The taste of his blood.

It was faint on the tongue at first, but the recollection grew until Danner could almost taste it anew. It made his senses swim, like a sip of rare wine, and it left him wanting more. Sadly, he could not use it to his advantage—he had not drank deeply enough to control Stiles or to bend him to his will (if that could truly be done), but . . .

Danner’s eyes widened. He leapt from the van and stood there on the sidewalk, sifting the night air and finding himself still heady with the scent of the man’s blood. So it wasn’t the soldier’s lingering scent that alerted him after all. It was the soldier himself! Danner closed his eyes; the taste of blood welled in his mouth and mind, and the perception of Stiles’s presence grew sharper. The empathy was tentative; he could not pick up thoughts or mental images the way he could with others. But he could intuit the man’s presence simply by detecting the flare of emotions. Excitement. A tinge of fear. And most of all, a cold rage.

He looked around. The feeling was close by—Stiles was near.

There were other cars lining the curb on either side of the street; their grouping in this otherwise deserted town was what had initially surprised him. The cars were closer to one house than any other. What did that mean? He started to smile, but remained wary. It just couldn’t be that easy.

The windows of the Cape Cod-style house were still shaded, but Danner could see a sliver of light peeking between the heavy drapes. He started up the front walk and mounted the porch, astounded that this place was actually familiar to him yet not daring to suppose himself so lucky. Surely they weren’t that stupid. He went to the front door and twisted the knob until the lock broke, only to find other locks and dead bolts in place. “Really,” he smirked and gave the door a sound shove. There was a crack and it swung wide open, the bolts still intact but torn from the corresponding jamb. “Knock, knock,” he grinned, “anyone home?” The entry hall, which led to what he knew to be the living room, was empty. “Ah. Then you won’t mind if I come in.”

He stepped across the threshold without invitation, for the one he’d received the previous night still held.

What were the odds, he gloated, that these simpletons would choose one of his houses—one already breached by invitation—in which to barricade themselves? And this was indeed their fortress, he no longer had any doubts. The pungent, stinging aroma of garlic had attacked his nostrils immediately upon entering. But instead of repelling him, it had an opposite effect. It only confirmed his suspicions, and it goaded him into searching further. He could feel Stiles. He could feel his own rage building.

And the hunger. Always the hunger.