He still noticed the garlic smell of the house as Jonah joined him and handed him his coffee, but somehow it was comforting. "Hard to say. They're generally limited to big cities and really remote areas. Makes them harder to track. But they're out there, feeding on us."

"Turning us into vampires," Rogan finished, but Jonah shook his head.

"More Hollywood. It's quite the reverse. To become a vampire, you have to drink their blood-and lots of it. If a vamp wants a new child, he force-feeds a regular guy and in a few hours: new bloodsucker. The older the vampire, the faster the process."

"You have my attention," Rogan a.s.sured him. "When we first met tonight, you said you needed me. You said 'He's too powerful for me' and that only I could stop him. Why?"

"Remember how it calmed down when you looked into its eyes? First it was terrified, but once you had its gaze, it was entranced." He busily packed tobacco into an ornate wooden pipe as he talked. "You have the power-just as I do, just as my forefathers did. We were all born on Sat.u.r.day, which is almost a requirement to be a vampire hunter. Without the gift, you're just a bada.s.s packing weapons and hoping you'll win. The vampire I speak of won't fall to any bada.s.s, and not to just any Sabbatarian."

"Who is he? And if you're a Sabbatarian, why can't you handle him?"

Jonah lit his pipe and puffed blue smoke as he settled back on the sectional sofa. "The origins of vampires are unknown-we don't know where they came from or when the first one appeared. Likely it was as a result of renunciation of religion on the part of the first one-for instance, most people think the power of their religion can best a vampire. Truth is, it doesn't matter how powerful your faith is; if you're holding a Christian cross up against a vampire who was Jewish before he was transformed, you'd better go get a Star of David instead. It's about what his faith was, not what yours is.

"The older they get, the more powerful they become. Thus, the harder they are to kill, and the harder they are to mesmerize if you're a Sabbatarian. Now this vampire I speak of is called Gantu. He's the oldest I've ever known, and I've dedicated my life to hunting him. We've met fifteen times and I've almost died all fifteen times. It's always been a stalemate. I know, as I approach the close of my life, that I no longer have a chance against him. I've always been a capable Sabbatarian, but he's always withstood my power. Now, as my strength winds down, his is stronger than ever.

"Gantu is incredibly powerful. I've watched him withstand direct sunlight and end up with nothing worse than a few blisters, when other vampires explode into fireb.a.l.l.s. It's a wooden stake through the heart or nothing, followed by decapitation and cremation-he won't just crumble to dust like that baby you skewered. The only way I can achieve that is if a Sabbatarian of your caliber helps me. You have the power to mesmerize him, but even you can't hold him and attack. But we can take him down together."

At the end of his spiel, his pipe was only smoldering, so he relit it. Rogan said, "Why is it so important that Gantu be killed?"

"It's important that all vampires be killed, but he's the worst. In addition to empowerment with age, they create more vampires the longer they're around. It's a gang mentality-the children follow their sires. Younger vampires start making too many followers; the older ones take them out. Now, to give you an idea of Gantu's capability, the one you staked tonight is a few years old at best. The strongest I've taken out was twelve hundred." He lowered his pipe, leaned toward Rogan, and said, "Gantu is eight thousand years old."

Rogan felt his jaw drop. "How do you know?"

"A Sabbatarian can see it during his mesmerism. You probably had weird images going through your mind when you dealt with the one tonight-yes?"

"Just fleeting pictures, really ... disjointed and confusing."

"Try one who's been around a hundred years. The older they are, the clearer the flurry of information becomes. I've met up with Gantu many times, and although my attempts at mesmerism always failed, I've gained new insights every time. I've seen memories of him feeding on humans as far back as predating the Great Pyramid of Giza. I'm pretty sure he was in Mesopotamia as early as 6000 B.C."

"d.a.m.n," Rogan breathed, shaking his head. "So he's beyond just being really powerful. How do we find him?"

"I know right where he is. I've meshed with his mind enough over the years. I can track him-almost like he's wearing a homing beacon."

Rogan swallowed the lump in his throat. "So what's the plan?"

"I track him. You hold him. I kill him."

He hadn't touched his coffee, and now he tipped it back and downed it. "I need to sleep on this, Mr. Byrne. I need to go home and be with my pregnant wife ... and think this through."

Jonah said simply, "The baby thing was bulls.h.i.t."

He felt his neck heat up with anger. "You son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"Don't get all p.i.s.sed off. Delia's not worth it. See, that private detective I hired really is the best. I didn't go looking for it, but your wife's been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around on you."

He looked at the one-eyed man incredulously and shook his head. "That's impossible."

"I'm not going to play guessing games, Mr. Mallory," Jonah snapped, "and I'm not going to hold your hand. She's banging a guy, does so most weekends. Where do you think she went tonight?"

"Shopping with her sister," Rogan said weakly, even then remembering all the odd excuses she'd had for being late.

"Well, I'll tell you what. On your way home, stop by 1340 East Riverdale Drive. In the meantime, I have all the evidence you need to make sure she doesn't screw you over in divorce court."

Her BMW was there, right where Jonah had said. He only had to wait forty minutes. She left the house, her fling in tow. They smooched on the front porch, groping each other and probably confessing their mutual love.

He didn't even cry. Somehow, he was anesthetized to the pain after the night's happenings.

When he got home and confronted her, she lied through her teeth until there was no getting around it. Then she cried and bawled and begged forgiveness, and of course tried to blame it on him a half dozen different ways. The evening culminated in her packing her bags and heading to her sister's-or wherever.

So much for perfect Sat.u.r.days, he thought.

He filed for divorce that Monday. A phone call to Jonah had all the pictures and evidence needed sent to his lawyer, so at least that was easy. Jonah called on Friday to check on things.

"I appreciate all you've done for me," Rogan said.

"In all fairness, I was doing it for me," Jonah said. "But I know if someone caught my wife cheating I'd sure as h.e.l.l want to hear about it."

"It's more than that. You've opened my eyes to a lot of things."

"I'm glad you feel that way. Shall we get together tomorrow?"

"What for?"

"It's Sat.u.r.day. Our power day. The best day to hunt down an ancient vampire."

It seemed like late night B-moviedom to Rogan, but the excitement was too intense. "Sounds good."

The house was strangely empty without Delia, but he didn't miss her. He sat alone in his living room, drinking a double Scotch on the rocks, listening to Billy Joel singing that she could ruin your faith with her casual lies and that she only reveals what she wants you to see. That didn't help.

Last weekend, he'd driven a wooden stake through the heart of a vampire and watched its body disintegrate. Tomorrow, he was going hunting for an ancient vampire to attempt the same. He was a real-estate agent; this wasn't his thing. He'd given up partying years ago, most of his life when he'd married Delia, and even his motorcycle when he knew he'd gotten too old for that sort of thing.

The doorbell sounded. It was nine o'clock, too late for company. Delia, perhaps, after more of her things. He sighed and set his drink on the coffee table, strained to get to his feet, and plodded into the foyer. He unlocked the door and threw it open.

The man there was tall, handsome, pale as a ghost, with long, black hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore a black trench coat and black leather boots, and his gloved hands were clasped before him. Rogan felt the coils of terror tightening up in his gut, preparing to spring.

"Good evening, Mr. Mallory," the man said, and Rogan realized the man's eyes were red. "My name is Gantu. We must talk."

He was sure his face had gone as white as Gantu's. He was two rooms away from the nearest phone, and Jonah was a twenty-minute drive at best. As it was, Rogan knew he'd never outrun the ghoulish figure, much less get the door closed.

I'm a Sabbatarian, he thought frantically. I have the power.

Boldly, he locked eyes with Gantu, and for a brief moment he thought it was all for nothing, that the ancient vampire was too powerful even for him. But as he stared deep into those red eyes, Gantu faltered, teetered back a half step, and tried to look away. Rogan could feel the vampire's inability to break the gaze.

He can't look away! I'm doing it!

Gantu breathed heavily for a quick breath. "Please, Mr. Mallory ... I know who and what you are. The fact is, I concede that you can overwhelm me with your Sabbatarian powers. But you can do no more than hold me. Once you break your concentration, I could kill you in a second."

"Then I'll hold you until dawn," Rogan said through gritted teeth. Images fluttered through his mind, at the periphery of his consciousness. It was starting.

Gantu curled his lips. "Mr. Mallory, I have twenty times your strength and endurance. Your power is great while you're in fine shape, but it's getting late and you're very tired. I, on the other hand, have only been awake a few hours. I can do this all night as well. I am willing to bet you will falter in your concentration before I will-and far before dawn. One slight moment when the shroud of sleep attempts to grab you, and you are mine. And if you do manage to hang on, I'm not quite as worried about the sun in my old age. I suppose I'm overdue for a tan."

Rogan felt panic start to wash over him, but he fought it back. No time to give in. The scattered images were getting stronger, more confusing.

"I could have come in here and simply killed you," Gantu said. "I rang your bell. I come here under a flag of truce. Please, let us stop this for now. You'll want to hear what I have to say."

The past week had been strange enough; now, the very vampire he was to hunt tomorrow was sitting in his living room, thanking him for the Scotch.

"A very nice place you have," Gantu said. "I suppose a real-estate agent has the pick of the lot."

"I have the most powerful vampire on Earth drinking whiskey in my living room and talking about my architecture," Rogan said. His voice was shaking; he could hear every word warble. His mouth was dry and sticky with nervousness.

Gantu looked down at his drink in surprise. "I'm terribly sorry. If you'd like, I'll stop drinking."

"No, please drink ... whiskey," Rogan said hurriedly.

Gantu laughed. "You've certainly been hanging with Jonah Byrne. He has you believing what a terrible bloodsucker I am. Well, he's right, to a point, but there's a lot you don't know. For instance, while we require blood, it need not be human."

"You're saying you don't kill people?"

"Certainly, we do. But not to extreme, and then only those who deserve it."

"How do you come to such judgments?"

"When I find a dozen men gang-raping a woman in an alleyway, a logical judgment presents itself," Gantu said icily. "I am very selective, sir; as are most of us. And I a.s.sure you that when a vampire goes off the deep end, we work to end his tenure immediately. It's bad for our kind to have careless vampires on the loose."

Rogan's head swam. He half expected werewolves and zombies to come storming in the house next, followed closely by a warlock or two. "So how do you survive?"

"In addition to blood, I prefer Chinese."

"Chinese ... people?"

"No ... food, Mr. Mallory. Chinese food."

"I thought vampires didn't eat."

"You watch too much television, sir," Gantu said with a smile. "And, I suspect, listen to Jonah Byrne too much. He's not what he claims to be."

"He claims to be a vampire hunter, and so far he looks like exactly that."

"But he claims to be ridding the world of evil vampires. What he is doing is crusading against our kind-obliterating us, one at a time. He's a Sabbatarian, like his ancestors, misguided in his belief that we are all abominations. He believes it's his duty to rid the world of us. We would prefer that not to happen."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Gantu downed his drink. "I want you to simply not help him, for starters. He's not long for this world, you know; soon, the cancer eating at his insides will claim his life, and none of this will matter. His family line will end, and there will be no more Sabbatarians hunting us."

"There will be," Rogan said, with a surprising boldness that confused him.

"He's using you, Mr. Mallory. He's showing you how terrible we're supposed to be-feeding into your mind, which has been plagued by a lifetime of folklore and fiction, and turning you into a crusader for his cause."

"I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm only helping him destroy you-no others."

"But if you succeed, you'll find you enjoy it. You'll want to do it again. Eventually, you'll be a vampire hunter, crusading whether you planned to or not. And for what? To rid the world of your Hollywood perceptions? We're just different, Mr. Malloryaastronger, faster, spookier, but more or less the same. We pay for those advantages with an eternal nightlife. And when we do take human blood, we rarely kill and barely injure-and they never remember. When most of us kill, it's rapists, murderers, and street sc.u.m. We help keep the world clean."

"It just isn't right for you to judge and execute people."

"No less so than Byrne's family hunting us to the brink of extinction for ten centuries," Gantu said. "He's not only the last of his line-he's the last of any line. We were hoping that when he went, it would be over. But then, he found you." He c.o.c.ked his head, surveying Rogan curiously. "And, naturally, he has found the most powerful Sabbatarian I've ever seen. How ironic. Your life must have been filled with a lot of very important Sat.u.r.days, Mr. Mallory."

"So it seems."

"Could I have a refill?" Gantu asked, holding out his tumbler gla.s.s.

"Uh ... sure."

He felt ridiculous, tending bar for this vampire. He felt even stranger when he realized he was standing with his back to Gantu, and in a mild panic his eyes found Gantu in the decorative bar mirror. The vampire sat on the sofa, calmly waiting.

"You reflect," he said suddenly.

Gantu chuckled. "It makes shaving much easier."

"But Jonah's house-"

"Yes, a carnival funhouse of mirrors; a thousand years of superst.i.tion at work. That only works on the very young vampires. Garlic, though, that's bad for us. Too bad; I still love the aroma. Younger vampires can't even catch a whiff of it, much less be near it. I can wear the stuff and it won't bother me, but I can't eat it."

"This is crazy," Rogan said.

"Beg pardon?"

"I'm sitting here chatting with you like you're my next-door neighbor," he said. "I don't know who to believe, you or Jonah ... but either way, this whole past week has been, by far, the strangest of my life." He returned to the sectional and handed the Scotch to Gantu. "So you're basically telling me I have a choice: help him kill you, or help you kill him."

"I have no such designs. As I said, he'll be gone soon enough."

"So either I help you, or we lock eyes until somebody falters," Rogan amended.

"I have no interest in killing you," Gantu said with a thin-lipped smile, his white fangs shining like polished ivory. "Let me be honest, Mr. Mallory: you impress me. Never has one been able to hold me so easily. But to be frank, the sun won't reach me at all inside this house. I can go for a week without sleep. You can't. But I don't want to do that-and unless you force my position, I won't."

Rogan shook his head. "Just tell me what you want."

"I want you to stay out of this. Let things happen as they will."

"How do I know you won't kill him?"