His thirst was consuming, but it did not completely override his sense of self-preservation. He took the time to feel for Stiles once again before leaving cover. Still nothing. So he headed around the corner and along Main Street at a determined if haggard pace. But on foot and badly mutilated, it still took precious time to cover the roughly two blocks to the Tri-Lakes and then cross open fields to get to Sykes Road. He could have gone cross-country and saved himself some distance, but he could not afford the risk. The ground between the town and his own land was hilly and hard to travel, especially in his present condition. Besides, he’d had no time to reconnoiter that area—someone could have put up fences or other barriers over the years, or Stiles may have even booby-trapped such an obvious shortcut. So instead he stuck to the side of the road, in the shadow of the trees. It took him longer to reach the Tunnel and beyond, but at least it was a route free of obstruction, and he made it there unmolested.

He clambered over the wall of the estate at nearly the same place Tommy Whitten and his friends had gone over, but did so with considerably less aplomb. The pain was almost blinding now; the silver burned everywhere, in his legs, his crotch, his shoulder, and it grew worse with each step he took. But he kept on. His only thoughts were of that precious elixir awaiting him, crimson waves of it, washing over him, wearing down and vanquishing the wall of pain that was building around him, brick by brick. Blood would save him. Blood would conquer the pain, would bring back the power. It would make him invincible.

He quickened his limping pace, fell once, twice, scrambled like an animal on his hand and knees. Not much further, he assured himself as he tore through the underbrush. Not much . . . further . . .

The trees around him gave way to thicket and then ceased entirely, replaced by clear moonlight. The vampire broke into the open; the house lay just across the open field. The sight of it brought a mad cackle bubbling to the surface. He lunged into the thick grass and waded for home. Katrina was pounding in his temples already as he entered through the garden; he could all but feel her heartbeat as he mounted the porch and staggered through the doorway, swallowing in anticipation of each glorious pulse. He headed for the cellar door.

“Mrs. Daaaa-ner.” The voice came from outside. It was almost as lifeless as one of his own followers. “Mrs. Daaaa-ner, can S’bastian come out and play?”