He bent over the woman. Caught in his grasp, she looked up at him, mesmerized by the preternatural power of his unblinking stare. He could smell the stink of her fear, hear it in the rapid thudding of her heart, see it in the depths of her clear brown eyes. She stared at him and knew him for what he was, but, like a mouse impaled on the claws of a lion, she was helpless to escape.

Her terror filled him with excitement. He loved the thrill of the hunt, the unbridled excitement when his prey was brought to its knees, the surge of power that spiraled through him in that moment when his victim realized death was inescapable.

He smiled, letting her see his fangs, letting the bloodlust that was raging through him shine clear and bright in his eyes.

She knew what he was. Oh, yes, she knew.

She would have screamed, wanted to scream, but she could not move. Could only watch, helpless, as he slowly lowered his head until she saw nothing but his eyes, and his fangs, sharp and white, descending toward her throat.

Another victim for you, my dear Dr. Avallone.

The thought made him smile in the midst of drinking.

It was a game he played, finding a victim, draining her to the point of death, then leaving her where she was sure to be found. Sometimes the good doctor reached his victims in time; sometimes he did not.

Did the doctor keep score? he wondered. By his reckoning, the doctor had fallen a little behindin the past year. Lives he had saved: 23; lives he had lost: 29.

How did Avallone know? he wondered. How was it that he arrived so often in time to save the poor foolish women who were Rodrigo's favorite prey? Silly mortals. So easily tricked, so easily lured to his side. More often than not, he did not even have to use his preternatural power. A bit of flattery, the promise of a pretty bauble, and they hastened to him, eager to be in his arms. And they were sweet, sweeter than anything he had tasted in mortality.

He drew back, his body filled with stolen warmth, the taste of the woman's blood lingering on his lips.

She sagged in his arms, her head lolling back, her complexion pale, waxy, her lips turning blue. A bit of blood oozed from her throat. Leaning down, he slowly wiped it away with his tongue.

The good doctor would have to hurry, Rodrigo thought as he lowered the woman's limp body to the ground, for this one was nearly gone.

Alesandro caught the scent of the Other on the night wind, and with it the knowledge that a woman lay dying. It was his gift, and his curse. A thought carried him through the dark night, across the hills and valleys, to the woman's side. The stink of the Other was all around. His evil laughter rode the wings of the night as Alesandro knelt beside the woman, his dark cloak spread around them, shielding them from the sight of any who happened to be passing by.

Too late this time, Dr. Avallone. Too late... too late...

He could hear Rodrigo's voice, taunting him.

The woman was on the brink of death, her breathing shallow, labored, her skin pale. Her heartbeat was faint, the merest flutter, barely audible even to his enhanced hearing, but she had a strong will and reason to live. She hadthree small children at home, a husband who was ill. He drew on his power, felt his fangs lengthen. He tore a gash in his wrist, held it to her lips.

Drink, woman! Drink!

She was weak, so weak, but not so far gone that she could resist the power in his voice. Her mouth fastened onto his wrist, her throat workingconvulsively as she swallowed the life-giving fluid.

Gradually, the color returned to her cheeks. Her eyelids fluttered open. She stared up at him in horror.

He could not blame her. He knew how he must look, his eyes burning red, his face a monster's mask. He had seen the lust for blood burning in Tzianne's eyes when she forced the Dark Gift upon him, had seen it in Rodrigo's eyes on more than one occasion. It was a look to strike terror into the heart and soul of any mortal.

She shoved his arm away, struggling to free herself from his grasp.

Be still, woman! His mind spoke to hers in a tone that demanded obedience.

"Please, sir," she whispered. "Please, let me go."

"All in good time," he murmured.

He was bending over her, needing to take back a little of what he had given her, when the first blow came, driving him to his knees and away from the woman. He rolled onto his back, raising his arm to block Rodrigo's next attack, so that the vampire's fangs, aimed at his throat, ripped a deep gash from his wrist to his elbow instead.

Alesandro scrambled to his feet. Blood poured from the wound in his arm.

"Coward!" Alesandro spat the word.

Rodrigo laughed. Teeth bared, he hurled himself toward Alesandro a third time.

It was a silent, bitter battle. With fangs and claws, they fought like two great cats, slashing viciously at one another, the hatred that flowed between them a living thing.

The woman watched in horror and then fled into the night.

Alesandro fought as best he could, but the blood flowing from the wound in his arm weakened him. For all their preternatural strength, vampires were fragile creatures. The loss of the blood he had given the woman weakened him still more. Though it galled him to do so, he dissolved into mist and disappeared deep into the earth.

"Who's the coward now?" Rodrigo taunted.

The sound of the vampire's mocking laughter followed Alesandro underground.