Opening the front door, he followed Hewitt’s scent out to the curb, noting that Shannah’s scent was strong here, as well.

He swore again, his anger rising quietly within him. The fools had taken her and for that they would die.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Hewitt!” Overstreet called, a hint of panic in his voice. “Hewitt, come here!”

“What’s wrong?” Jim Hewitt turned away from the kitchen table where he had been methodically sharpening several stout wooden stakes.

“Come here and take a look at the girl.”

“Why? What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know. She looks…” Overstreet shook his head. “I think she’s…dead.”

“What?” Knocking his chair over in his haste, Hewitt ran into the living room. He dropped down on one knee in front of the sofa and grabbed Shannah’s hand. Turning it over, he pressed his fingertips to her wrist, feeling for her pulse. “Dammit! What did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything! One minute she was sitting there on the sofa, glaring at me like I was the devil incarnate, and the next she just sort of keeled over.”

Hewitt swore again.

“Is she dead?”

“Not yet,” Hewitt said, gaining his feet. “She’s unconscious, though. Dammit!”

Rising, Overstreet reached for his coat.

“What are you doing?”

“We’ve got to get her to a hospital.”

“In the middle of the night?” Hewitt asked. “Are you completely out of your mind?”

“So, what do you want to do? Just let her die?”

Hewitt raked a hand through his hair. It was time to cut his losses and admit defeat. They could drop the girl off at the nearest hospital and then hightail it out of town.

Returning to the kitchen, he filled his pockets with several vials of holy water, made sure his crucifix was in place and visible, then picked up four of the wooden stakes.

“Bring the girl,” he said, striding toward the front door.

Carl Overstreet grunted softly as he lifted Shannah into his arms.

Hewitt snatched the car keys off the table; then, keys in one hand and a stake held firmly in the other, he opened the door, and stopped dead in his tracks.

“What’s wrong?” Overstreet asked, coming up behind him.

Hewitt swallowed the bile rising in his throat as he glanced into the distance and saw a pair of blood-red eyes looking back at him. “He’s out there.”

Overstreet swore and took several hasty steps backward. “What do we do now?”

Hewitt slammed the door and turned the lock. “I wish I knew.”

“Hewitt!” The vampire’s voice, edged with preternatural power and authority, cut through the night. “Bring her to me.”

“Do I look like a fool?” Hewitt shouted.

“You have one chance,” the vampire warned. “Bring her to me now.”

“Go to hell, you bloodsucker.” Hewitt’s eyes widened as Carl Overstreet, still carrying Shannah, walked zombie-like toward the door. “Overstreet, what the devil are you doing?”

Overstreet didn’t answer, just kept walking toward the door, his eyes glazed over, his mouth slack.

“Overstreet, snap out of it!” Hewitt stepped in front of the newspaperman and slapped him in the face, once, twice. “Carl!”

Overstreet blinked. “What happened?”

“He’s playing with your mind. You’ve got to shut him out.”

The vampire’s voice rang out in the night. “Bring her to me!”

“Maybe we can make a trade,” Overstreet called, a note of desperation in his voice. “The girl for an interview.”

“Interview!” Hewitt exclaimed. “Our lives are on the line and you’re still worried about that stinkin’ interview?”

Overstreet shrugged. Staggering slightly, he returned to the sofa and lowered Shannah onto it.

“What kind of interview?” Ronan asked.

Overstreet and Hewitt exchanged glances as they realized the vampire was on the porch now, with nothing but the door standing between them.

“For one of the magazines I write for,” Overstreet replied. “What do you say?”

“Make it quick.”

Overstreet grabbed his notebook and a pencil out of his coat pocket, then dragged a kitchen chair close to the front door and sat down. “How long have you been a vampire?”

“Five hundred and thirteen years.”

“How many people have you killed in that time?”

“A hundred, maybe more, not counting the two of you.”

Overstreet swallowed hard. “How did you become a vampire. Was it voluntary?”

“No. I was brought across by another vampire against my will.”

“Are there many vampires in the United States?”

“More than you want to know.”

“How about in the rest of the world?”

“We are everywhere,” Ronan said curtly. “There have been vampires since the beginning of time.”

“Where did the first vampire come from?”

“No one knows for sure. Some say the first man to become a vampire was a man who refused to die. He called up the devil and offered to trade his soul for immortality. Some say the man’s name was Vlad Tepes.”

“Do you think that’s true? That Vlad the Impaler was really a vampire?”

“It’s possible.”

“This is priceless,” Overstreet said, scribbling furiously.

“Is it worth your life?” Hewitt asked dryly. “Because that’s what it’s going to cost you if she dies before you’re through.”

But Overstreet wasn’t thinking about that now. The reporter in him had taken control.

Newspapermen had often sacrificed their lives for a good story, and this was the story of a lifetime. “Have you ever made anyone into a vampire?”

“No.”

“Do you know how it’s done?”

“Would you like me to show you?”

Overstreet cleared his throat. “She said you’re the romance writer. Is that true?”

“I grow weary of your questions, mortal. Bring me the girl.”

“And what happens if I do?”

“You should be more worried about what will happen if you don’t.”

“We think the girl is dying,” Hewitt said. “We were going to take her to the hospital, but I’m not coming outside as long as you’re here.”

“She is ill. Bring her to me now. I will not harm you this night.” Ronan forced the words between clenched teeth. “I swear it on her life.”

“What about tomorrow night?” Hewitt asked.

“I grow weary of this,” Ronan snarled. “Her time is running out. And so is yours.”

“Give him the girl,” Overstreet urged. “If she dies, he’ll hunt us down for sure.”

Hewitt swore under his breath. “Back away from the porch and I’ll bring her out.”

Overstreet peered out the window. “He’s gone.”

Hewitt snorted as he lifted Shannah into his arms. “Just because you can’t see him doesn’t mean he’s not there.”

“Well, it’s a chance we’re gonna have to take.”

“Open the door.”

With a hand that trembled, Carl Overstreet unlocked the door, then ducked out of sight, his notebook clutched in his fist.

Hewitt took a deep breath, then stepped across the threshold. Kneeling, he placed Shannah on the porch, then darted back into the house.

Overstreet slammed the door and locked it, then sagged against the jamb. “Do you think he’ll keep his word?” he asked, then jumped as Ronan’s voice rang out in the night.

“I always keep my word. You are safe. For tonight.”

Hewitt slumped against the front door. Damn, that had been a close one.

“That’s it for me,” Overstreet said, shoving his notebook into his coat pocket. “First thing in the morning, I’m outta here.”

“You intend to let him go, just like that?”

“Damn straight! I’m no vampire hunter. I got what I came for. From now on I’m writing about safer topics, like terrorists and serial killers. I don’t know about the other vampires you’ve killed. Maybe they weren’t as powerful as this one. Maybe you just got lucky with them, I don’t know. But I know one thing, if you go after this guy, you’re out of your ever-lovin’ mind.”

“Then I’m out of my mind.”

Overstreet nodded. “I’ll be sure to spell your name right when I pen your obituary.”

Muttering an oath, Jim Hewitt pushed away from the door. Maybe Overstreet was right. Maybe it was time to quit the field while he still could. He had been hunting vampires his entire adult life and what had it got him? He had a small house he hadn’t seen in months, a car with over two hundred thousand miles on it, and a suitcase. No family. No time for a girlfriend. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out on a date.

Maybe it was time to give it up. The pay wasn’t that great, considering that he put his life on the line every time he went after one of the Undead. He couldn’t kill them all. He laughed bitterly. He sure as hell couldn’t kill the one he was after now. Not that he had really tried, he admitted sheepishly. And as long as he was being honest with himself, he might as well admit that Ronan scared the crap out of him. It wasn’t something he could tell Overstreet, but just thinking about going up against Ronan one-on-one sent cold chills down his spine. There was something about this vampire that frightened him. Maybe it was just the fact that Ronan was so old. Vampires didn’t weaken as they aged. Quite the opposite. They grew stronger, faster, more deadly with each passing year.

He blew out a sigh. Dammit, he wasn’t a quitter! If he walked away now…he shook his head. If he walked away now, he was no more than a coward.