The vampire lay there in the side yard of the house, his mind swimming, his face and neck peppered with slivers of glass. His back was blistered beneath the scorched sweatshirt but he couldn’t heal it, not in his weakened condition. He could barely make it to his feet. Through the gaping hole behind him he could see the shambles of the dining room, its furniture destroyed along with its owner. But to his surprise, the damage was relatively minor. The house still stood, and no flames raged within; only the blackened walls were evidence of a fire at all. The charges had been directional—directed solely at him.

Stiles’s handiwork was evident here, and so was his presence. The vampire could still feel him, close by. Was he still hiding . . . or could he be out there, stalking? “I’m still here, Mr. Stiles,” Danner yelled, forcing a laugh. “Do you hear me? Still here! Why don’t you come out and do the job right!”

He heard the scuff of footsteps on the street out front. The opening of doors. The drone of voices. The vampire gathered himself and walked around the house to where the crowds were gathering. His children, his offspring, had been awakened in number by the explosion and now milled about in front of the house, drawn by some remnant of human curiosity, or perhaps the primal expectation that where there’s commotion, there might be a hot meal. There were between twelve and fifteen of them from the immediate neighborhood, some stalking through the ground fog in predatory poses, while others staggered about and wiped the sleep from their eyes. Most stood alone and eyed the competition warily, though some of the women and children did huddle together in unconscious recognition of their former family structures.

Of course, there was no sign of Stiles among them. The challenge had gone unacknowledged. Danner fumed. He would have to keep looking . . . and keep finding the bastard’s traps. How many could there be?

How many could he survive?