Remember this: You are a destroyer. You are like unto the Archangel Michael, who confronted Satan. You have sworn a solemn vow to kill vampires. Death is what you bring. You are not on this earth to comfort, or heal, or pacify. You are a warrior. Your hand must be steady, and your heart must be stone.

(translated from the Spanish) STONEHENGE, ENGLAND.

JAMIE.

"f.e.c.kin' h.e.l.l," Jamie said, as beneath the gray sky and lightning bolts four motorcycle riders zoomed in a row along the near-deserted roadway. The clouds gathered around them like enormous cloaks. Lightning danced and shattered above their helmets.

Jamie was never one to stand down from a fight, but it was four against one, and as they rode closer, a shiver ran down his back. Something was very off about them. Every ounce of self-preservation screamed at him to get the h.e.l.l out of there. He had the Uzi around his neck, but as sure as they were coming, he sensed the Uzi would be less useful than a rosary. Several of which lay inside the saddlebag.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Jamie swore.

He raced for his bike, hopped on, started it up. He was used to unfair fights but opposed to suicide missions, so he made a half circle as fast as he could and headed around the chain-link fence enclosing the henge.

Motorcycle engines blared as if in response. He glanced in the mirror.

Seconds ago they'd been hundreds of feet behind him; now they were practically breathing down his neck. Witchcraft. Had to be. Maybe they just wanted to ask him for directions.

The bad jokes were Holgar's department.

And curse it all, he actually wished wolfie were there with him.

He hit the open road. Visibility cut to practically nil, he tamped down his fight-or-flight and tried to find the heads.p.a.ce to strategize. The Uzi was getting in the way of his driving. Maybe in the movies the hero could grab up his submachine gun and mow down the enemy without a spill, but this was real life. Being a down-and-dirty street fighter didn't mean you threw all caution over a cliff and dazzled your enemies with super stunts. It meant you did whatever you needed to survive.

The four riders kept solidly behind him. He smelled the fumes of petrol mingling with the ozone of the thunderclouds, which broke open in that moment and poured buckets of rain on him. A bolt of lightning stabbed the earth inches in front of the bike, and he would have thrown himself off if he'd been able to pry his hands from around the handlebars. But he was frozen to the bike, by necessity and fear. They were behind him, too close, and he put the pedal to the metal best he could, narrowly avoiding a lightning bolt on his left.

It wasn't natural lightning. It felt like it was being directed, thrown at him. Witches. It had to be.

Another bolt hit to the right, scorching the earth. Another. He dodged each of them, realizing the riders were using them to herd him in the direction they wanted him to go. He didn't have much choice except to comply unless he wanted to get fried.

But he kept going, realizing he was on the road, merging onto the A303. That's what they wanted; they were zooming up behind him, herding him like a sheep. To what end? Who were they? He wasn't about to stop and ask.

But they're witches, he thought. Maybe they know where Skye is. Maybe she sent them here.

So they could hurl lightning bolts at him? Another thing street war survivors did was listen to their gut instincts. And his was telling him to get the h.e.l.l away from these fellas as fast as he could.

He stared down at his fuel gauge. He'd filled up just before arriving at Stonehenge, and he figured he could get forty miles to the gallon, maybe more. That was two hundred miles. A lot could happen between now and empty. Besides, there was an extra gallon in one of the saddlebags. If he could find a way to refuel without getting hit with a lightning bolt, he could be on a ferry to France and still have petrol left to go to a wine tasting.

They stayed behind him for a good thirty miles. Then a flash crackled overhead as he reached the turnoff for the M25. Swearing, Jamie took the exit. The four stayed within view of his mirror.

He kept going. His minders kept pace. Then he felt something warm in the inner breast pocket of his black leather jacket. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, what were they doing to him? He grabbed at it through the fabric liner. Then, as his fingers outlined a hard rectangle, he realized it was the scrying stone.

Skye, he thought, catching his breath as his heart leaped with hope.

He didn't believe these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were his escorts. Were they using him to lead them to Skye? The problem with being part of the underground was that you never knew who else was part of it too, or who was just really good at using it to get what they wanted.

He wanted to take the scrying stone out, get a good look in it, see Skye for himself. His heart pounded with the reverb of his motorcycle engine. Sweat beaded his forehead, chilled by the air blasting past him. Twenty miles-she was within twenty miles of him, and were these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds going to stand between the two of them?

Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely.

He began to scan the roadsides, looking for a place to make a stand. The rolling hills of England: villages, sheep. The warmth of the scrying stone was driving him mad.

Then to the right, atop a small hill, he saw the ruins of what appeared to be an abbey. There was a steeple. He could leave the road, get over there, throw down the bike, and climb the steeple. Let the Uzi rip and- They have lightning bolts, he reminded himself. And what are you going to do if you dismount and they set your bike on fire first? Set you on fire second?

Raging with frustration, he let the abbey pa.s.s. He saw the canted graves of the old churchyard, and then, past that, the road sloped downward into a valley. The valley of the shadow, to his way of thinking. The four would have an advantage over him as he descended.

I ain't going down into that, he thought.

And then, without thinking, he whipped the bike around, hard, and he did grab the Uzi, like in the movies, and began shooting. The recoil nearly threw him off a.r.s.e first; blinded with anger and adrenaline and wind, he sprayed the lads as hard as he could.

Lightning bolts answered; then he barely ducked in time as a f.e.c.kin' fireball whistled straight at him like a bomb. He had no idea how he was staying on the bike. Every time he thought he'd lost control, he managed one more save. Maybe Skye was helping him. Or maybe the sainted Holy Mother herself.

In shock he watched as one of the four tumbled off his bike. Bullets can kill them. The other three reacted, two of them slowing, one lobbing another fireball at Jamie. Jamie got off a few more rounds, then wheeled back around and rode for all he was worth. Down into the d.a.m.ned valley, where there were shadows, he began to turn right off the main road but saw nothing but trees pressed closely together; a bit beyond, there was a st.u.r.dy-looking stone wall. Not a good place to go.

He had to press his advantage; he went flat out through the valley. Then a lightning bolt slammed down directly in front of him. He swerved left, nearly losing his balance.

The scrying stone moved from warm to hot. It was nearly too hot to bear. He went left, off the road and into some trees. Hotter still. He yelled out a curse and kept going, dodging low-lying branches. Skye, I'm coming.

Then a large, flat megalith such as at Stonehenge suddenly appeared about twenty feet in front of him. He prepared to throw himself off the bike when he remembered other times, other barriers, into which Skye had bored magickal holes. They were invisible to the naked eye.

"Is that what you want?" Jamie shouted. "Skye, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, is this you?"

More likely it was the lads behind him. He had to decide now: throw himself off the bike and risk broken bones-break his neck, maybe-or splatter himself all over the stone- They're gonna catch up, he thought. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and drove straight for the block of stone in front of him, gritting his teeth and waiting for his life to flash before his eyes. Nothing was flashing. He was blind with fear. In the next micro instant he would either die or- PROJECT CRUSADE HEADQUARTERS, BUDAPEST.

NOAH.

Noah knew that he had very little time left before he was discovered talking to Dr. Michael Sherman. He stared at the vampire scientist. "So, tell me about the virus."

"It's a blood virus, a mutated strain of leukemia. When I was human, I was suffering from the disease. Now no more. But if I'm successful, the new strand will kill me along with the others." Sherman preened as if it were the best news of his life.

Noah was fascinated. Could it be that Antonio wasn't the only vampire with tendencies toward goodness?

As if he had read Noah's mind, the scientist shook his head. "What drives me, what keeps me doing my research and not destroying the humans here, is my hatred for the Cursed Ones and what they have done to me." He nodded. "Revenge, as it turns out, is stronger than blood."

Noah pondered that. "How fast will the virus spread?"

"Very fast. We'll release it into the air, and as the wind carries it . . . those closest will die in seconds."

"Vampires don't breathe," Noah said.

Dr. Sherman smiled, exposing wicked-looking fangs. "They don't have to. Infection will take place at a sub-molecular level. They can try to block it, but we're kicking out potential blocking agents one by one."

"You're creating an antidote?" Noah asked.

The vampire shook his head. "No. That was my condition for working on it, and my handlers agreed."

Noah c.o.c.ked a brow. "But you'll die too."

Sherman shrugged. "I can't risk it getting into the wrong hands."

Noah thought about Jenn. She would have argued with the man, for the sake of Antonio, but the doctor was right. When it came to something like this, you wanted all your exits closed off.

Nodding, Noah gave the man a salute. "When?" he asked.

"Soon. I know it'll work. I just want to make sure it works perfectly," Sherman said. Then his eyes ticked to a place behind Noah. "But I'm not sure you'll have a chance to tell anyone that help is on the way."

Noah spun and came face-to-face with Greg, the leader of the black crosses. Their paths had crossed the night Greg had forced Team Salamanca at rifle point to stand down from their self-appointed mission to expose Solomon's treachery at his press conference with the president.

"So now you know what we've been trying to create, what we've been protecting," Greg said quietly.

"It's fantastic," Noah said, scanning the s.p.a.ce behind Greg. There was no one else with him, at least not inside the room. How many were gathered outside? "We'll win the war."

"Yes. So you have to understand, there are a lot of folks-even in our government-who want us stopped."

"You can count on the support of Team Salamanca," Noah said steadily.

"I believe that's true," Greg said. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes, and the hair on the back of Noah's neck raised on end. It wasn't a good smile. Noah himself had given that smile on more than one occasion. He slid his hand into the back of his waistband and let his fingers close around the knife he had concealed there.

"What would you like us to do to help?" Noah asked, stalling for time.

Greg's demeanor didn't change. "Thanks, but the best answer is 'nothing.' We can't risk tipping the vampires off in any way. Jenn and the rest of you provide a great distraction, a place for the Cursed Ones to focus all their energy. We need you all to be able to continue exactly as before."

Noah nodded.

"Which means I can't let you leave this facility," Greg said.

Noah swung his left arm, and Greg blocked it easily, but missed Noah's right arm swinging in low with the knife. Noah felt the knife slide into Greg's flesh, piercing his side, missing the major organs but dropping the man to the ground. Blood pooled everywhere. Noah let go of the knife and leaped over the body, jamming his stolen ID badge through the reader. The door slid open, and he blinked in shock to see no troops waiting for him on the other side.

But from the corridor to his left he heard the sound of running feet. So he took off to the right.

He had to warn the others about what was coming.

If he could make it out alive.

ENGLAND.

JAMIE.

Jamie's bike went through the block of stone, and suddenly he was in a tunnel, the walls barely visible and no light revealing any end, madly trying to slow down as he burst into victorious laughter. He swore every good curse he knew as he throttled down, aware that he had yet to confirm if friend or foe had created this magickal illusion. The scrying stone was so hot by then that as soon as he stopped the bike and leaped off, he dug in his pocket, grabbed the stone, and tossed it to the ground. Blisters rose instantly on his fingers. He grabbed the Uzi and whirled in a circle, such a mess of adrenaline, terror, and relief that he knew he had no real hope of using it.

"Jamie!" a girl shrieked, and he knew her for Skye.

Then out of the darkness the little witch flew, in a white robe with golden spangles, her dreadlocks gone and her blond hair plaited down her back like a medieval princess. "Don't shoot me!" she shouted.

He had time to lift the Uzi from around his neck as she threw herself into his arms and showered his face with kisses. Kissing for joy wasn't much his thing, but he let her do it, laughing again, and grabbed her and whirled her in a circle.

"How did you find me?" she cried.

Then his street education rea.s.serted itself, and he eased her away. He crouched behind the fallen bike and pointed the weapon in the direction he had come, seeing only blackness.

"I was followed," he said. "Magicians or wizards or witches or something. On motorcycles. Four."

"Oh, G.o.ddess." Her giddiness evaporated, and she crouched down beside him. She began to murmur a spell.

"That better be a fighting spell," he said. "It's your ex, ain't it." It wasn't a question. "I shot one of them. I hope it was him."

She sucked in her breath but went on with her spell casting. Jamie kept his Uzi sighted. "Is there an escape route? Where are we?" The order of his questions didn't matter if she could take the time to answer them.

Murmuring still-sounded like Latin-she tapped him on the shoulder. She had conjured up a little ball of glowing light above her upturned palm. She darted into the blackness, and he had no reasonable choice but to follow her.

She was a d.a.m.ned gazelle as he stumbled along, tired from his ride, legs shaking from all the adrenaline. Everything in him wanted to stand his ground and prepare for an attack. If it was her ex, then from what Jamie knew he was a magick user of the first water, more powerful than Skye. He wondered how she'd escaped him. Or if she'd escaped him.

"Skye," he began. She pointed over her shoulder, and he looked.

There was a sc.r.a.ping sound, like the grating of stone on stone, and from either side of the tunnel they were in-he saw now that it had been carved out and reinforced with timber, the whole lot rickety and old-two hulking figures pulled themselves out of the rock: head, shoulders, torso, arms, legs. They were unfinished and lacking in detail, as if they were a child's clay creations. As they stepped out of the rock, they seemed to harden into moving statues. Then they stood side by side, enormous-seven feet, Jamie estimated-their backs to Skye and him.

She said, "Defindite nos!" and the creatures took a mighty stride forward, toward the opening of the cavern.

"Come on, Jamie," Skye said.

Street fighter that he was, Jamie knew better than to ask questions at the wrong time. Still, he kept firm hold of the Uzi as he trailed after her. Soon the two giants were lost to his field of vision. Then he heard a rumble, low and practically subsonic.