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for any length of time wasChicago . Blues and booze until the wee hours of the morning. Nothing could
beat it. But he couldn t stay there for long. There were too many memories of Marcus. Too much pain.
Now, he wished he could be there. He wished he could be inZimbabwe . Anywhere but here.
He didn t doubt for a minute Carrie s story. Nathan probably was possessed. But while she was full of
hope and determination, all Max could muster was a lesser level of bone-weary despair.
Demonic possession of a vampire wasn t something that could be cured without drastic measures. Those
measures usually involved the sharp end of a wooden stake. Though it was hard to imagine actually killing
Nathan, Max knew it would be far better for him to die than be miraculously cured and have to face the
death he d visited on innocent people.
Max dropped his bag at the end of the couch out of habit. The last time he d stayed in the apartment had
been the time he d helped Nathan and Carrie kill Cyrus. She was a piece of work, running off to face him
again after all he d done to her. Max wasn t sure if, given the same circumstances, he could have
managed it.
In the kitchen, he looked guiltily through the refrigerator. No matter how many times someone told him
to make himself at home, he always felt as if he was snooping. He grabbed a bag of blood and poured it
into the teakettle, praying Carrie hadn t tampered with the contents for one of her experiments.
The hiss of the burner reminded him how quiet it was in the empty apartment, and he went to the stereo.
Glancing over the rows of CDs, he found it easy to tell which were Nathan s and which belonged to
Carrie. Nathan was all about mellow, moody classic rock. He had a decent selection of Zeppelin and
some Floyd. Carrie had a small but respectable jazz collection and some pop albums of questionable
taste.
Like oil and water. Max chuckled to himself as he slid a Led Zeppelin album into the CD player. The
machine cycled, then the opening notes of Babe, I m Gonna Leave You wafted from the speakers.
Excellent, Max affirmed to no one in particular. He went to the kitchen, poured the warmed blood into
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a mug and seated himself at the cracked Formica dinette table. With no time left to canvass the city, he
decided to wait out daylight and start at dusk. Wherever Nathan was, he d find him. He owed it to his
friend to let him die at the hands of a vampire, not some werewolf assassin who reeked of dirt and
campfire smoke. The only thing Max hated more than werewolves were hippies, and even he had a hard
time telling them apart.
As the tempo of the music slowly picked up, he stood and wandered around the apartment, sipping his
dinner. Everywhere he looked were books with creased spines, notebooks and scraps of paper, framed
snapshots on the shelves. It was a home. Someone lived here.
He picked up one of the photos. It was a souvenir snapshot people buy at amusement parks, a freeze
frame of a moment on a roller coaster, at night, of course. Never in the entire time he d known Nathan
had Max ever seen him look like he was having that much fun.
Carrie was good for him. An ache grew in Max s chest. It would be hell on earth for her when Nathan
died. Not just because of the blood tie. Whether or not they admitted it to themselves or each other,
Carrie and Nathan were in love.
The constant, fevered wind-up of the song started to grate on Max s nerves. He moved to change the
track, and the floorboard creaked. Another creak echoed from the other end of the hall.
He straightened. So, it wasn t the racing tempo of the music that set him on edge. Someone was there,
lurking in the dark, empty rooms.
He hoped it was just a garden-variety prowler.
The only weapon at his immediate disposal was a wooden stake. He slipped it into his back pocket, just
in case, and retrieved a knife from the kitchen. The plan was to charge in, knife waving, in full monster
face. Whoever had broken in would go out the way they d come and hopefully not break their necks on
the way down the fire escape or drainpipe or whatever they d shimmied up. He changed his face to
feeding mode and ran down the hall.
Two steps into Nathan s bedroom, a spike-heeled, leather boot caught Max in the forehead. The
wicked thing cut across his face, and he stumbled back, the surprise flashing his vampire face back to
human. Two more blows, a punch to the stomach and a knee to his groin forced him against the wall,
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doubled over, and brought the monster back to his countenance.
When he drew in a gasp of breath through his mouth and nose, he caught the spicy scent of her perfume.
Werewolf. DeCesare.
With a cry of rage, he launched himself at his assailant. She tumbled backward and he crushed her to the
floor. Though he had a good forty pounds on her, she almost wriggled free. She clawed at his face with
razor sharp nails, and he leaned back. It was all the space she needed to flip him onto his back and aim a
stake at his heart. He froze.
Nolen Galbraith, she wheezed in a strange accent, by order of the Voluntary Vampire Extinction
Movement, you are sentenced to death for the murder of Marianne Galbraith and Christine Allen. How
do you plead?
Turn on the light, he said between deep breaths. You dumb bitch, he added silently.
She squinted in the darkness. Nolen Galbraith?
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