Grabbing a rag, she wiped up the mess, then went into the bathroom. She filled the tub with hot water, added a generous amount of bubbles, and grabbed a book from the shelf. Settling back in the tub, she lost herself in the fantasy world of Frodo and Sam where good always triumphed over evil and the world of men prevailed in spite of overwhelming odds.

Tom Duncan glanced at his watch. Almost five. He'd have to hurry if he was going to make it back to Pear Blossom Creek in time to shower and change his clothes and make it to Bobbie Sue's house by six.

Bobbie Sue. She had been much on his mind this day, making it difficult to concentrate on what he was about. The thought of going out with her remained the only bright spot in what had been a decidedly unprofitable day. He had found nothing, nothing at all to indicate where Dimitri Falco might take his rest during the hours of daylight. With a shake of his head, Duncan wondered if he'd lost whatever gift for hunting the Undead he had possessed. Perhaps it was time to give up hunting and take up a new line of work, something a little less intense, like flipping burgers at McDonald's.

He muttered an oath when the small dirt road he had hoped was a shortcut to the main highway narrowed even further and then came to an abrupt end. He was about to curse his bad luck when he saw the points of a white picket fence barely visible behind a mountain of weeds and shrubbery. Glancing to the left, he saw a weathered sign that read shady corners cemetery.

Feeling a rush of anticipation, he cut the engine and climbed out of the car. He went around to the trunk, grabbed a few necessary items, and made his way to the gate. It opened with a loud squeal of rusty hinges.

His footsteps made no sound as he moved among the graves, the majority of them overgrown with weeds and briars. Not surprising, he supposed, since the dates on most of the tombstones dated back to the early 1880s. Some were so ancient that time had erased the markings.

And then he saw it, a faint disturbance in the dirt near a crypt made of aged gray stone.

A white marble angel sat on the top, sightless eyes staring into eternity.

Going suddenly still, Duncan paused outside the door of the tomb, his senses testing the air. A vampire rested behind the door. He knew it as well as he knew the sun would rise in the east.

The door to the sepulcher opened with a whisper of stone against stone. Peering inside, he saw a single coffin on a raised dais.

Duncan took a step inside, his nostrils filling with the lingering stink of death and decay.

Holding stake and hammer at the ready in one hand, he lifted the lid of the coffin.

The body inside rested on a bed of white satin, its skin almost as pale as the cloth that lined the casket. A bit of dried blood was caught in the corner of its mouth, the red standing out in stark contrast against the wan complexion.

Taking a deep breath, Duncan placed the sharp tip of the hawthorn stake over the vampire's heart and raised the hammer.

Muttering, "Die, you bloodsucker," he drove the stake home.

The creature within the coffin shrieked as the stake penetrated its heart. Blood sprayed from the wound, splattering over Duncan, the vampire, and the walls of the tomb.

The vampire writhed in agony for several minutes and then, with a last hiss, the creature's body just aged away until mere was nothing left but the vague outline of a body against the silk.

When it was done, Duncan turned away and wiped his face on his sleeve.

After days of searching, he had found a vampire.

Unfortunately, it wasn't the vampire he had been searching for.

Vicki hummed softly as she dressed for work that night. She was looking forward to getting out of the house. Anything was better than sitting at home thinking about vampires and listening to the rain pounding on the roof. She was anxious to see Gus and the other regulars, to hear people talking about mundane things like the weather and the price of gas. Here, at home alone, she had too much time to think about things she didn't want to think about.

Slipping into her coat, she grabbed her keys and her handbag and headed for the front door, only to pause with her hand on the latch.

Moving to the window beside the door, she drew back the curtain and peered out into the night. Was Falco out there, waiting for her in the darkness? She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she tried to see through the heavy curtain of rain.

A knock at the door caused her heart to leap into her throat.

" Victoria?"

"Antonio!" With a sigh of relief, she opened the door.

And looked into a pair of glowing yellow eyes.

Vicki stared at the vampire, her handbag and keys falling from fingers suddenly numb.

His was a face she remembered all too well. Now, knowing what he was, it surprised her that his countenance was fair to look upon. A creature such as this, one who did such unspeakable things to the innocent, should be as ugly as the atrocities he committed.

He held out his hand and smiled. "Come to me, Victoria. It is your destiny."

His voice, which should have been as cold as the grave, beckoned her softly.

She took one step forward, and then another. One more step and she would be at his mercy.

His breathing quickened. His lips parted in a parody of a smile. "Yes, yes," he murmured. "Come to me." His eyes blazed with anticipation as the toe of her shoe touched the threshold.

"No! Victoria, stop!"

Vicki shook her head as a wild cry, louder than the thunder that rolled across the heavens, reached her ears, breaking the vampire's enchantment.

Fangs bared, Dimitri Falco whirled around and hurled himself at the man standing at the bottom of the porch steps.

After slamming the door, Vicki ran to the window, but she could make out little of what was happening. Both Antonio and Falco were clad in black, making it difficult to separate one from the other. The rain blurred her vision. Thunder shook the earth.

Lightning ripped through the lowering clouds. A short distance away, a tree went up in flames.

Needing to see what was happening, Vicki ran out onto the porch. She stopped at the edge, one hand wrapping around the post as she watched the battle below.

It was a strangely silent and graceful battle. Fangs flashed in the darkness, as blindingly white as the lightning that rent the skies.

Vicki pressed a hand to her heart, wishing she could see what was going on, praying that Antonio would emerge victorious, though she knew the odds were slim that he would survive a battle against an angry vampire. As the battle raged, they moved away from the porch toward the street, making it more difficult for her to see what was happening.

She shuddered, remembering bits and pieces of what she had read on-line— that vampires had the strength of twenty men, that they could change shape, that they could only be destroyed by driving a stake through their heart, burning them to ash, or cutting off their head.

Somehow, she doubted Antonio had a wooden stake or a hatchet stuck in his back pocket, so unless Falco was struck by lightning, there seemed little hope that Antonio would destroy him.

Her fingernails dug into the post as the battle grew more intense. There was a sudden silence as the rain stopped. The thunder grew quiet in the skies, and it was as if the whole earth were holding its breath.

Into the stillness came a high-pitched keening cry more horrible than anything Vicki had ever heard in her life.

There was a flurry of indiscernible motion near the street, and then, in the blink of an eye, the fight was over and only one man remained, indistinct in the darkness. He stood there a moment, his back toward her, staring into the distance, and then slowly sank to the ground, his body sprawled on the walkway, his head and face covered by the folds of a long black coat.

Holding her breath, Vicki backed toward the door. She stepped over the threshold and into the safety of her house, her gaze never leaving the dark shape sprawled on the sidewalk at the foot of the steps.

Was it Falco? Or Antonio?

She watched for what seemed like an eternity before the man on the pavement moved.

Overhead, the moon pushed its way through the clouds.

On the street, the man sat up, brushing his coat aside, revealing a head of thick black hair. With a sigh of relief, Vicki ran out the front door and down the stairs.

"Antonio!" Grabbing him by the arm, she pulled him to his feet, her gaze darting right and left. "Hurry, before he comes back."

Staggering, he followed her up the stairs and into the warm haven of her home.

She quickly closed and locked the door, then turned to help him out of his wet coat.

"You're bleeding!" she exclaimed. In the light cast by the lamps, she could see that there was blood on the front of his shirt. He had a wicked-looking cut on his left forearm, another on his cheek, and still another on his neck. And he looked pale, so very pale.

"You're not going to faint, are you? Here, sit down. Maybe we should go to the hospital.

That gash on your arm looks like it needs stitching."

With a shake of his head, he sank down on her sofa. "No need."

"No need? It's almost to the bone. Did he have a knife?"

A faint smile tugged at Antonio's lips. "No, just his teeth."

Frowning, Vicki went into the kitchen. She filled a bowl with warm, salted water, pulled a couple of clean dish towels from a drawer, then went into the bathroom for a tube of first aid cream before returning to the living room.

Antonio was sitting where she had left him, his head resting against the back of the sofa, his eyes closed. For one horrible moment, she thought he was dead. From where she stood, it didn't look like he was breathing.

"Antonio?" She hurried to the couch and sat beside him. "Oh, Lord, Antonio, please don't be dead."

His eyelids fluttered open. "Undead," he murmured with a wry grin.

"What?"

"Nothing. Do not worry about me, my sweet one."

"But, you're hurt, bleeding." She placed the bowl, towels, and cream on the table beside the sofa. "Let me help you out of your… " She stared at his arm. It had stopped bleeding. What had been a nasty gash almost to the bone only moments ago was now no more than a wide scratch on his arm. The cut on his cheek had disappeared. The one on his neck was closing, fading, gone.