It took a step. The nunchaku snapped outward like a striking cobra and crushed the bridge of its nose, leaving a divot two fingers deep. The vampire recoiled, not so much from pain as surprise. When it came forward again, Del feinted to the head and went for one bony knee, cracked it soundly, then back to the face to reform the waxy flesh over its cheekbone. Anger flashed for an instant in those empty silver eyes. It attacked again and received the same treatment, but this time it did not retreat. Del hit it and kept hitting it, three and four times running, but each blow had less effect. They dimpled the flesh and split it and cracked the bones underneath, but pain did not register in those eyes. Only emptiness. The boy was straddling Bart’s unconscious form now and could retreat no further. But still the enemy advanced. He swung out of desperation now and split the flesh over its cheekbone, separating the scar there, rupturing it so that it no longer resembled . . .

A cross?

Of course! Why didn’t he think of it before? He brought the nunchaku around to a two-handed grip and crossed them, relieved that the chain was long enough. And finally he got a reaction. The undead thing reeled away from him, wide-eyed, gasping as if scalded. Its arms rose to shield its eyes. And then . . .

Then it did something to freeze his blood.

It laughed.

It peeked from under its arms and looked at him, directly at his mighty, improvised cross, and it laughed. Madly, hysterically. “Tsk, tsk,” its dry voice grated. “Ye . . . of . . . little faith.” It continued to cackle as it grabbed the boy by the jacket collar and lifted him off the ground.

And then the laughter suddenly faded.

It lowered Del back to the ground, for the moment ignoring him. It was looking away, over his shoulder, across the gardens and drive. Toward the woods.

The boy twisted around to follow its gaze.

There was a figure standing there in the moonlight, in swirls of midnight fog. Watching. The man was still some distance away, so his features were no more than a charcoal smudge. He was stoic and silent, a shadow in a long coat and floppy brimmed hat. Unmoving.

The vampire grinned at the prospect of a larger meal, but the expression became uncertain. “Who . . .” it cleared its raspy throat. “Who are you?”

The shadow man did not move nor answer.

The ghoul appeared unnerved, if any emotion at all could be read from such a face. Del’s thoughts echoed its own. An enemy? Competition, perhaps? It must have decided on the latter, for it hoisted the boy aloft once more, feet dangling in the air, and pronounced, “Mine! Mine!”

Still no response.

“Who are you!”