She ran for the door, grabbing a handful of clothes from the laundry hamper as she passed.

For the scent, he realized with an inward curse. He admitted with sick fury that she might have the upper hand in this fight. You could train a person to be a hunter, but animals…they were born with it.

He ran after her, nearly catching her at the bottom of the stairs, but when she threw open the door, newborn sunlight flooded the stairwell. He hissed and jumped back.

As she fled down the street, she called, “Stay out of my way, vampire. I will kill you if I must.”

I hooked up with I-94 and hauled ass over the state line before the sun rose. After a boring, cramped day in the unbearably stuffy van, I hit the road with a travel mug of cold blood from the cooler I’d brought, and set my sights west.

Just outside of Chicago I caught the junction of 80-90, which would lead me into Iowa, and the landscape flattened almost immediately. With no tape deck and a broken radio, I exhausted my voice—and repertoire of Abba songs—quickly.

With nothing to occupy my mind, my thoughts turned inevitably to Nathan. I knew he wasn’t dead. I tried the blood tie vigilantly, though all I ever got in return was the tiniest pull. I filled my mind with as much love and support as I could, and sent it his way, hoping he would get the message. Eventually, memories I would rather have ignored started popping to the surface.

I thought of all our failed attempts to play Risk. The way I’d shouted “Bad omen! Bad omen!” every time he’d rolled the dice. It had driven him mad, but not so mad he couldn’t see the humor in it.

I remembered the time we’d tried to repaint The Crypt.

“What the hell is that?” he’d demanded of the botanical border I’d begun sponging around the top of the walls.

I’d squinted at it with what I’d considered a critical eye. “A fig leaf.”

Apparently, I’d not been critical enough. He’d looked deeply offended by my artistic skills. “Apparently your idea of a leaf and my idea of a leaf differ greatly.”

Frowning, I’d dabbed at the paint protectively. “I think it looks fine.”

“All I’m saying is if you were in charge of the Garden of Eden, I’d be glad not to live there.” It had been close to dawn and we’d been working since sunset. Nathan’s tired voice and his accent, grown thick with exhaustion, had rendered his words barely distinguishable as English.