He gunned the engine and overshot the intersection at Syca­more and Cedar, and an overcompensating jerk of the wheel took him up over the sidewalk and across the corner lawn. But he managed to get the cruiser back onto the road, and the prowl continued.

He was hungry. Even after gorging himself the previous evening with such gluttonous abandon, the pangs were there, sharp and unrelenting. He had expended too much undoing the damage Stiles had inflicted. He was whole again, unmarked, but at what cost? He was drained. Once again he was a slave to the hunger instead of its master, as much now as when he climbed from his makeshift prison three nights past. He had to feed soon. He had to find prey.

But that was easier said than done. He’d been active for nearly half an hour already, and still no food was in sight.

The vampire fumed. Stiles was responsible. Who else could it be? He was hiding them, Danner was certain. Would he never learn? It was only a matter of time ’till he found them, all huddled together like a Thanksgiving feast. And Stiles would be there with them. After all, the man was no fool—ghost or no ghost, he wouldn’t dare stay out past sundown again. Not after last night. Yes, he would be there, all right, cowering, hiding. Waiting to die.

Danner smiled at the notion. It gave him some solace, but not enough to overcome his needs.

He thought of blood, and he wished he’d made it home the night before. There he kept a reserve supply ready—he believed her name was Katrina, though it was of little import. But he just couldn’t make it back there, not after Stiles had left him gaping like a sausage on the grill. So he had hid in a victim’s basement and he had fed, and healed. And he had been confident that staying in town would guarantee easy prey the next eve. But now the notion seemed ludicrous. His eyes swept the empty street. Another half-hour, he thought. Then he would go to Katrina. At least she would get him by, tide him over till he could find Stiles and the others.

He tried the radio again—it was one of the few knobs on the massive console he could fathom—but little had changed from the last time. Sammy Hagar had been replaced by Bon Jovi; in short, he couldn’t tell the difference. The music was strident and hard on the ears even with the volume low, and the lyrics were nonsensical to him. But he left it on just the same. Like the car itself, this music was a sign of the times. If he was to exist here, and thrive, he would have to acculturate himself. No matter how unpleasant that proved to be.

He listened a little longer, but the music did not improve. It reminded him that immortality did at times have its downside. And it reinforced his self-doubts.