Ramsey felt stronger, more confident, when he woke the next night. He showered, then dressed in a brown pullover sweater and beige slacks. He grimaced when he looked in the mirror. It was time to change his image. No more beige and brown for him. He had been dull and boring long enough.

Shoving his billfold into his back pocket, he left his room, deciding, on a whim, to head for the mall. He was surprised to find himself there, among the bright lights and the throng of late shoppers, almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind. For a moment, he was overcome by a wave of dizziness, intoxicated by the scent of so much blood, the dull roar of so many heartbeats. The lights hurt his eyes; the noise pounded at his eardrums. He closed his eyes, focusing his will, and found that he could mute the noise, control the dizziness, and concentrate on his purpose here. Once again, Chiavari had been right.

He went into an exclusive men's shop and indulged himself beyond anything he would have imagined before he had received the Dark Gift. He purchased a complete new wardrobe. Shirts, slacks, sweaters, socks, underwear. Nothing brown or tan. Nothing beige. He was heartily sick of brown, sick of tweeds, sick of dressing like some stuffy sixty-year-old college professor. He bought several pairs of shoes and, on a whim, a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots.

One night next week he would start looking for a new place to live. Perhaps he would buy a new car, something sleek and sporty. He had never owned a house, never owned a new car. He had spent his whole adult life in hotels and motels. Well, all that was about to change. He had a rather tidy sum saved up. Vampire hunting had been a lucrative career. Ramseys had been hunting vampires for hundreds of years. The first Ramsey had turned vampire hunter to avenge the death of his wife. His knowledge and wisdom had been handed down from father to son for generations, as had the instinct to hunt, which, over time, had become second nature. In the old days, hunters had been paid in corn and wheat more often than gold or silver. But not anymore. The Ramsey family had money behind them now, thanks to a vengeful millionaire who had lost his only daughter to one of the undead.

Brian Francis Throckmorten had been so grateful when Harold Ramsey had staked the vampire who killed his daughter, that he had set up a fund to ensure that the Ramsey family and its heirs would always have the means to hunt and destroy the undead. Only there would be no heirs now, Ramsey thought bitterly. He was the last of his line. In fifteen or twenty years, should he survive that long, he would have to pretend to be his own son in order to continue drawing on the trust. He grunted softly. Perhaps he could donate funds to some obscure university with the stipulation that they use the money to research diseases of the blood in hopes of finding a way to reverse the effects of the Dark Gift. Or maybe he could open a training school for vampire hunters...

Returning to his room, he rummaged through his purchases, deciding on a pair of black jeans and a bulky white sweater. He paused in front of the mirror, a faint smile playing over his face. He had never been a handsome man. Had anyone asked, he would have described himself as ordinary. Now, transformed by the blood of the three vampires that burned in his veins, he looked younger, more virile. Not handsome, he mused - even the blood of a vampire couldn't work miracles.

But... powerful. Dangerous.

A vampire.

Vampire... He shook his head ruefully. "I am a vampire."

Even as he said it, he didn't quite believe it, not deep down. But his blood sang in his veins at the declaration, stirring him to action.

He ran a hand over his hair, worn short ever since he had been a boy learning the lore of his vampire-hunting ancestors, absorbing the seriousness of his family calling. But that was over now. Past history. He had become what he had hunted.

Perhaps he would let his hair grow long.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled on his new cowboy boots and left the hotel.

Some of his newfound confidence waned as he entered a small neighborhood bar. Country music blared from a loudspeaker. Half a dozen couples were line dancing.

He went to the bar and ordered a drink, which he held but didn't taste. He was studying the crowd when a slender young woman with wavy brown hair and large green eyes sidled up to him.

Hands on hips, she looked him up and down. "You don't look like a cowboy," she remarked with a come-hither smile.

She was a pretty thing. She wore a tight-fitting cowboy shirt, fringed blue-jean shorts, and a pair of white boots.

"Perhaps because I am not," he replied with a faint smile.

"I don't remember seeing you here before."

"I have never been in here before." He swore under his breath. She was coming on to him, something no woman had ever done before, and he had no idea how to respond. While other boys had been dating, he had been out with his grandfather, learning how to track and slay vampires. Not exactly suitable training for the dating game.

She placed her hand on his chest, her fingers making slow circular motions. "Would you like to dance?"

"I fear I must refuse."

"That's too bad. It would be a good way for us to get to know each other better."

"I'm afraid I never learned how."

She slid her arm through his, tilted her head to one side, ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. "That's okay, honey. I know a quiet place down the street where I can teach you."

He felt a surge of excitement as he placed his untouched drink on the bar and took her hand in his.

She chatted about some country singer he'd never heard of as they walked down the street. When they reached an alley, Ramsey pulled her inside and pushed her up against the wall.

She looked startled, then laughed nervously. "What are you doing?"

He didn't know what to say, felt all his doubts rise up to mock him. You are a vampire. Play the part . He gazed deep into her eyes. Summoning his power, he bent her will to his, felt her body relax at his suggestion. Her eyelids fluttered down, her head lolled to one side, exposing the smooth expanse of her neck.

He took a deep breath. " Any man who can track a vampyre to its lair and cut off its head shouldn't have any trouble finding something to drink." Chiavari's words echoed in the back of his mind as he bent over the woman's neck.

Revulsion warred with his hunger. The hunger won, rising up within him, hot and hungry and overpowering. He drank quickly, sickened by what he was doing, filled with bitter self-loathing because even though the act disgusted him, he found pleasure in it. Power flowed through him, thrummed through his veins, expanded his mind.

Not too much! He was proud of himself as he drew back. He had taken only a little.

I can do this. He repeated the words aloud. "I can do this." He didn't have to kill. He didn't have to be a monster like Alexi Kristov. The woman caught in his dark embrace would never miss the small amount of blood he had taken.

Pleased with his self-restraint, he put his arm around her shoulders and led her out of the alley. Releasing his hold on her mind, he took her by the hand and started walking.

She blinked at him several times, like someone who had just been roused from a deep sleep.

"Is this the place you were talking about?" Ramsey asked.

"What?" She looked up at the blinking neon light that identified the place as The Sea Nymph Motel . "Yes. Yes, it is."

"Is something wrong?"

"No. No, I guess not." Her flirtatious manner was gone. She looked suddenly shy, nervous in his presence, unsure of herself. She glanced up at the neon sign again, her face wan in the artificial light Her brow furrowed. "Do you mind if we do this another night? I feel sort of... strange."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Can I see you home?"

"What? Oh, no, I'll be fine. Good night." She stared at him a moment, then turned and hurried back down the street.

Whistling softly, he headed for home.

"Move over, Dracula," he muttered wryly. "Look out, Lestat. Ramsey is here."