Rex sat quietly beside me for what felt like eternity, until an older gentleman with a cane came up the street. It had been my plan to wait for just such an opportunity and then grab the door after he went in. I was all kinds of inconspicuous, but he seen me anyway, pulled a can of mace out and held it ready as he keyed the door and pulled it shut with a click behind him. Clearly, my chivalrous manner of breaking and entering was not going to work in New York. I gave the door a solid kick with my boot heel and the lock gave with a satisfying pop.

Her name was stenciled above one of the mailboxes, 12b, but there wasn't any mail showing, so either she had canceled it or someone else was picking it up. Back in the shadows was the elevator, one of those old-time metal cages with a sliding door.

Even sitting still it was noisy, so I decided to take the stairs up to the third floor. The hallway was quiet and empty. Rex's nose was working furiously as we tiptoed our way down toward her door. It opened easy, since it wasn't locked. Inside, I was taken aback by the flood of recognition. There were pieces of her everywhere, and yet, she was nowhere.

The apartment was empty, like the cabin was when she first disappeared, only quieter and more still, like the bottom of a settled pond. I moved through it like a ghost myself, looking at what her life had been and trying to learn from the remainders. I was hoping to get some into where she might be now, but all I came up with was sadness.

The shelves were lined with little sculptures and photographs in silver frames, most of them of her and a woman I took to be her mother: a woman of great beauty and no little sadness. Occasionally, there was a dog-eared book tucked here and there and I pulled one down to flip through. It was a thick old book by some Russian writer with a name I couldn't hope to pronounce.

Reading at random, it seemed he hadn't led a particular happy life either, sorrow tinged his words like water damage to a carpet.

I wondered if he had ever had the woman he loved taken from him by Vampires. If he did, I feared I too could end up a sad old Russian.

I went into the kitchen, Rex trailing along. The sound of his claws on this strange linoleum, this strange kitchen, was somehow familiar and reassuring. Standing in the half-light of the opened fridge, I surveyed the contents and was dismayed to find it in a sadder state than any I'd ever seen. Nothing but a half-empty bottle of mineral water and some take-out Chinese food that might've been made in China itself and then walked over by an old monk. I rummaged around in the cupboards until I found a bottle of wine and a jar of old peanut butter that was almost edible. There was a corkscrew in with the silverware and I opened the wine, carrying it and the peanut butter into the bedroom. The bed was loosely made and I set down on the edge of it and drank straight from the bottle and scooped out peanut butter with a spoon.

Under the nightstand was a photo album, and I pulled it out and laid it open on the bed. There were more pictures of her mother, pictures of her as a kid looking far away like she was thinking something too secret to tell. There was other pictures too. Pictures of friends and boyfriends and scenery and toward the end there was even pictures of me, which brought a pain to my heart. I found myself praying that she was still alive somewhere and that I could find her and make everything okay.

Eventually, I couldn't look at her frozen memories anymore and dropped the album to the floor. Flipping through the closet, I found a sweater that looked familiar, one she must've once worn in LonePine, and I curled up with it on top of the bed. I drew the covers over me and they still bore faintly her scent so familiar to me. Rex was overcome by her smell too and wandered listlessly around until finally curling up at the foot of the bed. There we both dozed for upwards of an hour until I heard him sit up with a little growl, that same noise he started making back at the cabin. I grabbed the Casull from underneath my pillow. My body was stiff from the plane ride and sleeping bunched up, so I hobbled tenderfoot into the living room and could just make out two shadowy forms.

"Hold it right there," I said real quiet. I stepped in through the doorway flicked on the light and raised the Casull up. Rex took up by my side, growling. They both turned and one of them smiled a toothy smile.

"You didn't die after all," he said, obviously recognizing me. I thought about the voices, the shapes around me when I was laying for dead, and figured him for one of them. The thought of him taking Lizzie filled me with a terrible darkness. There was a hesitation to him, like he wasn't sure exactly how this was going to work, me not being dead and all. I pointed the gun toward him, hoping maybe that would help make up his mind.

"This may not kill you," I said, "but it'll hurt like hell. That other old boy was squealing like a baby when Dad popped him."

"A lie. Your weapon is useless against us."

I pretended to think about it and nodded. "You're probably right." I dropped the hammer and holstered it.

They smiled and moved confidently toward me, taking it slow. I reached around the doorway and brought out the shotgun from behind, swinging it up to bear and thumbing back the hammers. They both winced simultaneously, dreading what they must've thought would be a painful inconvenience. I thought of Lizzie and the rest come easy. There was a hollow roar that near deafened me and the shotgun slammed back into my shoulder. The wooden missile reached out and tagged one of them just below the shirt pocket, damn near doubling him over backwards as he clutched at the stub end of the shaft now protruding from his chest. I gave a silent thank you to Lenny for his wooden bullet design. That dark bastard dropped to his knees, black, foul blood trickling through his pale fingers, looking dumbly up at me.

"It's a... it's a..."

"It's a stake," I finished his sentence for him. "That was for Lizzie," I said, "and for Snort." I swung the barrel toward his companion. "You know I'll pull this trigger, don't you?" He looked at me, then down at his friend who was opening and closing his mouth like a fish on a line and slowly leaning back to die, spasms racking his body.

"I don't want to die," he said.

"You already are dead, ugly," I said and part of me wanted so bad to send him back to hell, to pull the trigger and engulf the room in blue flames. But that could wait. "Tell your boss that Tucker is in town. Tell him I want Lizzie back. If I don't get her, I'll dedicate my life to hunting him down. Him and every other one of you blood-sucking freaks I can set my sights on."

His friend was turning to dust before our eyes. It was as if his body had not been made of flesh, even undead flesh, but rather had been made of dust and tumbleweeds now coming apart. I heard some sirens in the distance and someone yelling downstairs.

Figured I better be making tracks. "I'll be waiting at the train station to see Julius."

"Which one?"

"There's more than one?" The undead one rolled his eyes at me and I felt like a country hick.

"Have a cab take you to the front of the Empire State Building and wait there," he said.

MANHATTAN COMPOUND

October 11, 2001, 2:45 A.M.

In the six centuries she had known him, Julius rarely allowed his anger to show, yet now he sat rigidly at his desk, his face nearly transformed by rage. His gaze passed through Elita as if she wasn't there and when he spoke, it was to himself as much as her.

"Things are becoming unnecessarily complicated." She simply nodded and he continued. "He lives."

"So it seems."

"And thus, we must fear the worst for Desard."

A sadness tugged at her heart as she nodded. "It would appear we have underestimated the cowboy."

"A mistake we shall not repeat. Take three to the rendezvous and deal with him, permanently."

Elita's eyes sparkled. "I have an idea."

"By all means," he snapped, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "share it. I am breathless with anticipation, as I am certain it entails sexual conquest and his inevitable, torturous death."

She smiled lazily in spite of the compliment. "Of course. But first, I propose we use him to," she sought for the proper word,

"retrieve our errant Queen." Couldn't hurt to shake his suspicions and regain her position of favor, Elita thought to herself.

Julius regarded her for a moment, then nodded his head. "Continue."

"Apparently she loves him considerably. During her brief stay with us, she made that quite clear. If we can convince the cowboy that it is in her best interest for him to assist us, we can..."

"Use him as the bait. Of course," Julius finished for her. "How deceitful. I truly admire the way your mind works."

"Oh, Julius. Flattery will get you everywhere."

"And though he appears to know our weaknesses, we know his."

"We do?" she asked.

"Of course. His weakness is love. How easy it will be to convince him that by joining us he will, in effect, be rescuing his dear recently departed."

"When he sees her, he'll be angry He'll know we've lied."

"When we have her, he will no longer be of any use to us."

"Other than, perhaps, a continued point of leverage."

"I suppose we will burn that bridge, or not, when we arrive at it," he said.

They were silent for a moment. "Well then, send someone for him and make it clear he is to arrive safely."

"Certainly" She stood and stretched, arching her back.

Julius let his gaze linger upon the curves displayed there. "And Elita, one more thing." She swung her head around to catch his eyes. "In order for your plan to succeed, you must quell any notion of taking him. Do not let passion and hunger override our goals. Be a good girl."

"Only promise that he is mine once she is in our hands again."

He nodded.