Bean glared back, but his confidence was shot and he quickly looked away. It wasn’t that he was weak or afraid; in fact, he was short on neither strength nor courage. But he was fiercely practical, and the idea of starting a battle with this man served no logical purpose, except, perhaps, for a death wish. His face still smarted from that kick earlier, the one he never even saw coming, the one that hit him harder than he could remember ever being hit, with or without a weapon. Because that’s what Stiles was, basically. A weapon. Bean hadn’t seen it in town when they’d first met—Stiles had been hiding it then—but now he could tell, just by the way the man walked and moved and breathed. He was like those lions that Jim and Marlin chased across the veldt for Wild Kingdom every Saturday in syndication. Superior and strong. A born hunter. A killer.

Bean was a practical man. And he knew when to back away. “Till morning,” he said, retaining his composure and hoping it sounded like a threat. He put the car in reverse and started to pull out when Stiles reached in and caught his arm.

“A little advice,” the soldier offered, “on the house. In the middle of the night, if someone comes to your door or taps at the window, whatever you do, don’t invite them in.”

Bean glared. “Vampires again?”

“No matter who it is,” he continued. “They can’t enter unless you let them in. Remember that.” He patted the deputy’s shoulder and smiled. “Goodbye, Charlie. Good luck. You’ll need it.”

Charlie Bean left the motel and headed back to the office, where he would go off duty and take the near-full bottle of Jack Daniel’s from his desk drawer and get as shit-faced drunk as he could. Because tomorrow he would have to come back here to make sure this nut was gone. And there was always the chance that he wouldn’t be.

Stiles stood alone in the parking lot and closed his eyes and wished that he’d been dreaming all of this, that when he opened them again he would be back at the culvert and Larry Hovi would still be rigid and ever waving and he would still have a semblance of control over the situation. But as it stood there was now a virulent affliction afoot with not one but four vectors running rampant. He wanted to run door to door and yell at them—Hey, you fools, wake up! You’re in danger!—but he knew the reaction he would receive. Charlie and Billie had been effective examples of that already.