As John lay facedown and the footsteps of his enemy got closer, he breathed through his nose and got a sinus-load of fresh dirt. Pulling a possum was not a bright idea generally speaking, but this motherfucker with the epileptic trigger finger didn't fit the profile of someone who was going to be too careful about whether he'd hit his mark or not.

Letting loose the lead in the middle of a public park?

Had the idiot never heard of the Caldwell Police Department? The Caldwell Courier Journal ?

The boots stopped and that sweet, choking smell lessers carried on their skin nearly made him gag. But funny how life and death got the attention of your esophagus.

He felt something blunt push at his left arm, like the slayer was checking with his boot to see if they were in toe tag territory. And then on cue, Qhuinn let out a low, pathetic moan from around the far side of the shed.

Like his liver was leaking into his colon.

The boots moved down John's body as the bastard wandered forward to investigate and John cracked an eye. The slayer was pulling a Hollywood, his gun held straight out in a double-palm grip, the muzzle swinging from side to side with more affect than effect. Still, though he looked all Crockettand-Tubbs ridiculous with that theatrical bust-a-move, bullets were bullets and it would take only a quick shift in direction and John was at point-blank range.

Good thing he didn't give a shit. As the fucker wedding- marched it toward Qhuinn's moans, an image of Xhex's face sprang John up off the ground in a single lithe move. He landed on top of the lesser's thick back, latching on with his free arm and both of his legs as he put his gun to that pale temple.

The slayer froze for a split second, and John whistled between his teeth, the signal for Qhuinn and Blay to come up from behind.

"Time to drop the gun, asshole," Qhuinn said as he reappeared. Then, without giving the bastard time to comply, he reached out, locked his hands on the slayer's forearm, and made like he was snapping a stick.

The crack of bones was louder than John's whistle had been and the result was a limp wrist and a Glock no longer under the enemy's control.

As the lesser bucked in pain, sirens from far off sounded out... and closed in.

John dragged the bastard back to the double doors of the shed, and after Blay opened the way in, he pulled his prey out of sight.

With overexaggerated words, he mouthed to Qhuinn, Go get your Hummer.

"If those cops are coming for us, we've got to blow."

Not leaving. Get the Hummer.

Qhuinn took out his keys and tossed them to Blay. "You go. And lock us in, feel me?"

Blay didn't waste a second, backing out and closing the door. There was the subtle sound of metal clinking as he reset the chain and then a click as that Master Lock was popped into place.

The lesser was starting to struggle with greater strength, but this was not a bad thing--consciousness was what they were going for.

John flipped the fucker onto his stomach and pulled back on that neck until the thing's spine pretzeled.

Qhuinn knew exactly what to do. Kneeling down, he put his face right into the slayer's. "We know you hold a female prisoner. Where is she?"

As the sirens intensified, the slayer managed only a series of grunts, so John relented a little and allowed some air down in those lungs.

Qhuinn drew back his palm and slapped the lesser. "I asked you a question, bitch. Where is she?"

John eased up a little further, but not so much as to offer an escape route. With the added leeway, the lesser shuddered in fear, proving that whereas the motherfucker had been all business with his showy shooting, here during crunch time, he was nothing but a young punk in over his head.

Qhuinn's second slap was harder. "Answer me."

"No... prisoner."

As Qhuinn threw back his arm again, the slayer recoiled--yup, although the fuckers were dead, their pain receptors worked just fine. "Female abductee held by your Fore-lesser. Where is she?"

John reached forward and gave his gun to Qhuinn and then, with his now-free hand, he went to the small of his back and withdrew his hunting knife. It went without saying that he was the only one who was going to do any real damage and he brought the blade around and put it right up to the lesser's eyes. Wild bucking ensued, but the struggle was quickly contained, John's huge body blanketing what was under him.

"You're going to want to talk," Qhuinn said dryly. "Trust me on this."

"I don't know no female." The words were nothing but a hiss, that wind-pipe constricted by John's forearm.

John gave a jerk backward and the slayer yelled, "I don't!"

Sirens were screaming now, and out in the parking lot there were multiple tire squeals.

Time to tread carefully. The lesser had already demonstrated a total disregard for the single rule in the war, so whereas with any other slayer you could be sure of silence, that was a not-so-much with Mr. Click-click Bang- bang.

John met Qhuinn's mismatched stare, but the guy was already on it. Reaching over to a pile of oily rags, Qhuinn snagged one and stuffed it into the lesser's mouth. Then it was freeze-frame time.

From outside, the voices of the cops were muffled: "Cover me."

"Roger that."

As John put away his knife so he could hold on with both hands, there was lots of foot shuffling, most of which was off in the distance. But would no doubt come near eventually.

While the uniforms scattered, the radios in the cop cars provided a chatty sound track to their initial search- and-secure. Which didn't take long. Within a couple of minutes, the policemen were pooling around the cars, right next to the shed.

"Unit Two-forty to base. Area is secure. No victims. No perp--"

With a quick kick, the lesser creamed a gas can with its boot. And you could practically hear all those CPD gun muzzles come back up and train on the shed.

"What the fuck?"

Lash smiled as the kid's eyes locked on the Omega. Although everything was covered with robing, you'd have to be a total moron not to realize there was something way off under there--and ding-ding-ding, they had a winner in the cognitive lottery.

As those feet started to paddle backward out of the farmhouse, Mr. D's backup slayers flanked the little bastard and caught him by the arms.

Lash nodded to the dining room table. "My father will do him in there."

"Do what!" Now there was full-on panic, with the kid thrashing like a gutted pig. Which was nothing but good practice for what was coming, really.

The slayers muscled him over and flipped him up on top of the pitted wood, holding him down at the feet and ankles as the Omega came forward amid all the squeaking and flapping.

As the evil lifted his hood, everything went quiet.

And then the scream that came out of the human's mouth ripped through the air, echoing up to the ceiling, filling the decrepit house with noise.

Lash hung back and let his father go to work, watching the human's clothes get shredded with a mere pass of that black, transparent palm. And then it was time for the knife, the blade catching the light of the cheapo chandelier that dangled from the grungy ceiling.

Mr. D was the one who helped with the technicalities--positioning the buckets under the arms and legs, scurrying around.

Lash had been dead when his veins got drained; he'd awoken only when a shock that had been generated from God only knew where had tunneled through his body. So it was interesting to see how it all worked: How the blood was emptied from the body. How the chest was split open and the Omega slit its own wrist to drip black oil into the cavity. How the evil called up a ball of energy out of thin air and sent into the corpse. How the reanimation carried what had been given to every vein and artery. The final step was removal of the heart, the organ shriveling up in the Omega's palm before being put into a ceramic container.

As Lash remembered his own coming-back-from-the-dead routine, he recalled his father dragging Mr. D over to serve as a feeding source for him. He'd needed the blood, but then again, he'd been dead for a while at that point--and was at least half vampire. This human, on the other hand, came awake with nothing more than a gaping, fish mouth and a whole lot of confusion.

Lash put his hand up to his own chest and felt the beat of his heart--

Something was leaking. In his sleeve.

While the Omega started to do depraved things to the initiate, Lash jogged upstairs to the bathroom. Taking off his suit jacket, he folded the thing in half... and realized there was nowhere to lay it down. Everything was covered with two decades' worth of grime.

Christ, why hadn't he sent someone over to clean the place?

He ended up hanging the jacket from a hook and--

Oh, shit.

As he lifted his arm, there was a black stain right over where he'd put the bandage, and at the bottom of his elbow, there was a wet patch.

"Goddamn it."

Ripping free his cuff links, he unbuttoned his shirt and froze as he looked down at his chest.

Lifting his eyes to the cloudy mirror, as if that were going to change what he was seeing, he leaned in toward the glass. There was another sore on his left pectoral, of the same flat, dime-size shape as the first. And a third by his belly button.

Wings of panic fanned up a light-headed dizziness and he caught himself on the sink. His first thought was to run to the Omega and ask for help, but he held off--going by the screams and grunts downstairs, there was some serious action happening in the dining room, and only an idiot interrupted that.

The Omega was fickle by nature, but had OCD concentration about some things.

Bracing his hands on the basin, Lash dropped his head as his empty stomach pulled a churn and burn on him. He had to wonder how many more of those spots he had--and didn't want to know the answer.

His induction, rebirth, whatever, was supposed to be permanent. That's what his father had told him. He was born from the evil, spawned from a dark well that was eternal.

Rotting in his own skin had not been part of the deal.

"Y'all okay there?"

Lash shut his eyes, the sound of the Texan's voice like claws raking down his back. Except he just didn't have the energy to fuck-off the guy.

"How are things going downstairs?" he asked instead.

Mr. D cleared his throat. And still the disapproval made him choke on his words. "I do believe it'll be 'while yet, suh."

Great.

Lash forced his sagging spine to straighten and turned to face his deputy--

In a sharp rush, his fangs punched into his mouth, and for a moment, he couldn't figure out why. Then he realized his eyes had locked on the guy's jugular.

Deep in Lash's belly, his hunger grew horns and went haywire, thrashing and gouging his gut.

It happened too fast to stop or question or think. One second he was rooted where he stood in front of the sink. The next he was all over Mr. D, shoving the lesser back against the door, and going hard into the guy's throat.

The black blood that hit his tongue was the tonic he needed and he drew with desperation, even as the Texan struggled and then fell still. But the fucker didn't have to worry. There was nothing sexual in the sucking. It was nutrition, plain and simple.

And the more he swallowed, the more he needed.

Jacking the slayer tight against his chest, he fed like a motherfucker.