The window shutters, once a proud deep shade of blue, now faded to the same color as the sky, were tightly closed, blocking any view within. Not unexpected if Stephanie anticipated trouble. He tried one gingerly. It was locked from the inside. He did not attempt to force it, as he easily could, but moved instead around to the front of the building and its large, ornately carved door.

That was a new addition since his last visit. Its quasi-medieval style didn't match with the informality of the rest of the place, but it did look sturdy. He had seen one like it somewhere else, in some other time he could not immediately recall. The memory-or lack of it-bothered him. He tried the heavy iron handle, but found it, too, was sensibly locked.

"Stephanie?" He knocked firmly enough to be heard through the thick oak. His heart beat fast with impatience to see her again. Perhaps she was no longer his, but he couldn't help his feelings or his anxiety for her. He needed to know that she was all right.

The cicadas turned up the volume, thwarting his effort to listen for sounds within the house. The damned things were everywhere, surrounding him, screaming in their frenzy of noise. But screaming what? The buzzings rose and fell with annoying irregularity, a language he did not know and could never learn. Against the aged blue paint of the door he noticed a streak of bright red rust running down from one of the bolts that held the great hinges in place. Once aware of it, he saw another, and another. Instead of a long dried trickle, the rust trails were still fresh and liquid, as though from a recent rain. But it couldn't have rained here for weeks.

Entranced by the anomaly, he watched the red threads dance their way down the furrowed wood. Amazing that even here, in this arid heat, iron rusted so.

The trickles thickened, grew darker and more substantial in their flow.

That was wrong... very wrong.

The longer he stared the worse it got, until a steady stream of red welled forth. It made a viscous pool near his boots, and he stepped backward to avoid it.

Oh, no.

Now thin red streaks ran from the cracks between the boards of the door, which had begun to shudder. He sensed some great force pressing against it, trying to break free. The stout wood beams, fused together by metal and age, were actually bending outward like so much rubber.

No.

As they bent, more streaks appeared and more rust flowed forth. Only it wasn't rust, he could see that now.

He could smell it.

All but taste it.

Dear Goddess, no!

The door bellied out to the breaking point, and the buzz-saw rasp of the cicadas sliced into his head, and the red streams ran swift, gathering on the planks of the porch in gleaming lakes that blazed in the sun like fire. He went suddenly weak from the unbearable heat and fell to his knees, one hand out to keep from dropping flat. He clutched his free arm against his heaving stomach in a vain attempt to still the abrupt cramp there.

The closeness of the flow filled all his sight. It covered his supporting hand; the dark stains crept up his sleeve and soaked through to his skin. He made himself straighten and brought his trembling fingers to his lips.

Despite the pain, he felt his eyes flush red with vampiric lust, his manhood going hard, pushing urgently against his clothes; his corner teeth were fully extended. The rich scent around him teased and tormented his hunger, awakening his beast.

No!

Then the thick boards of the door groaned and abruptly split into kindling that shot past him with deadly force. A great, warm wave crashed into him and over him, sweeping him back. He thrashed for balance. His mouth was full of the stuff, and he roared, raising his hands as though to catch more as a second surge burst forth from the house like a sea tide. It overbore him, and he fell splashing as it swept him away. It was miles deep now, the undertow trying to pull him under.

The cicadas screamed, and the buzzard shrieked high overhead as the scarlet sea drowned him, and he tasted it, how he tasted it.

It was blood...

And it was good.

Chapter Three

Richard awoke with a heart-hammering start as his flight was called in the business lounge. Sweat slicked his face.

He could smell his own cold fear and looked around quickly to see if anyone had noticed. Clearly no one had. The click of computers and the low voices of last-minute calls to the office or home hummed through the air. The normal humans surrounding him had no time to spare from their own private crises for a solitary traveler having a restless nap in his chair.

He moved hurriedly out of the patch of sunlight that had crept up on him unawares. His body was geared for sleeping late into the day, so giving in to the needs of interrupted rest was understandable, but the dream... Whatever was waiting for him in Texas had him thoroughly alarmed-or maybe it was just the prospect of another hated flight.

He'd see it through, of course, to get to Stephanie, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

Still shaky, he picked up his carry-ons and made his way to a rest room. The face that glared apprehensively back at him from the mirror was even paler than usual. He splashed water on the sweat, and washed his hands carefully, illogically checking his cuffs for stains. Damn, but he could still almost smell the blood.

A dream, my lad, and nothing more, he told himself. He did not possess Sabra's Gift of Sight, and was therefore mercifully spared glimpses of the future-or futures-but oftimes hideous dreams did plague him. Anxieties welling up from his subconscious, Freud had once told him. Richard took them seriously as warnings. He'd seen too much not to, but how frustrating it could be when unable to carry out immediate action against them. That was yet hours away when the sun was gone.

He dried off with a paper towel that felt like fine emery paper, snagged his bags, and left for the long nervous walk through that awful tunnel to the waiting plane.

He approached the yawning door of the winged beast, and a pretty attendant checked his boarding pass. She must have assumed from his demeanor that he'd never flown before, and also could not read, for she slowly enunciated the information that he was two rows down on the left.

Richard gave her a wan smile and moved to his seat. He stowed his meager baggage in the overhead bin, and slumped wearily next to the window. If anything could be considered fortunate in his situation it was the seating, since it gave him some control over the light coming in. When allowed to do so, he would pull the plastic shade down. In the meantime, he settled back to try, yet again, to relax and let these highly trained people do what they were so highly trained to do.

The plane, filled with happy, stressed, sleepy, and/or oblivious travelers, taxied to its allotted takeoff point, and Richard found himself gripped by the too-familiar heart-racing panic. His rational mind could understand its source, after all; the horrors of that decades-old air disaster he'd survived were still with him. Should it happen again he knew he would probably not be killed, no matter what might happen to the rest of his poor flightmates, yet the terror remained, threatening to overwhelm him. He pushed the memory away, breathing deeply, and reminded himself that the pilot didn't want to crash any more than the rest of them.

As if to gainsay his thoughts, a surge of accelerating power pushed him back in his seat and, obedient to his fear, Richard counted quietly up to sixty. It was an excruciating mantra, but seemed to help. Once past that magic number all would be well for him-or as close as he could get to well given the circumstances.

How he hated, truly hated flying.

A sudden loss of height wrenched his guts, waking Richard from an unexpected second sleep. He swallowed back his unease and grimaced. He'd been like a soldier in a foxhole, napping while under fire. The plane was at last on the descent to the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex and near the end of this particular piece of torture. This time he'd been spared further bad dreams-or at least from remembering them-but he still felt like a crumpled newspaper ready for the dustbin.

The pretty attendant marched along the center aisle, stopped opposite Richard, leaned across with a smile, and lifted the window shade. He flinched visibly as the southern sun crashed into his part of the cabin. She noticed his discomfort, and apologetically explained.

"FAA regulations."

Richard nodded grimly and shifted to the vacant aisle seat next to him, out of the sun's direct glare. Then the plane banked steeply for its final approach. Far too steeply, he thought, gripping the armrests. Soon it would all be over, and he'd be safe in the confines of the arrivals area, picking up his rental car and driving to his place at New Karnak.

The plane tires squealed as their stillness was rudely disrupted by the rushing tarmac, and reverse thrust pushed Richard forward. The plane slowed quickly and taxied to its terminal slot. He glanced at his watch and saw they were slightly ahead of schedule; it was a quarter before ten in the morning in this time zone. He stayed in his seat, deliberately not joining the crush of tourists and native Texans streaming off the plane. Those not in business suits were in the practical local uniform of light cotton shirts and shorts. He wrapped up in an unseasonable full-length drover's coat, with gloves and a broad-brimmed Stetson. It was one of the many things that he liked about Texas. Even in midsummer such an outfit raised not an eyebrow.

As he stepped into the bright space of the terminal, the first pangs of hunger inconveniently hit him. Damn it, but he'd not fed since before yesterday. In the rush of the morning, and his worry about Stephanie and the trip, such a mundane thing had slipped his mind. Now that the tension of the flight was over, his body demanded replenishment for all that expended energy. A pity he couldn't have brought a plastic packet of blood with him, but it made passing through customs more complicated than necessary, despite hypnotic help.

He'd just have to endure until he could arrange things with his usual local supplier. The insistent, gnawing feeling was yet only the thin end of the wedge, merely a gentle warning of more distress to come if he delayed too long. Out of habit, he cast about for a likely prospect to feed from. There were dozens of them strolling past, but privacy was at a premium at such a busy airport. Better to keep moving toward a surety than take a risk. He could last until then.

Probably.

Phoning from the plane, he'd arranged to rent a large luxury sedan, specifying tinted windows and efficient air conditioning. Apparently such conveniences were beyond the resources of the hire firm. What he got was a cramped compact, with crystal-clear windows and a questionable cooling system. The air was rather lukewarm at first and smelled of stale cigars and mildew. After a few moments the flow got colder, but he sensed a subtle internal struggle going on in the unit's mechanical innards.

As he took the northbound exit from the airport, his tongue absently explored his teeth. He could feel the insistent budding of his canines and tried to push them back. The famished beast within him would take no rest until fed. He swung into an open lane and pressed down on the gas pedal. A speeding ticket would again be no problem; unsatisfied hunger would. He'd have to get to his supply stop soon.

When the blast of air coming from the dashboard vents was equal in temperature to that outside, Richard gave up and opened all four windows. It was going to be one of those interminable, hot Texas days when the sun tried its hardest never to set, and an all-pervading tropical humidity drenched wearer and clothes alike. He would achieve no artificial respite from it and vowed to strike the rental firm's name from his electronic travel planner and to hell with their air miles bonus.

The hot wind booming through his open windows died as the morning rush traffic thickened, slowing his pace.

Sweat trickled from under his hat, and ran down his cheek and neck, turning the once crisp collar of his shirt into an uncomfortable damp noose.

Welcome to Texas, he thought glumly. And his empty belly gave a sharp twist that made him hunch over, gasping.

Damn, he had less of a margin than anticipated, maybe half an hour before the cramp became a constant agony.

Perhaps not even that much as the heat steadily sucked moisture from his body. Not for the first time did he regret he couldn't drink water for replenishment the same as everyone else.

The brilliant, shadowless light wasn't helping either.

He was facing east with the new sun streaming in full force, savagely pricking his skin even through the fresh layer of sun block. This particular road was notorious for delays, and he fretted that he didn't know enough about local geography to risk taking an off-ramp to a less traveled corridor toward his goal. He was stuck sitting in the linear parking lot that locals jokingly called a freeway, his patience wearing dangerously thin.

The start-stop-start pattern was slow enough for him to study a one-page area map that had come with his rental packet. He determined the Luna Road exit would get him to Belt Line which would lead him eventually into Addison. There would be lots of signal lights on that route, but he preferred them over his present stagnation. If he stayed on past Stemmons he'd be mired in the worst of it for God knows how long.

The Luna exit was sensibly wide and almost clear. He shot away from the rest of the herd and cut north across the overpass. The roads were still crowded, but at least he was moving. Not good enough for his beast, though. It stirred and rumbled with increasing impatience.

The last few miles stretched long until he hit Addison's restaurant row. He was in familiar territory now. The corporate offices of Arhyn-Hill Oil (which he owned) were very close, located in the infamous New Karnak complex. He could just see the distinctive top of its ten-story structure gleaming bright under the heat-bleached sky.

New Karnak sounded far better than it actually was. It began as the dream of a young entrepreneur in the heady days of the development-happy eighties. He wanted a haven in the big city, an oasis of refinement and quiet only minutes north of the hurly-burly rush of central Dallas. Not being an actual resident of the area, he was rather innocent of the realities of local sensibilities and traffic patterns.

It had gone downhill from there. The entrepreneur in question had a surplus of inherited money and an ill- researched fascination with ancient Egypt, which explained the oddness of the structure that he managed to build. The whole glass-and-steel edifice was shaped like a pyramid, the interior replete with thick stone columns, larger-than-life- size statues of non-existent pharaohs, and gobbledygook hieroglyphics he'd designed himself adorning the inward- slanting walls. There was a formal garden in a cavernous four-story courtyard, dedicated to and occupied by the household gods of old, and finally, brightly painted friezes depicting Cleopatra and Tutankhamen frolicking together in gay abandon. Historical accuracy played a very small role in the decor. It was as tacky as Texas could get.

Richard loved it at first sight.

On a business trip to the area in search of a good location for Arhyn-Hill Oil to open a Dallas branch, the monstrosity was pointed out to him as a joke. Its pink-tinted sides gleamed pathetic in the setting sun, the ugly duckling of the city's northern skyline. Alas, the underground parking garage was empty of cars, the windows dark and deserted, for the money had run out long before the lower floor offices and luxury flats were rented. Those who could afford to live there generally had better taste and a desire for the prestige of private homes or condos since high- rise living was something of a foreign intrusion into the mind-set of the space-loving natives. That, and a minute miscalculation in the hastily excavated foundation had given New Karnak a decidedly slanted view on life. The courtyard swimming pool was a foot deeper at one end than the indicated number painted on the surrounding tile walls.

After some discreet investigation, Richard discovered he'd found the makings of a bargain. A white elephant perhaps, but with some coaxing, it could be made to work. He saw to it that the thing was brought up to safety code, added a few architectural refinements for his own convenience, then Arhyn-Hill Oil took up residence on the lower business floors.

Instead of downplaying the bad taste, he purposely exploited it, appealing to a younger, more adventurous crowd of tenants. The word "eclectic" was often used in brochures and advertising. Those with artistic pretensions, real or imagined, were morbidly delighted, and if the decor inspired groans instead of gasps it mattered not to Richard so long as the rents were timely paid.

The vast apartment he kept for his occasional visits was at the peak of the pyramid, described as the Pharaoh Suite in the selling literature. Not a single outer wall was straight or quite true to angle, but he had a view through the slanted glass of the downtown core that was to die for. And most important, with the security of a private keyed elevator leading straight from garage to penthouse, it was quiet and secluded. No one ever asked anyone's business, especially his. In fact, in all the years that he had owned this unique pied-a-terre, the only person he'd ever spoken to in the residence part of the building was the night security guard, who dozed most of the time in the main lobby. But New Karnak had another distinct advantage for Richard, one not immediately obvious to the regular human observer, yet highly necessary to him. It was very close to his blood supply.

Restaurant row indeed.

His stomach gave another awful twisting. He clutched the steering wheel and fought the cramp, nearly running the compact up on the curb. Behind him an annoyed commuter struck a warning beep on his horn. Panting, Richard snarled an ugly reply and only just managed to center himself back in the lane.

Not long now, he promised his beast, trying not to sound desperate. Just a little more time.

Damn, but that last one felt like a knife. He could take more of the same since he had no choice in the matter, but preferred to shorten the torture. He hit the gas, sighting the line that marked Midway Road, his exit. If once he made that... but he drew up hard on the bumper of the car ahead and was forced to slam on the brakes yet again.

His head felt swollen and blood pounded sluggishly behind his eyes. Next would come the tunnel vision, and he'd have to work to concentrate on accomplishing simple things, like walking and opening doors. The point where he lost all self-control and could be in danger of attacking some innocent was yet hours off. He hoped. He'd done exactly that not so very long ago, and though his victim hadn't been at all innocent, Richard never wanted to repeat the experience.

The problem plaguing him then had been dealt with, but he did not want to push things.

The light ahead changed, and one by one the lines moved forward. The car in front, coughing a cloud of stinking exhaust, reluctantly crawled for a few yards, then stopped. Exactly across the exit lane.

One foot. If the other car just went forward one more foot Richard would have enough clearance to squeeze past and onto Midway.

He touched his horn and got only another thick puff of blue exhaust. He raised his hand to hit a longer blast, then had to double over as the knife dug into his guts with a vengeance. A thin cry tried to trickle out from his clenched teeth. He refused to give his beast the satisfaction. His sight blurred, and he made himself focus on something outside himself in a futile effort at distraction.

The vehicle blocking his exit was of a seventies vintage, and from its size clearly guzzled gas at a rate well beyond the national average. Richard could see the back of the driver's head through the rear window, and it occurred to him that the driver too probably guzzled well beyond the national average. His head was a large round ball which connected, seemingly without the benefit of a neck, to massive sloping shoulders. Richard could only assume the rest.

He fumbled with a shaking hand to sound his horn, and without turning, the driver of the offending vehicle raised his left arm out of his window, middle finger well extended.

In any other circumstance, the whole thing would have been amusing, but not now. Richard felt the pressing need for blood mounting by the second, and the intransigence of this worthy product of steak and potatoes simply enraged him. He was swimming in his own sweat, feeling the acid bite of the sun, and once more his corner teeth budded uncontrollably. They would not retreat.

Cramp. His beast biting him from the inside out.

Desperate, he pressed the horn again, but the driver was unmoved by the sound, and sat a good dozen feet back from the vehicle in front, clearly in no mood to move and let Richard pass.

Then Richard was out of his car, pain replaced by a scalding wrath that was well beyond the limits of reason and safety. A warning against the danger sounded loud within, but he furiously ignored it. He knew what he looked like striding the few short paces between his car and that of the man ahead. He knew that his eyes were red, that his teeth were fully extended, as surely as he knew that the fat man in the car was going to satiate his agonizing hunger, and to hell with the consequences.

As though through a red mist he saw his hand stretching out to take the door handle, to rip it from its hinges.

Then the car was not there.

Richard blinked against the mist, trying to draw breath in the thick, hot air. Where had... ?

Without a backward glance the car and the man in it had simply moved forward as the traffic had moved. He was gone, unaware of his close brush with death.

Richard stood befuddled for a searing moment in the hot Texas sun, slowly becoming aware of other car horns, now directed at him. He trembled from the rush of unused adrenaline and careless action. God, what had he been thinking? He hadn't-that was the problem. He was closer to losing it than he'd estimated.

He walked hastily back to the fragile shelter of his own car and got in. Even the warm breeze from the ineffective air conditioning was a blessed relief. He was back again, in control of himself. His teeth were normal, and his eyes sparked blue in the morning light. But for how long? He turned quickly off the main highway, discovered that the traffic here was mercifully thin, and sped onward toward his sanctuary.

Less than five minutes after his encounter with unreasoning Middle America, Richard stepped from the hire car into the welcoming darkness of New Karnak's underground parking garage. He grabbed up his briefcase and overnight bag from the passenger seat. Half walking and half running, he crossed the patched concrete to the elevator. Inside, he inserted his private security card in the required slot in the control panel, punched "P" for penthouse, and lurched suddenly, sickeningly upward. Were this a normal visit he would have stopped at the lobby to chat with the day security team and announce his presence to the company, but just now he had no time to spare. The hunger that had momentarily retreated was back with a vengeance. He needed blood, and he needed it now.

The elevator doors opened directly onto his living room. Richard stepped out, and almost immediately they hissed shut behind him. The whole apartment was dark and sweetly cool. It had cost him quite a penny to install the automatic metal blinds and the special high efficiency air conditioning unit, and at this moment, he would willingly have paid double. Such soothing relief was truly beyond price.

Without pausing to savor the sensations, he stripped hat, gloves, and overcoat as he crossed to the kitchen, leaving them where they fell. He was sure he had some blood safe in the fridge, but couldn't for the life of him remember how much. He opened the door, squinting against the tiny interior light. There was a single bag left. It would do. He tore the top open and sluiced the contents down his aching and parched throat. It was way past its expire date. The taste was stale, nearly dead, but sufficient to ease his angry beast for a couple of hours. Ample time to arrange a fresh supply.

He leaned against a counter in the clean white kitchen and let the stuff flood through him. The pounding ache finally cleared from his head and with a frown he considered the incident that had almost occurred with the stubborn driver. Was that what they were now calling "road rage"? More like road disaster. Certainly the heat and stress had taken its physical toll on his reserves, but they couldn't account for such a hideous lapse in control.

He'd not been like this since that incident a few months back when his beast had seized charge of him-with fatal results to a would-be killer. Richard still shied away from thinking about it. Perhaps the healing he'd later gone through had restored his command over his beast, but the margin for error was much more narrow than before. He could no longer rely on past experience to measure his present limits. More caution was clearly required.

And more blood.

After squeezing the last barely drinkable drop from the bag, he called his supplier, ordering what would be needed for the next few days. It would be ready when he arrived, the doctor told him. There. One less thing to worry about.

Face washed and with a fresh layer of sun block in place, he dressed again in his protective western garments and strode toward the elevator. He punched the button for the parking garage, the doors sighed shut, and down he went like a damned soul to hell.

The Med-Mission Clinic sat happily and busily in a block of decrepit single-story, cream-colored brick constructions.