“Kill me?” he said, and for a moment his face slackened. Like a cloud passing before the moon, he lost that feral glint. “Kill me, Billie?” he whispered. “Why, I almost wish you could.” Then his eyes narrowed and the grin returned, fracturing his face from one ear to the other.

“Shoot him, Mom!”

“DO IT!” Stiles yelled.

Billie’s finger tensed on the trigger. But there it froze—she couldn’t pull it through. And by then, Larson was already on her. He charged and brushed the gun aside, caught her by the shoulders. Stiles was already on his feet and struggling toward them, but he was just too far away.

Dutch pulled her head to one side and she could do nothing to stop him; she was rigid with terror. She could only whimper as he licked her neck, a big sloppy dog kiss, oily and tainted, and then he laughed and bared his teeth—and gasped.

He drew back and grabbed his mouth, which was smoking inexplicably, then flung the woman aside and began to run. Stiles reached Billie a half-second later, jerked the rifle from her numb hands and ripped open the fleeing figure’s back with an erratic burst. But it only knocked the vampire on his face; a moment later he was up and running again, around the corner and out of sight.

“I . . . I couldn’t move,” Billie mumbled as she leaned against Stiles for support, too shocked to even cry or be afraid. “I looked at him and I just looked and looked and I couldn’t move, not even when he . . .” She grimaced with disgust and wiped at the wetness on her throat. Even the little golden crucifix on her necklace was slimy with his spit. Her eyes widened; she pulled the trinket from her neck and gaped at it. “This? He touched this? Then that means . . . he really is a . . .”

Bart sighed to his brother. “It’s about time.”

“I don’t get it,” Del said, staring at her crucifix. “It didn’t work for me.”

Before Bart could say a word Stiles had shoved the carbine into his arms and, recovering his own Uzi, they went through the doorway between the shops. The door at the top of the staircase was standing wide open, beckoning, inviting them in. To see what, Billie wondered, fighting back her chill. Stiles went up the steps without a sound and slipped inside. He returned in a minute and motioned for them to come up.

Charlie Bean sat on the couch in the middle of what was once his living room, amid overturned furniture and broken glass. He held a pump shotgun across his lap and stared vacantly into space.

“Charlie?”