our cable guy." Reeves nodded toward the doors where Vin had gone. "And Gentry, well. . . you know what happened to him."

"Well, then, we will spare the man some dignity. Gentlemen." Ezra made the mock gesture of tipping a hat.

Josiah and Nathan turned to go with him, all three trickling out the front door to linger on the porch.

"So how shall we return?" Ezra asked.

"We've only got the one bike in town," Josiah said. "Nathan's SUV and your car are still at the ranch. The hunters need their jeep."

Ezra remembered that the other bikes, parked in their natural garage on the far side of the hill to the mineshaft's main entrance, were not within a comfortable distance to cover before the sun rose. He blinked and looked from Nathan to Josiah. "Well, that means I'll be spending the day in this dilapidated—“ he glanced up the alleyway between the saloon and hardware store, "—bastion of civilization." The last he said with marked irritation.

Vin's figure was still within view, just reaching the end of the passage.

"Going caving," Josiah echoed the tracker's words. "That sounded to me like an invitation, what about you, Nathan?"

"Oh yes, it most certainly did."

"If you two expect me to spend another day in a musty mineshaft, you're sorely mistaken." Ezra blinked as he looked down the alley again in time to see Vin veer out of view onto Main Street. Which cavern was the question, and caving did not necessarily mean the mineshaft.

"Ezra, shut up and go," Josiah said.

"But I don't think. . ." Ezra's gaze fell and he shook his head. "I don't think it's what he wants."

Suddenly he felt Nathan's hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. He looked up into the former healer's eyes and found their chocolate hue silken and brimming with empathy.

"Ezra," Nathan said, his tone a warm and gentle purr, "that time we found you two out there, he'd been holding you all night after what he had to do." He leaned in, lips close to the conman's ear. "Save that."

This coming from Nathan. . . the man who, it seemed, had endeavored from day one to punish him for every little indiscretion. Dumbfounded, Ezra stared back down the alleyway.

-7-7-7-

It took two scrubbings in the shower before the water ran clean, and Buck could transfer into the bathtub for a nice long soak. He leaned back in the steaming tub, eyes closed, while he listened to Chris and J.D. bickering somewhere out in the hallway.

"Oh shit, think he'll make it to tomorrow night?"

"He'll be fine, everyone here can always give a little bit more if need be."

"But Chris, he's still healing."

Get that child some junk food and shut him up, Buck thought and smiled to himself as he opened his eyes to the soft blue light from the track fixture overhead. He raised his hands up out of the water and examined them. The jagged scars in his wrists were still there, pearly pink and tender. He touched one, observing how soft the mending skin was, and then dropped his hands back in again. Kid was right about that. He was still healing, and it would take a full feeding before he would be up to speed again.

"We need some towels. Don't we keep any clean towels around here?"

"The closet in Ezra's room."

"What's Ezra doing with all the clean towels?"

"Beats the hell outta me. You think Buck might like some whiskey?"

Yeah, Buck would love some whiskey.

"And what? Piss it right back into the bath water?"

"Thought it might be nice and relaxin'."

"J.D., if he relaxes any more, we'll lose him down the drain."

It was comforting, Buck thought, to hear such stress over something as mundane as finding bath towels or serving whiskey. Forget the towels, I'll drip dry. God knew they needed more of the mundane in their lives, and maybe. . . just maybe. . . now they could get away with it.

When the debate over where to find towels, or another sponge, or more soap persisted, Buck groaned and slid down below the surface of the water. The voices became distant and clouded, while he focused on the sound of his heart. The steady thrum was amplified within the depths. He stared up past the rippling surface at the blue glow, recalling how the ceiling in the hotel had looked as he was coming around to the taste of Chris' blood in his mouth. Silvery and comforting. He'd met the state between unconsciousness and realization, and found great relief that Christobal was not waiting for him in either realm. That had to mean that the ghost was only a figment of his imagination, but he wasn't going to draw any conclusions yet. He would wait and see.

He allowed his body to rise to the surface, felt the water slip back from his eyes and cheeks, beading in his eyebrows before spilling back into the tub. His ears broke surface level, and he heard the slosh of tiny waves as water rinsed out of his canals. Above, the ceiling and its fixtures came into focus.

Back in the world.

He sank, his body flooded over by wet, and he shut off his breath again, went back to listening to his heartbeat.

Out of the world.

So much had changed tonight. All these years he'd performed a special duty, and now he was suddenly relieved. Oh, there was still the job of the Seven as hunters. . . that was no different. . . but Buck realized how much he'd rooted his own identity in the position he'd taken as a host.

Chris was free.

Buck had never thought what it would be like to not have to feed his lover.

Could he still call Chris his lover?

He supposed they would always have something, but how deep it went depended on Chris. No longer would he feel that tie, temporary though it had been, linking them, a channel through which he could reach and hold Chris steady, away from Ella. Strange, Buck thought, but he should still feel some of that tie left. Chris had, after all, fed him, and so at this moment they had some of the same blood running through their veins. But there was no indication of a link. Not even a tickle. It could mean that Chris didn't wish to be connected any more, or it could mean he simply wasn't testing the fiber remaining between them. Buck had gotten so used to that link, that to be without it was nothing short of alienation. It was the abrupt end that felt strange, but where one path ended, a new one began. Give him another century and he'd get used to it.

Buck rose up out of the water, away from the dull throb of his heart, craving answers. His hair lay heavily against his head, wet and wavy, dribbling tiny streams down over his temples and the back of his neck as the cold air above shrouded his face like a death mask.

Back in the world.

New sounds drifted in, and he registered that the television in the rec room was on. Judging from the buzz of engines and the tin-can speaker effect of an announcer's voice, some sort of motorcycle grand prix was on. Buck casually turned his head, once more delighting in the mundane, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he found Chris kneeling beside the tub, arms propped on the wide rim, watching him.

"Uh, Chris. . ." Buck coughed and wiped droplets from his eyelashes. His hand shook, reminding him that he was still weak. "Got J.D. settled down, I see." His voice had not yet recovered either. It came out coated in rust, tired and drawling more slowly than usual.

Chris nodded. "Better than Saturday morning cartoons."

Buck coughed again, and met the other man's gaze. He could see the changes on Chris' face, a freshness as if so many layers of dust had been washed off and his true brilliance shone through. There was a light behind the eyes that had never been there before, not even when Chris was human. Buck sighed, enjoying the view while he had this chance.

Uncomfortable silence fell, and only the stray drips from the tub faucet echoed in the tiled room with an almost musical tink-tink-ta-tinka. Buck shoved his big toe up into the faucet before his nerves slithered out of his skin.

"Chris?" He was going to sink again if Larabee didn't stop staring.

Then Chris frowned. The light in his eyes dimmed, and a layer of the old dust came back. Buck nearly choked up witnessing such blatant change of emotion.

No-no, don't be sad. Please don't be sad again, Chris. . .

Chris slid one hand free from the tub rim and reached out, spread fingertips barely grazing Buck's jaw line. "I was afraid I'd lost you. . ."

The words took Buck by surprise, mainly because he'd never considered himself the one at risk of getting lost. If anything, he'd feared he'd lost Chris to Ella. In that moment when he'd seen Chris' gun belt hung over that stalagmite, a sure sign of surrender, he thought he had failed his friend.

"No, Chris, I. . ."

Chris shook his head, silencing the other. "Don't, Buck. Please." His hand lingered out in the air, and his eyes dropped to stare at Buck's chest. "Look, I'll go get the bed ready, and then I have something I need to tell you, something I. . ."

Buck tensed, forcing himself to try to sit up, but he couldn’t stand to break the moment, with Chris' hand there near his face. He leaned his head forward slightly, and caught the brush of the fingertips again.

Chris completed the connection, pressing the pad of his thumb to Buck's bottom lip, while he remained distracted, staring intensely at the area over Buck's sternum. Then he stood and turned to go as if tearing himself away.

Buck closed his eyes, didn't want to watch Chris' back as the other man departed. He focused on the distant sounds from the rec room and imagined, with fondness, J.D. absorbed in the race. It was a nice image, and distracting, but he got the sense the television was on more for background noise than anything. Just because, after all that had happened, a little bit of normal was most welcome.

Taking a deep breath, Buck hefted his long, quaking body out of the tub and pulled the plug. Chris had apparently found the towels, for he had left a thick fold of cotton fluff on the sink. Listening to the water gurgle down the drain, Buck rubbed down then started to wrap the towel around his waist when he looked up and into the mirror and froze.

Forgotten, the towel hung over his forearm.

Maybe he'd been too covered with blood-dust before, and even though his ribs and breastplate still felt a little sensitive when he'd washed in the shower, he just hadn't seen it: a reddened patch of skin, almost like a sunburst pattern, glared back at him from the center of his chest. Just around the edges, he could see the added scars from the cuts Ella had made, marking the target area.

X marks the spot.

Buck went from looking at the reflection to tucking his chin and rolling his eyes downward for a more immediate view of the healing skin. It wasn't quite as obvious looking at it from this angle as it was straight on in the mirror. Little wonder Chris was distracted. Buck found similar diversion as he touched the scars, gingerly pressing a fingernail along the edge where the rejuvenating skin met pale, smooth flesh. In morbid fascination, he traced along the edge, and then recalled the fear he'd felt lying helpless on the hotel floor, watching The Italian move in. He didn't know exactly by what miracle he'd been saved, only that next thing he was awake. It was Chris surrounding him protectively that had kept him from immediately thinking of The Italian's cold composure hovering over him, or that last burst of pain as the stake descended into his heart.

In fact, the encounter with The Italian seemed years away already. . . if it weren't for that damned scar.

Buck pressed a hand over the ugly blotch, hiding it from view, and hated the thing. Maybe in another couple of nights, after he'd fed enough, it would disappear. Finally pulling the towel around his waist, he headed to the bedroom. As he veered through the hallway, he heard the whine of the bikes on the big screen intensify before the sharp click as J.D. hit the remote and turned the screen off. There came a soft sigh and the squeak of leather cushions as J.D. burrowed down into the couch.

All is right with the world, Buck mused. One hand pressed to the wall to ensure he didn't fall on his face, he made his way down the hall and crossed into the bedroom he'd shared with Chris in this house for so long.

Chris had straightened the king sized bed and turned down the sheets. A series of candles burned on the windowsill, the window itself shuttered off to keep out the approaching dawn. Buck heard water running in the smaller bathroom adjacent to the closet, and took advantage of that moment to go to the chest of drawers and pull out a tank shirt. He let the towel drop to the floor, as he stretched, grunting at the stiffness in his limbs, and pulled the tank down over his head. It hugged his upper body with soft cottony comfort, while giving him plenty of free movement, but ultimately it covered up the sunburst.

He slid into his usual side of the bed and rolled over to adjust the pillow, propping up so that he faced the bathroom. A moment later, the water cut off and Chris appeared, wiping his face and shoulders dry with a hand towel, his silhouette lean and panther-ish in the doorway.

"Buck?"

"Yeah?"

Chris turned out the bathroom light and stepped forward, the candlelight dancing over his naked pectorals and the stretch of his abdomen. He looked more exotic than ever, even with his black dusty jeans still on, and the brush of sandy hair over his brows. "Buck. . ." he said breathily, the tiny reflection of a flame dancing in the corner of one eye. "I know you're tired, and probably still hungry."

Buck slid out one hand along the covers, fingers spread wide, caressing the cool cotton as he peeled it back, leaving an opening for Chris to get into bed. "What's on your mind, pard?" he whispered. His tone was anything but an invitation to have sex. He was too tired, and if Chris did want to continue such a relationship, Buck didn't plan on being half there. It was all or nothing as far as he was concerned. Chris had been there for him, and he would do no less in return. Except right now.

Right now was for healing.

Chris unfastened his fly and slid the jeans off before getting into bed. He adjusted the covers, pulling them up to his waist as he settled on the pillow beside Buck, propped up and looking down into the other man's sapphire eyes. "Maybe it can wait," he began, and then shook his head. "No. . . no, it can't."

"Ella?" Buck blinked, frown lines dipping down between his brows. From this angle he was looking partially up under Chris' chin, at the expanse of his neck. He followed the rise and fall of the acute Adam's apple when Chris swallowed stiffly. "What happened back there?" Attempting to rise up to eye level, he fumbled with the pillow, but his head was beginning to feel thick and heavy with fatigue and he only made it so far before easing back down. "When you went to her—“

"I can tell you now," Chris interrupted. He held his place, as if attempting to shield Buck from what had happened, as if the past somehow clung to the present and danger was still imminent. His mouth opened to say her name, but only a breath came out. He swallowed again, and his eyes glazed as he looked away, putting together a coherent explanation. "Ella. . . she had been feeding ten times over what was needed. That's why she had so many goons around her. We just culled 'em back for her, part of her deal with The Italian. But it made her stronger, a lot stronger than I ever expected. . ."

Something in Chris' voice bothered him. While whispery and deep, it also bore a tone of guilt. "Chris, what are you getting at?"

"All these years, Buck." Chris closed his eyes and didn't breathe. "She's been getting inside me for a long time, rootin' down, getting stronger all the time. I never could keep her out, but you helped me keep her from taking over." His eyes opened, pupils constricting to fine points as he looked down at the face close to his. "I never told you. . . I couldn't tell you. . ."

Buck felt a sting deep in his gut, a nervy pain that crawled up into his heart and sickened him. Hearing this, only now did he realize what a prisoner Chris had been in his own mind. Held hostage by Ella. And she thought that was love? Buck tasted bile. "Chris, I'm so sorry. . ."

Chris shook his head, bitter tears brimming in his eyes. The watery membrane magnified the green in his irises, and the flicker of candle flame rippled across the surface. "She finally convinced me I was going to be the cause of your death. So when I went out to Four Corners. . . I knew I couldn't take my guns. . . She'd know if I was surrendering or not, so I didn't take the guns. I wanted to kill her, but didn't know if I could. Hell, maybe I was surrendering. . . I didn't know what I was going to do with her." He blinked, liberating a single tear. "I just wanted it to end, somehow. I was just so tired."

"Shhhhh. . ." Buck reached up with one hand and gingerly brushed the back of a knuckle along the thin, glistening trail. "You're free of her now. Don't cling to it, or you still give her power. You're free of her now. . ." He didn't think about it as he continued, ". . . free of me. . ."

"You?" Chris laid his hand over Buck's and pulled it away from his face. "No, you're free of me. I've been a burden on you for so long." In an instant, his eyes cleared and narrowed with irritation. "Goddamn it, Buck, I nearly got you killed."

Amusement at Chris' stubbornness lit up Buck's face, and he blinked lethargically. "You were no burden on me," he argued lightly. "I loved doing what I did, but I hated why I had to do it." His jaw tightened as he braced himself for one bitter confession. "I think I. . . I wanted it."

Chris only frowned and blinked at that.

"Doesn't make a lot of sense, does it?" Buck asked. "I mean, I wanted you to be free, but those nights I came back, ready to feed you. I loved that. I loved being there for you." He let his head dip deeper into the pillow and instinct told him that beyond the barrier over the window, dawn drew closer.

From some distance out, they heard the roar of Josiah's Big Dog making it home just in time.

"But you're free now," Buck finished and was surprised to find Chris' hand stroking his shoulder. It strayed upward, fingers slipping under one strap on the tank shirt, and down toward his nipple. He winced as the touch roamed to the center of his chest. With a start, Buck pulled back. "Don't," he said. "It will heal, Chris. Everything heals."

"Does it?" Chris gradually eased further down into the pillows, rolling closer, propped on one arm. "And us? Will we heal?"

What exactly Chris was driving at suddenly hit Buck in the face. Of course, Larabee always had to beat around the bush about these things. Dealing with matters of the heart wasn't his forte. Buck smiled at him and tried not to chuckle. "Chris, I'm still yours forever if that's what you want."

"You sure? Forever is a long time." Chris closed his eyes and sighed as if he didn't believe a word he was hearing. "In some way, I think maybe I was afraid of this day, when I'd be free of Ella, and you'd be free of me. . ."

Buck reached up and flicked him on the side of the ear and gave a snarl when Chris winced and glared at him. "Are you listening to me? Chris, I still want us. The feeding? That ain't us. That was just something we had to do to get you through this, and it's what brought us together like this. But that wasn't all there ever was to it. You get me?"

Chris remained propped up, lips parted, barely showing the upper ridge of his teeth, including the fine, sharp points of his retracted canines. "Yeah," he finally said huskily. "I get you."

"Then hush up and hold me." Buck snuggled closer, forcing Chris to rearrange himself and open his arms to receive his lover in a tight spooning position. When he turned his face up for a moment, Chris leaned down, lips hovering an inch away.

Their breath collided for a second before Chris closed the gap. His lips were softer, more satiny against Buck's drier ones, which opened up, welcoming in Chris' tongue. As they drove together more forcefully, the kiss bound them tighter than the forever Chris had spoken of. As Chris withdrew his tongue, he raked it over the tip of one canine and a thread of blood drained into Buck's mouth.

Buck purred with the deep rumble of a tiger, the supernatural thing in him rising just to the surface to express its contentedness. Tired or not, he suddenly felt stronger than ever. "Just hold me," he repeated more gently and laid his cheek against the inside of Chris' arm.

Chris did, and in no time, both were fast asleep.

Chapter Twenty-Four

He had kept up with her through Clarion sources, just as J.D. had secretly followed Casey Wells' life.

It wasn't easy. When he had been alive to the rest of the world, Ezra had gotten letters from her, imploring him to come away from his "little dustbowl" and join her on various great adventures, all of which were focused on con jobs. He knew where she was then, and where she was headed, but now was different.

He was dead, and she was on the move with no son to write to anymore.

He'd finally caught a glimpse of her in Santa Fe, as she was just passing through, five years after the demise of Four Corners. She looked almost the same, except the corners of her lips were beginning to turn down in a most unbecoming fashion, and while she walked with her head up and a stride that boasted confidence, she did not look like a happy woman.

Some time after that, he received word she had married. Of course, to a millionaire, who spoiled her and endeavored to be her white knight. Another seven years later, he died, leaving her penniless and forcing her back to a life of grifting.

That was all Ezra knew of Maude Standish's story, and it was through pure luck that he tracked her down in San Francisco. He ordered Clarion Group to keep tabs and continued to maintain his distance.

Then, in 1901, they sent him a letter bearing somber news. The Seven were situated in Tucson at the time. After some heated debate with the others, especially Chris, who was completely against any of them making direct contact with their human pasts, Ezra went absent without leave.

Four nights later he walked along the Embarcadero, smelling the salt-and-decay of the sea. He stared across the bay at Alcatraz Island and its dismal lighthouse flashing across the top of the fort. A fog bank rolled across the water, and Ezra hastened inland, hands jammed into the pockets of his long wool coat, fur collar turned up. Though he didn't feel the cold, he happily gave the pretense that he did, enjoying the soft mink against his neck, and the satin linings of the pockets. His eyes were shaded under the elegantly curved brim of a top hat, as he wandered down various streets and alleys in a step pattern going southwest to Van Ness Avenue. This put him northwest of Chinatown, and he thought with fondness of Li Pong. She was little more than a girl when he'd met her twenty-three years ago, and he imagined what a lovely woman she must have grown into since then. Ezra had no plans of finding out. It was better that way, to keep her safe in his memory and heart and let it go at that.

Maude was a different matter.

On the avenue he headed south, counting down the numbers of the buildings, until he reached the corner townhouse he sought. Three stories tall, narrow, with bay windows, painted a rich cream with dark green trim.

He soundlessly climbed the front steps to the door, and gently turned the knob. Finding it locked, he smiled as he retrieved the tools he needed from the interior pocket of the coat. In seconds the lock was picked and he was in the foyer, certain that no soul had seen him from the street.

Taking off his hat and coat, he casually draped them over the rack behind the door and turned to take in a full view of the furnishings in the adjacent living parlor. Oriental rugs, Empire chairs and a sofa with clawed feet. A mantel with matching silver candelabras and a Dresden vase. She had, apparently, managed to recover from her last husband's monetary indiscretions. Ezra knew she had a live-in nurse, another indication she had done well for herself.

Straight ahead, stairs led to the upper floors, and he headed that way, again soundlessly, cautious of making a creak that would awaken the nurse. At the top landing, he turned and made his way down the hallway, past the first door, which stood ajar. He eased it further open and looked in to see a young woman nestled into a single bed. Ezra watched the peaceful rise and fall of her chest as she slumbered deeply, breath even. The hinges gave a tiny creak as he pulled the door back to its original position, but the woman didn't stir.

From the next room down, he heard a cough, hoarse and weak.

He moved on. The following door was also cracked open. Just enough, perhaps, for the nurse to hear any calls for help. Easing into the room, he closed the door behind him and stood staring at the bed and the figure lying there. Hazy streetlight filtered through the slats in the shutters and caught on the harsh angles of her prominent cheekbones. Carefully groomed and curled tresses of white were fanned across the pillow out from her head, as she lay facing up into the dark. The room smelled of talcum powder and menthol tonics.

Raspy breath grated the air, and even if she couldn't see him clearly, her gaze was angled in his direction, intense, and vicious. She was well aware that there was another presence in the room. The covers were pulled up to her chest, and one hand rested on her waist, most of her body swallowed up by the feather mattress beneath her. It made her look even smaller than she already was.

"Who's there?" a flat voice asked, followed by more raspy breathing, and a cough. "I said. . . who's there?" The words shook, barely expelled by fragile lungs. "You here to rob me. . . you think twice about it. . . I'll beat you bloody."

He would have been amused at this if she wasn't the most pitiful thing, this once vibrant woman who had managed to sink more ships than Helen of Troy. Her head struggled to rise from the pillow and fell back, her neck too thin to support the weight. At least the spirit was certainly still there, even if her body was reaching its end.

"It's me," he said calmly as he stepped closer, reaching toward the lamp on her nightstand. Tiffany, no less, with dragonfly motifs set in the jewel-toned plate glass shade. He pulled the cord with a delicate snap and dim light bathed the tabletop and a silver tray of neatly arranged pill bottles. Enough light for his face to be clear to her.

She hadn't moved, other than to turn her head more steeply toward the sound of his voice. A tall-backed wheel chair was parked at the foot of the bed, and he glanced at it sadly, remembering when Clarion had sent him word of the stroke. From what he understood, she could barely move one side of her body. That had happened two years ago, but now her condition was deteriorating rapidly and she had precious little time left.

He stood beside the bed, eyes even as he stared her down, watched her own eyes, cool and blue, widen. Pale lashes blinked with astonishment. Her thin lips, painted with a heavy coat of red even for bedtime, parted with a soft gasp. Then the gasp turned into a long sigh that sounded strangely relieved.

Ezra waited for her to get over her shock, what there was of it, for he was the next to be surprised as he watched her brows knit and her eyes water.

"My son. . ." she whispered. "My beautiful. . . baby boy. . ." The sweetest smile danced along her lips and he watched the crow's feet around her eyes deepen. "Have you come for me?"

He swallowed, realizing that for all of his pale complexion and unchanged years, she probably thought him a ghost. Suddenly, Chris' insistence that he not come here made sense. What had he thought to achieve here? Satisfaction, perhaps? To see the woman whom he loved, yet who had been the torment of his human years, pass away. Speechless, he stared, absorbed in the wrinkles at the base of her neck, just visible above the lace collar of her nightgown.

And then there was the strange softness that entered into her eyes. "Have you?" she repeated and gave a little cough. The hand lying across her waist rose, wavered in the air, and then came to cover her lips as she coughed harder. She cleared her throat with a rustling wheeze and her hand fell back to her side.

Compelled to answer the question, Ezra took a steadying breath. "No, Mother."

"Where have you been?" She blinked, lids heavily climbing back open again.

Ezra tensed as he heard the nurse stir in the next room. But it was only the creak of floorboards under the bed as she shifted in her sleep. He returned his attention to Maude.

"You can't imagine."

Her mouth quirked, and for a moment he saw the woman who had swindled him; driven his saloon out of business and then bought it out from under him before he could make a peep of objection.

Raised me? Did you say, raised me? Come on now, Mother, you didn't raise me as well as a stray cat raises a litter. You dumped me, remember? At every aunt and uncle's house you could find. Unless, of course, you needed me for a con.

He remembered launching those words at her and feeling as if they didn't even bounce off that thick, self-centered head of hers. To think of that childhood. . . it suddenly didn't seem like his anymore. This woman's son was dead. What the hell had he come here for?

"Did you. . ." she began and then coughed.

He wanted out of this room. Wanted to be back in Tucson, where he'd left the others on their hunt.

What the hell had he been thinking coming here?

"Did you get the flowers I left you?" she whispered.

Startled at the question, Ezra tilted his head and frowned quizzically. "Fl-Flowers?" He sounded as raspy as she did now.

"I went back to that dustbowl," she said, turning her eyes away and looking toward the ceiling. "You had no grave. . . so I left them in that saloon of yours. . . the one I. . . the one I took from you." Her eyes watered, the gleam dancing along the edges of her lids and turning her gaze to glass.

Ezra could hear her heartbeat. How slow it sounded. Tired and weighted down.

"Come here and. . . sit. . ." Her hand weakly patted the blankets.

Reluctantly he went to the edge of the bed and lowered down into a sit, feeling the feather mattress give. What had he expected to say? What words could he offer to a dying woman who thought she was about to join her son on the other side? Then he felt her hand slip over his, and her brow furrowed as her eyes strayed back to focus on his face masked in the dim rainbow of light from the Tiffany lamp.

"You're so cold," she gasped. "Ezra?"

"Shhhhh." He turned his hand over, capturing hers beneath it. His thumb caressed the leathery, loose skin over her knuckles. "I received the flowers," he lied, distracting her.

"Oh, good." She pulled in a breath and then let it out. "Forgive me."

Instantly his throat tightened. Those were not words he'd expected to hear. Not from her. But then, the wasted creature that lay before him now was a different Maude Standish. He couldn’t hope to comprehend what she'd been through in the years after his disappearance, or how she had mourned him. And he wasn't about to tell her what had really become of her son, for what he saw in those eyes was true remorse and a begging for release.

Perhaps that was why he had come.

He wondered if somehow she had called him, reached out with her need for forgiveness. Did he hold the key to her release? It meant more to him than even he could comprehend, that she should hold on like this, just for him. . . for this very vision of him to come along and absolve her.

"I. . ." He swallowed and took a deep breath. The strange amalgamation of discord and admiration he'd felt for her his entire life eased out with the simple words. "I forgive you."

"I love you, Ezra. I always loved you, more than anything. . . even if. . . I never—“

He cut her off. Didn't need the explanation she was struggling to deliver.

"I love you too."

Leaning over her, he felt her shallow breath stutter and fade against his chin as he kissed her forehead. When he sat back and straightened, her last heartbeat sounded, a dull echo in his ears.

"Goodbye, Mama."

It was not an address he had ever used before. Always she had been Mother or Maude, but never Mama.

Ezra closed his eyes, felt the bite of tears that wanted to rise. Instead of allowing for that indulgence, he dismissed himself, turning away from her lifeless body, and stored the memory of her last words safely in his heart next to that of Li Pong.

Quieter than a mouse, he let himself out, creeping from her room, and back down the stairwell. In the foyer, he took his hat and coat from the rack and went out on the porch without putting them on. Before he could help it, a shudder wracked his frame and the first hint of a sob broke loose. He choked it off and sniffled, brought one hand up to wipe at his nose, and composed himself.

The full weight of the fog had enshrouded the city, muting the air, casting calm and deathly silence over the street. Even the sharp vision of a vampire couldn't pierce it. Ezra breathed in the tangy dampness and analyzed its aroma. There was something familiar in the air, smelling of musk, earth, and leather. He was already turning toward the source of the scent when Vin Tanner's silhouette appeared on the end of the porch.

The tracker's full features bled into view as he came closer, the fog curling back from him until he stood in clear view, cloaked in a black duster, long hair beaded around the edges with clinging mist. The collar on the duster was turned up, a most becoming accent alongside the hard angles of his jaw line.

"Mr. Tanner," Ezra said softly in surprise, standing with his own coat draped over one arm, the brim of the hat gripped tightly in his hand. "What are you doing here?"

Vin shrugged. "Thought maybe you shouldn't be alone." His eyes maintained their usual cool steadiness, as if the man couldn't be bothered to smile anymore.

Well, it was the thought that counted, Ezra figured. "What about the others?"

"There'll be hell to pay later, I 'spose." Vin tossed a glance toward the front door. "How is she?"

Ezra stared at the floorboards, all emotion swept away. It made him feel so damned tired. And he was undead. He wasn't supposed to feel tired anymore. "She's in another place."

Vin looked at him. "Ezra, I'm sorry.”

"Ashes to ashes," the conman said under his breath. He looked up, taking on Vin's hard gaze with no hint of resistance, and when he blinked, tears fell free. There was just no helping it, so he gathered what dignity he had left and refocused. "I guess we should go." He walked to the edge of the porch and took one step down to stare out into nothing but solid white air. "Thick as pea soup doesn't begin to describe this fog. We could practically stand in broad daylight and not get burned. . ."

Suddenly hands crept over his shoulders from behind, and strong, spread fingers reached under the lapels of his suit jacket. He sighed as the arms drew him back, and he felt Vin there, standing on the next step up directly behind him. To not be alone here, and now, meant so much. The coat and hat slid from his hold and rolled in a heap of wool, silk, and fur, down the steps into the mist. Ezra leaned his head back and felt the comfort of Vin's soothing chest there, a lapel on the duster brushing his cheek. His hands came up to cross over his chest and hold onto Vin's arms, securing him as he shuddered again.

Vin's breath whispered in his ear, and a damp lock of hair teased his temple. Ezra closed his eyes and surrendered with a low gasp that grew into a full sob, as he basked in his lover's embrace. For a moment the world outside the two of them did not exist. There was only the fog and the protective pocket it created around them.

When Ezra opened his eyes, he was standing alone and dangerously close to the line between shadow and the sun's morning rays. He looked up the slope of the rocky hill, at the mouth of the cavern. For a moment, he was tempted to cross a foot over the line, just tease the sun, and see what happened, and suddenly he understood why Vin played that game. Quite a rush to tempt the sun, casting fear to the wind to chance a fiery death.

The present was an extreme contrast to that place encased in the mists of San Francisco a century ago. The landscape glared, the sun striking sand, shrubs, and rocks with golden force. Ezra climbed up the slope, the cavern above coming into better view. The opening reminded him of a gaping maw, stony deposits like fangs forming columns to either side of the entrance. He saw Vin standing in the center opening, looking into the passage, hesitating. The tracker had removed his duster, which hung, gripped tightly in his hand, at his side. His muscled back was tensed, shoulder blades prominent under the tight fit of his black tank.

Squinting as the glare of the sun crept higher and thus more risky, Ezra took another step up, intentionally scuffing a heel on the rock so that Vin heard his approach. The other turned around to face out, shoulders hitched back, eyes narrowed and reflecting an intense orange-red.

Ezra cocked his head and smiled casually. "Womb and tomb all in one, eh?"

"That ain't funny, Ezra."

The smiled dropped, and Ezra finished the climb up to the opening. "I wasn't trying to be funny, Vin. I was here, too, remember?" With continued nonchalance, he stepped past the tracker and dared to be the first to make the descent. Vin's apprehension to go on was clear from the way he had been standing, so Ezra figured it was up to himself to put the wheels in motion.

"Ezra. . ." Vin grumbled. "What are you doing here?" He took a few reluctant steps down the path.

Ezra scoped the passage ahead, his vision adjusting from the bleed-out effect of too much daylight to the more gray perspective of seeing in darkness. Time had wiped clean the reek of blood and goon carcasses. There was more dust, and spats of bat guano. In essence, nature had moved back in.

"I thought it might be hazardous for you to walk this path alone," he said over his shoulder and walked on, clearing the little bend in the path. The proverbial butterflies flapped about in his belly. Just ahead lay the entrance into the chamber where he and Vin, and later Nathan and Josiah, had all made the crossing.

"Ezra," Vin grumbled and started after him, taking baby steps, hesitating. Ezra could hear the footsteps working out a pattern: two greater steps. . . pause. . . three more steps. . . pause. . .

Ezra moved on into the chamber and looked around. The candles that had been burning on the walls back then were, ironically, still there, even if completely coated in dust that had hardened into a shell. The wax formations were another century short of becoming one with the stone. He looked into the nook where Selvik's goons had held him captive all that day, facing into the wall, so he hadn't even known that Vin, trapped in the death sleep, was in the same chamber with him. And there, across from the nook and against the opposing wall, was the altar upon which Vin had lain. The phantom sensation of goose flesh climbed up Ezra's arms.

At the opening, Vin took a long, deep breath, and stepped down.

Ezra wandered toward one of the natural shelves and, out of need for a warmer atmosphere, used a thumbnail to scrape the top layer of crust off one of the thicker candles. The wax beneath was hard and seemed to be preserved nicely. He rooted out the wick and pinched it up. From his blazer pocket, he pulled out a book of matches and lit the candle. In seconds a soft, dancing glow cast around the chamber. Ezra removed his jacket, grimacing at the damage it had taken, dirt and blood ground into the fabric.

"Au revoir, Ralph Lauren," he said and hung the jacket on the wall via a small jut in the stone. He noticed the remark didn't rouse the tiniest grunt from Vin, and turned to find the other standing silently on the other side of the chamber, facing the wall. "Vin?"

Vin's duster lay in the middle of the floor, forgotten. His head was bowed, his forearms raised so that it appeared he was holding something before him, out of Ezra's range of sight.

Approaching the silent figure, Ezra kept the slightest distance as he came in from the side and halted, clipping off a gasp before it made full breath. His mind leapt back, recalling how he and the others had cleaned this place out. They'd dragged out the remains of several goons and dumped them where the sun would take care of them the next day. First and foremost, they had taken Selvik's headless body out. Headless being the operative phrase. Apparently, they had forgotten the head.

Vin stared at the skull cupped in his hands, eyes hazy as they examined the fangs, which had dulled from white to dirty ivory but were still, nonetheless, glossy and fearsome in their sharpness. The empty eye sockets appeared to stare back, as if the master vampire's spirit were still in there, trapped perhaps, but able to see that his mark on Vin remained.

"Ah, hell," Ezra murmured.

"You don't know," Vin said rustily, a fearful shake in his voice. "You don't know what he did to me. How he. . . changed me. . ."

"I know what he did to you, Vin. You've shown me. . . off and on. . ." He shrugged, shaking off the false chills that still clung to him. Certainly the flashes of vision that had tried to escape Vin's mind in the past did not carry the full weight of the actual experience. "But I won't pretend to understand how it must have felt when it was immediately happening. You have to help me understand that."

Vin's fingers tightened their grip on the skull, his knuckles turning white as all of his focus poured into the dusty, gray shell of bone.

"Alas, poor Selvik," Ezra said dryly, the disgust like a sour knot lodged in the back of his throat. He moved suddenly, reaching up and clamping his hands over Vin's as he stepped directly before the brooding tracker. "Look at him now, Vin. You beat him." He gritted his teeth and hissed, "He is nothing. Just a bad memory."

Vin's brows knitted, and his eyes glittered, every possible emotion sweeping over his face in a matter of seconds, and he breathed shallowly. "How can you stand me?" He looked up from the skull's grinning countenance.

“What’re you talking about?” Ezra gripped harder, shaking a little. The skull appeared to shiver between the two sets of hands fastened around it like a vise. Then Ezra found himself lost in a pair of soft blue eyes, the likes of which he hadn't seen since 1877.

The owner of those eyes had been dead for a long time.

"I gave you this life," Vin said, "and then I punished you for taking it." His gaze roamed slowly, rolling out to the side, then up toward the cavern ceiling as if he would find more answers up there. "You taught me to read, and you've put up with my shit, but I've never been there for you."

"No more of this, Vin," Ezra snarled. "Enough." The harsh tone was enough to keep Vin focused on him, to stop straying away from the matter they really had to address. "You were there for me at the moments in my life when I needed someone most, so don’t even try to heap that shit on yourself."

A tiny gust of breath shook out of Vin at this minor swearing coming from Ezra Standish. "I—“

"Enough," Ezra repeated more gently. His hold on Vin's hands gradually loosened, and he coaxed the skull free to cradle it in his own palm and held it aloft. Briefly he looked into the dark eye sockets and the nasal cavity. The bulb-shape of the cranium made him think of an evil genie's bottle. If Selvik's spirit really did reside inside there, then Ezra counted it a blessing, for what escape could there possibly be from that?

Carrying the skull across the room, Ezra glanced around until he found the perfect spot, a sort of cubbyhole just above the ledge where the other candles had been arranged. He set the skull inside the little space, displayed like some grim trophy. "Now," he said, turning to Vin. "Take aim, and spit." He pointed at the area above the skull's nose. "Get him right there, between the eyes."

The tracker stared at him as if he'd completely taken leave of his senses. Then an almost crazed look crept into Vin's eyes. His eyebrows quirked with uncertainty whether to present a frown or rise with amusement. He blinked and the corner of his mouth twitched. Then a snicker, accompanied by a wet sniffle, erupted out of him. Vin shivered where he stood as a hundred and twenty-five years worth of festering emotions rose to the surface and hit the last delicate wall of resistance.

"Vin. . ." Ezra whispered, his heart swelling in his chest, before the world around him shifted, and in his mind he saw it all, felt it all. The little glimpses he had gotten before were nothing compared to the vision that struck him now.

Lying helpless and naked on the floor, humiliated and bleeding to death. . . pain shooting through his body. . . and vicious lower ranks of undead. . . stinking. . . filthy. . . lapping up his blood. . .

Never had the vision been so intense. Ezra suddenly understood far more than he had thought he did before. The terror of the situation was a given, but to feel it, to actually be there and die listening to that horrific lapping noise and the eager mewling and growling, unable to move or scream. . .

That inability to express himself then, to cry out, had blocked Vin off completely. Left him incapable of truly venting his emotions without taking a violent bent.

Then the sores broke, the infection ran, and Vin let loose a long, drawn out gasp as a deluge of tears from his eyes. He collapsed to his knees, hands reaching up to cover his face, his fingernails formed just slightly into little talon tips. "Oh, God. . ." he choked on a sob and sniffled. His lips curled back, revealing his fangs at half bud.

Eyes burning with tears of his own, Ezra went to him. "I see, Vin. I see." He reached out to guide the tracker against him, pulling Vin's hands away from his face so that neither the beast, nor his tears, could hide.

"I didn't want to do it to you. . ." Vin sobbed. "I'm so sorry, Ezra. . . I'm sorry for everything." His head bowed in against Ezra's chest and his shoulders heaved. He squeezed his lids tightly, wringing out more tears that drenched the front of Ezra's shirt.

Ezra remained on his knees, arms around the tracker's quaking shoulders and head, rocking gently forward and back. His own tears continued to slip quietly down his cheeks as he stared at the wall. The candle flame's haunting dance became a blur of light to his flooded vision. "Now-now," he whispered after a moment. "Guilt doesn't become you, Mr. Tanner." One hand lazily moved up and down the curve of Vin's spine. "There was nothing you could do, Vin. There was nothing any of us could do but keep each other alive, and we did it the only way we could."

A hollow and very wet sniffle answered him from down in the depths of his chest. Vin continued to shake and weep. "I just want. . . I just want. . ." He fought around breaths to get the words right. It was another long moment of sniffling and deep breaths before he could speak again. "I want. . ."

Ezra calmly took the other man's shoulders in his hands, his thumbs caressing the hollows where the deltoids met the pectoral muscles. His fingers slid beneath the cotton straps on Vin's tank, and he pushed Vin up and back. "What, Vin? What do you want?"

The eyes blinking back at him were framed in dark, soppy lashes. Vin's damp cheeks sparkled in the golden light. "I want to be free," he rasped. "Ezra, I let him rule me." His eyes roamed past their focus on the conman's to just over his shoulder, and Ezra knew he was looking at Selvik's skull. "Even dead, he's been inside me. Not like Ella with Chris, but. . . because I let him. . . even with him dead and gone. . ."

Ezra nodded.

"I want to be free," Vin repeated.

One hand reached up quickly to stroke at Vin's jaw line, drawing his attention back once more. Ezra cupped the same hand around the side of Vin's neck, the place where Selvik had torn into him, opened his veins, and drained the life from him. The pulse beneath the skin throbbed with that familiar and even rhythm, the same beat matching Vin's heart. "Then. . ." he murmured softly and leaned in closer, lips hovering above Vin's.

"Move with me, Vin. Not against me."

At that he captured his lover's mouth in a kiss. Vin shuddered instantly at the contact and moaned. The vibrations traveled into Ezra's throat, arousing a moan of his own. Their tongues met, just the tips touching, before they both drew away from each other, lips parting.

Ezra dipped his head to the side, fingers spreading and sliding through Vin's hair as he smoothed it back from the tracker's face and sighed. He listened to the pulse rising and falling, a soothing thrum, and smelled the tangy, alluring scent of Vin's blood.

"May I?"

Vin answered by stiffly tilting his head a little further. The dense cords of his neck muscles flexed beneath the taut skin, and he swallowed with a loud, nervous gulp.

This was the first crucial step, Ezra realized as he kissed at the area over the pulse. Vin murmured something between an objection and an urging. Then Ezra opened his mouth, extended his fangs to full length, and bit down. The skin popped under the pressure of the needle-sharp points, and Vin's body bowed toward his own. Ezra kept the bite as gentle as possible, not tearing the skin beyond the punctures necessary to draw out one mouthful of blood. He retracted his canines and tasted the flow, tepid and yet so alive and piquant. In seconds the wound closed up, and Ezra swallowed.

The buzz line between their minds surged to new life. One of Vin's hands wrapped around Ezra's side, cinching him in closer, clinging as if to plead for guidance. The conman was more than happy to oblige and tilted his head, granting access for Vin to take his turn.

Vin nuzzled at the pulsing skin beneath Ezra's ear, his mouth open and fangs already at full extension so that Ezra felt the slightest rough graze and the slick of saliva before Vin bit down. The pop and sting sent new shivers down through Ezra as he felt the blood pass through the holes, dizzying and delightful. Like his lover, Vin took only a mouthful and then allowed the spot to heal. Ezra sensed that the old urge to tear in harder and deeper was there in Vin, but not nearly as strong. Vin resisted, and the bond between them coordinated their intentions, allowing them to flow with each other, their thoughts as clear to each other as if they were spoken.

Ezra stood, drawing Vin along with him, and reached down to remove the tracker's tank. He paused to stare at the hole in the front, where the hunter's spear had gouged Vin, so close under his heart. Ezra felt a jolt of inner pain to think what might have happened. Then Vin's hands urged him on, and he continued to pull up the shirt at the sides until it slipped over Vin's head and along his raised arms. Vin went to work, freeing the buttons on Ezra's shirt, pinching the tear-dampened material between his fingers and sighing as the hard-muscled chest beneath came into view. Shirts discarded, they finished undressing each other while Ezra slowly backed Vin toward the stone altar, laying down a path of boots, jeans, slacks, and underwear. Both were completely naked by the time Vin's buttocks pressed against the edge of the rough stone, and he backed off, glancing down at it and then at Ezra, sending a silent distress signal.

Of course. Ezra had expected there to be some trauma over this particular stone. He distracted his lover with a kiss, tasting tongue and tooth in Vin's mouth before he pulled away and went to retrieve the old duster from the floor.

Returning with the coat, Ezra spread it out on the altar as a makeshift pallet and looked into Vin's eyes for approval.

He found amusement ingrained within the shards of the blue irises, and lingering redness around the edges. The conman's hands reached behind and gripped Vin's firm little ass, a cheek in each hand, and lifted, guiding him to sit on the platform. Vin's toes unconsciously spread as they came up off the floor. Ezra remained standing, leaning over him.

. . . do you trust me. . .

. . . trust. . . yes. . . trust. . . you. . .

. . . let me send you. . .

As Vin propped back on his hands, tilting his head so that his hair fell in a cascade between his shoulder blades, Ezra pursed his lips around a soft nipple and sucked vigorously. His hands strayed away from the sweet curves of Vin's ass. One hand, fingers spread, tickled around a lean hip and down along the crevice of the pelvic bone to locate Vin's flaccid but slowly rising cock. The other trailed up, tickling the lower edge of Vin's ribs, to the second nipple and began to work the skin into a rigid bud. A fingertip circled around and massaged the nub, while Ezra's teeth nipped at and teased the other nipple. Air hissed through Vin's teeth, and he shifted his weight over to one arm, freeing the other to stroke the back of Ezra's head.

His groin nudged Vin's inner thigh, and Ezra felt tingles in his own cock. The rosy head began to swell with anticipation, and brushed against the coarse nest of Vin's pubic hair.

. . . you don't have to be gentle with me. . .

. . . do not even go there. . .

With an anxious groan, Ezra dropped to his knees and circled a thumb and forefinger around the base of Vin's shaft. He pulled out slightly, encouraging circulation, enjoying the texture of the foreskin, while he kissed the head, flicking his tongue over the tip, and tasting the saltiness of pre-cum beading out of the meatus. Vin's hand still clenched his hair, but the tracker didn't try to pull him closer or force him to work harder.

. . . I never wanted to hurt you. . .

. . . I know. . .

Ezra opened his mouth and took the full organ in, moaning as the lower shaft slid over his tongue with the slightest give to the foreskin. He paused, observing how the shaft pulsed and thickened. The head, grown into a firm bulb of flesh, pressed up against the back of his throat.

Vin unconsciously pushed his hips out a little further, and Ezra looked up along the course of the body in front of him. Past the graceful stretch of Vin's sleek abdomen, to the shadows beneath his pectorals, to the angle of his collarbone and his exposed throat. The tracker still faced upward, eyes closed, lips parted so that the tip of his tongue briefly danced between his long fangs.

. . . I promise. . .

. . . promise nothing. . .

Ezra dragged his contouring lips back down the shaft and over the head, until he closed them to a purse and let go with a peck of a kiss. He rose and licked his way up the middle of Vin's belly, pausing to sidetrack and tongue at a nipple, before he climbed all the way to the base of Vin's neck and under his chin. Carefully he began to lay Vin back on the altar and eased up onto the stone himself, stretching out along the lower quarters of his lover's body. He ran a hand under Vin's balls and cupped them, working one of the tender orbs around in its sack with the pad of his thumb.

They stared at each other, Ezra's green eyes tranquil, Vin's expectant blues still watering around the edges. Ezra slid his hand past Vin's scrotum, just to the edge of the anal opening, but could reach no further as he realized Vin's legs were locked in place. Not quite together, but not exactly spread enough to give him access.

A sympathetic ache moved around inside Ezra as he gently backed his hand out. He stared down into his lover's eyes.

. . . let me do this for you. . .

. . . it will hurt. . .

. . . only for a moment. . .

The candle glow reflected in Vin's pupils, swirling patterns transforming his eyes into kaleidoscopes of blue, red, and violet. Slowly he began to spread his legs, drawing one up so that his inner ankle rested on Ezra's hip. His toes spread wide then curled in, gripping weakly at a patch of Ezra's skin.

It tickled like hell, but Ezra maintained calm and eye contact as he began to move his hand again, sliding down and meeting the tight opening. Vin Tanner had not been penetrated since the rape. Some part of him had sworn steadfastly that he would never be touched that way again, and it showed. Ezra ran his fingertip just within the ring and felt it pulse and tighten in objection to any possible entry.

Vin blinked the bleariness away, and then the lovers moved at the same time. Ezra backed away and waited, while Vin rolled onto his belly and propped on his forearms, legs stretched along the edges of the altar. Vin lifted his hips so that Ezra could move in again, positioning himself. He parted the two firm mounds of Vin's ass cheeks, finding a full view of the secret entry. Ezra leaned down and licked at the ring with precision, pressing in his tongue, tasting Vin and enjoying the smell of musk and blood rushing beneath the skin.

And that heartbeat. . .

Ezra pushed his tongue inward with one beat, then out with the next, creating a gentle rhythm to help Vin's body relax. With each thrust, he wetted the passage more, and felt the muscles begin to give. When Vin suddenly undulated his hips, Ezra smiled inwardly, seeing that he was accomplishing his task, and the response was positive. His cock was growing harder, urged only by his intent to give Vin pleasure such as the tracker had never had before. Carefully, Ezra replaced tongue with fingertip, sliding the digit in up to the first knuckle.

. . . only if this is what you want. . .

. . . yeah, please. . .

. . . if it hurts, tell me. . .

. . . let it hurt. . .

Ezra worked his finger in a circle then slid in up to the second knuckle, then to the base of his finger. Vin was already trembling, breathing in short, distressed bursts; he tossed his head, hair slapping down on his back.

"Go on. . ."

Ezra could hear anguish in the voice, and sensed more tears even though he couldn't see them with Vin facing the other way. He hooked his finger downward and massaged. Then he drew it out and added a second digit.

. . . we're already inside each other. . .

He slid both fingers in knuckle by knuckle, stroking at the snug, wet interior and imagining how good that tightness would feel around his cock. Ezra put the anxious and lusty thoughts in check when Vin spat out another breath as if intensely pained. Ezra watched from behind as his lover's ribcage expanded and contracted like that of a heaving steed.

. . . no, this is hurting you too much. . .

He started to withdraw both fingers.

"No, Ezra, please. . ."

. . . I want all of you in me. . . all of you. . .

It was all such torture, Ezra thought, seeing Vin squirm, and he could feel the other mind struggling to stay in the present, to accept that what was happening to the body now was not against its will. Ezra pulled his fingers out, drawing more of the wet along to add to the opening.

. . . as you wish. . .

Like a cat he slinked into position, slipping his cock head between Vin's cheeks and against the opening. He gripped Vin's hips and pulled him up onto all fours, sliding in just a hair and then watching as the muscles in Vin's back rippled, shoulder blades squeezing together, spine undulating with serpentine grace. There were no more words offer, on the mental or spoken planes, which Ezra figured could prepare Vin for what was to come next. Better to get the pain over with, for as he had learned in the past, their bodies would heal of any tearing, and contour quickly to the intrusion.

Ezra thrust forward, neat and clean, forcing the aperture fully open and around him. His cock plunged inside Vin up to the hilt, and he held it there, resisting the temptation to shiver at that tightness around the base that trapped in the blood flow as sure as any cock ring, causing him to swell to greater proportions. He gasped at the insanely deep pleasure that greeted him, before a greater sense of exploding pain followed.

Vin roared, the sound a clash of echoes fading into the deeper cavern. The sound waves disturbed the candle flame violently, creating a strobe effect with their shadows on the wall. His body bucked aggressively downward, while his hips pushed back against Ezra, keeping him in despite the instinct to pull free. He shivered and muted sobs issued out from under the veil of his hair, as he kept his front weight up on his corded arms, his head bowed.

. . . it's me, remember. . . only me. . .

Every part of Ezra's being wanted only to soothe Vin, and before he could dampen it the emotion of it all overwhelmed him, pouring forth a single thought form. There was no taking it back, no denying its release as the century caught up with him in three little words.

. . . I love you. . .

The effect was nothing short of astonishing as Vin's shivers died down and his breathing leveled off. That calm acceptance was answer enough for Ezra. He waited, ensuring that the pain had subsided completely in Vin, before he withdrew and thrust in again. Vin murmured through his teeth and bucked again, but more receptively this time. Gradually, they found their rhythm: Vin leaning forward then pushing back, while Ezra pulled back then pushed forward.

Ezra closed his eyes as every nerve in his engorged cock luxuriated in the silken wetness of his lover, and lightening bolts of pleasure built up in him. As they drew closer to climax, he sat back on his haunches, hands secured around Vin's hips, fingertips making indentions in the skin. He pulled Vin onto his lap, forcing his thighs and buttocks further apart to drive upward.

Vin uttered a moan as he sank downward, completely sheathing the stout organ a second time. His hands reached around behind him to find Ezra's forearms and gripped as if holding onto two support bars. Ezra's cock slid up against the erogenous wall, igniting greater sensation for Vin, whose own cock surged up. Their moans and gasps grew into a duet echoing through the cavern. Their shadows rose and fell together on the wall.

Feeling himself teeter closer to the brink, Ezra reached around and took careful hold of Vin's cock and began to slide the foreskin up, then back. They worked this new rhythm into the one already established. Mouth open, fangs now retracted, Vin rocked forward and up, then down, his lower back curved in, head falling back.

They rocked harder, faster, building each other up, passions mounting, until Vin forgot the past and all his pain with it. He cried out as he found relief, tearing off the shackles he had fastened around his own soul.

Ezra clenched his teeth and issued a contented growl as he came, spewing his seed up into Vin, who in turn came across the duster, shooting cool, pearly drops, before they both tensed up one last time then fell back, supported primarily by Ezra, who remained balanced upright. For a long moment they sat that way, Ezra's softening cock lodged up inside Vin's ass.

Ezra draped his arms around Vin's waist and brushed his cheek against a cool shoulder. His breath rushed over the skin and he kissed it, working his way inward until his lips met the ridge of Vin's spine. Vin sighed, and Ezra relished the sound, so free and relaxed and bearing the vibration of a preternatural purr. Vin leaned his head back, tilted just right to find Ezra's crown as a momentary pillow, and his hair dripped back and around his lover's face. Ezra smiled serenely to himself and playfully blew at one of the bronze locks.

Then, before his legs could go to sleep on him, Ezra urged Vin off. The tracker stretched out on his side, ignoring the drying drops of cum on his coat, and folded an arm under his head. Ezra stretched out behind him, an arm draped along Vin's hip. In no time the emotionally exhausted tracker was asleep, his breath dropping away into nothing, and he lay still as the very stone on which they rested. Ezra lingered in the waking realm, propped on one elbow, and considered all that had been accomplished just now. As he admired the sleeping profile—the eyes closed, long lashes resting against smooth cheeks—he saw a future that, for once, offered a cloud with a silver lining.

He looked up at Selvik's skull tucked neatly into its cubbyhole, those haunted eye sockets staring back at him, and he could swear he actually saw a look of horror distort the bone along the brow area. Just his imagination, Ezra figured, though he mused on it until he yawned and happily smacked his lips. In spite of himself, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch up into a smarmy smile that he directed at the skull, realizing that in winning this battle, he had won the war.

And feeling particularly catty, he even showed a bit of fang.

Epilogue - Un Camino Nuevo

Begging the maker
For just one
Gentle breath
It is whispered
We will walk together
Past that trail of blood
In shadowed truth we find
A hero's heart

- Vin Tanner, A Hero's Heart* -

"Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune."

Vin's soft Texan drawl soothed them all as the sun sank slowly below the horizon, its rays just touching the comfort point. In their minds they felt its warmth, even if their bodies did not. The color wash layered downward through pink to orange, to sienna. The rim of the butter-rum disk peeked above a low cloudbank over the ridge opposite where the Seven had positioned themselves along a series of natural steps and boulders. Leaning back against Ezra's knee from his place on the ground, Vin continued to read from Collected Poems and Maxims to Live By. The classically bound book had been a gift from Ezra a few years ago, but Vin hadn't really touched it until now.

"But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness." He paused on those words, worked his mouth gently, and swallowed to coat a suddenly dry throat. "Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself."

Chris and Buck also sat on the ground, facing the western theater, faces bathed in the golden light. Buck sat behind and straddling Chris, arms draped around his lover, his chin resting on a shoulder. From the front, this position appeared to give Chris two heads. They sighed together, relaxing a little deeper against each other.

"You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."

"Amen to that." Josiah sat next to a natural stone table, a row of quartz crystals, and a mini toolbox, before him. He worked with a length of gold wire and pliers as he carefully wrapped one of the clear shards.

"Amen," Buck echoed with a gust of breath into Chris' ear.

"I know this wasn't exactly written about us," Vin said, "but he sure does drive a nice point home, don't he."

"I should say so," Ezra replied, absently slipping his fingers up under the veil of bronze-brown locks to rub the back of Vin's neck.

"So you think things really are happening the way they should?" J.D. asked. He had perched himself up on the highest boulder, commandeering the best view of the sunset. "It took so long to get Ella, and now, I mean. . . what do we do now?" He put one hand to the stone beneath him and with feline grace vaulted down to land neatly on both feet and wander aimlessly closer to Buck and Chris' spot.

"We still haven't found Fowler," Chris replied, but he didn't sound distressed or even remotely focused on their elusive foe. For now, he was completely content with his new freedom.

"Well, maybe since we have some new recruits for Clarion, we'll have a better chance of finding him," Nathan said. "Shaw seemed to know some good history."

"Yeah, but he said Fowler took off to Europe," J.D. said. "What if he's still there? That mean we're going?" He sounded rather perky about it.

"Now, ya'll just hush," Buck objected. "Let's talk about Fowler and Europe and whatnot when we get back from our week off."

Everyone shrugged, and Vin got ready to finish the passage only to be interrupted.

"So, what're you all going to do for the week off?"

It wasn't the question, but the speaker, that had eyebrows rising. No one ever expected Chris Larabee to give a damn about what they were going to do on their week off.

"Josiah?"

The preacher looked up from his work fastening one of the quartz crystals into an intricate filigree cage of gold wire. He gave a proud smile over his craft. "I'm going up to Sedona. There's a retailer, owns a rock and jewelry shop, interested in taking on some of my pieces for consignment." The crystal in his hand caught one of the last rays of light and sparkled with the clarity of a desert stream.

"Woohoo," Buck said softly and smiled. "I'm sure they'll be a hit." His hands massaged absently along Chris' shoulders.

"We're going to Vegas," Ezra announced.

Vin didn't even glance up over his shoulder. "We are not."

"We're considering going to Vegas."

Josiah grinned. "Nice save, Ezra." He examined the finished crystal, set it aside and picked up another one to ponder its natural facets.

"I'm gonna work on some new designs for our arsenal," Nathan said. "Had some ideas on the back burner for a while now but no time to get 'em down."

"Borrrrrrrring," J.D. said. "Why don't you come up to White Castle with me, Nathan? There'll always be time later to make new weapons."

"What's in White Castle?"

"The first hamburger chain," Buck grumbled.

"Casey's granddaughter's family," J.D. corrected through his teeth, turning a useless glare on his tormentor, whose eyes glittered with amusement. "Been a while. Thought I'd check up on 'em."

"They have an angel watching over them," Josiah commented.

Vin held up the book and waved it back and forth. "Hello? Can I finish?"

"Certainly," Buck said, still grinning sideways at the flustered kid. "Go on, Vin."

Vin cleared his throat and continued. "Therefore, be at peace with God, whatever you conceive him to be."

Josiah smiled and found the best starting point on the crystal. Nathan resituated on his rock and propped on his knees, focused on the last fingers of light creeping below the hills. Chris leaned his head against Buck's knee and closed his eyes. J.D. remained standing, head bowed as if in prayer.

"And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace with your soul. With all of its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world."**

Vin closed the book and angled his head to look up at Ezra with warmth in his eyes.

"It is indeed," Ezra drawled happily and leaned down to kiss his lover.

"Ah, man, you guys. Get a room," J.D. said disgustedly.

Buck patted Chris' shoulder, gesturing for him to sit forward so that Buck could stand. He hoisted a leg over the rock he'd been sitting on and turned toward J.D.. Shoulders hunched, towering forward, he stepped closer. "I got it. Why don't you and I get a room, J.D.?" he asked low and husky.

"Yeah, very funny, Buck." He didn't look too comfortable that six sets of eyes were all focused on him no less than if he were the lead role in a stage play.

"No, I mean it." Buck reached up, brushing the back of his hand gracefully down J.D.'s cheek. "Really, it's been a long time for you. Or has it been ever for you?" He scratched his chin and rolled his eyes as if searching deeply buried memory banks for the answer.

"Lay off, Buck." J.D.'s eyes flashed with more than a little rising anger.

"So, what d'you say?"

"Fuck off."

"Well, fucking is the idea. . ."

It looked like Buck was going to need some help, Chris realized. The kid was not nearly as easy to tease as he used to be. Sitting up, Chris twisted around for a better view of the two and smiled casually. Too casually. It had the same startling effect as asking the others what they had planned for their vacations.

"Yeah, J.D., really. Buck and I were thinking about opening the circle."

The panic that had been missing seeped in to flush out the anger. J.D.'s eyes shot toward Chris like those of a rabbit under the shadow of a circling hawk. "You're kiddin' me."

"Nah," Chris insisted. "It's an open invitation. Hell, Josiah and Nathan can join in if they want. And Vin and Ezra."

Vin's eyes twinkled. "Thank's, Chris, but I think I got my hands full."

The preacher and the healer shook their heads. Josiah trained his attention on getting the last bit of wire looped, and Nathan watched the stars ignite one at a time.

"You can't. . ." J.D. straightened, looking from Chris to Buck, cornered out in the open. "You two can't be serious."

Suddenly Buck was on the kid, grabbing J.D.'s arm and swinging him forward and off balance, catching him in a dip. Before he could yell, Buck covered his mouth with a deep kiss, arms clamped tightly around the wriggling, kicking smaller body. J.D.'s hands pushed back against his shoulders and chest, both figures jostled by the struggle. In a moment, Buck lowered him down on his ass, not dumping him too hard, leaving him sitting sprawled and wide-eyed. "Boy, I been waitin' a hundred-something years to get you back for that love potion stunt."

J.D. tucked in a slightly swollen bottom lip and blinked. He sat stunned as the comment sank in. Slowly a smile spread across his face, proving that he still knew how to take a joke, and panic was replaced with relief.

And just as suddenly, all Seven laughed together. Peels of chuckles, snickers, and snorts carried down the rocky slope, and up to the sky to greet the stars.

It was a sound the world had not heard in a long time.

Fin