He scrambled to his feet, then kicked into the dark, kicked at the softness of the creature’s wrecked body. He heard hissing and bubbling. The damn thing wasn’t dead, despite its wounds. He backed away, lest it regain its strength and attack him. Then he squatted, sweeping the floor for his lost clips, finding nothing. And then he heard before him:

“Come here, child.”

Was there another of their kids here? He backed up again, trying to get a wall behind him, to gain some kind of defensive advantage.

“Your end has come, child.”

He would have turned his last bullet on himself, but that would leave the book. He’d have to destroy it and just suffer the damn sucking death he loathed.

The one that had spoken was coming closer; he could hear it. Should he shoot it? Was it the monster, the queen? Was this her lair? No, he thought not. That voice had been low and musical, but male, very definitely.

He’d lost his gamble, then. He held the book before him and pressed the barrel of the gun up against it.

But before he could shoot, light burst out around him. He saw a crowd of vampires, all watching him with their grave, strangely empty eyes. He saw them in jeans, in tattered clothes from olden times, in dresses and the shorts of tourists. Their faces, though, were filled with hate, and they were not human faces. Down here, they didn’t need to bother with makeup and disguise. All the lips were narrow; all the eyes were deep; all the expressions were the same: calm, intractable hate.

Becky was suddenly beside him, her gun flaring. He fired, too, his last bullet.

As he reached around for another clip, a flaming pain shot through his left side. The arm that held the book went limp, and the book thudded to the floor. He saw why—the handle of a knife was protruding from his shoulder.

From the crowd of vampires there came shots. These had some guns—another surprise for Paul. He heard a grunt behind him, saw Des Roches crumple. He and Bocage had come up behind Becky.

The guns fired again, from both sides. Becky moved to protect him with her own body. “Fall back,” she snapped as she shot again and again.

Then there was silence. She said, in a quavering, incredibly tender voice, “You’re hurt.”

That was a lover’s tone, and it touched his heart unexpectedly deeply. “I’ll be okay.”

Her finger quivered along the protruding handle of the knife. “Oh, Paul, oh, God.” She kissed his cheek, and his heart seemed to turn over within him. Thrumming through his pain, he felt a kind of contentment. He could see her rich eyes in the dark, full of tender concern. And he had to admit, it felt damn, damn good.