It turned its head to one side, lowered it, and looked at him out of the side of its eyes. He knew that it was made up, that it didn't really have those perfect lips or those beautiful, soft eyes, but he could not help reacting to it as if it were the most wonderful woman he'd ever known.

Why didn't it call out? Was it here to die, or what?

He leaped at it again. He grabbed its throat, preparing to give it the most fearsome uppercut he could manage. He would stun it; then he would take the shattered neck of the viola and rip out its throat with it.

It stopped the uppercut in the palm of an iron hand. Then, very suddenly, his own hands were trapped at his sides. It was riding him, using its knees to pin his arms. It smashed its fists into his chest, using him like a punching bag. He toppled back, his chest wound making him cough hard.

It lay on him full length. He felt its weight, felt its v.a.g.i.n.a pressing hard against his p.e.n.i.s. He fought to free his arms, but he couldn't. This was a death grip.

Its head came up; its lips contacted his neck. He threw himself from side to side, but it was no use. The creature's mouth locked onto his neck.

He could feel the tongue then, probing against his skin. At the same time, its wriggling, squirming body brought him to s.e.xual life. His erection grew until it felt as though it would rip out of his pants. Faster it rubbed back and forth, harder it drove into his neck.

This was the death they gave their victims - an evil s.e.xual charge and then the penetration - and he felt it - the cold, slim needle that was normally enclosed deep inside the tongue - as it came out and p.r.i.c.ked delicately against his skin, seeking the vibration of the humming artery.

As it penetrated, the delicate, persistent pain made him gargle miserably. He was as stiff as a steel rod, its haunches were pumping, but he could also feel his blood sliding out of his neck, leaving him breathless and faint.

This was death by vampire, what his father had known.

And then, suddenly, it was on its feet. The lens was gone from one of its eyes, and it glared at him out of one red eye and one ash-gray one. Its face was smeared, the prosthetics gone from one sunken cheek. Along its lips was a foam of blood - his blood.

He was too exhausted to move a muscle. He could only watch as it opened his pants and sat on him. He felt himself being inserted into its v.a.g.i.n.a, and he struggled to prevent that, but he could not prevent it.

The creature raped him. There was no other way to describe what was done. What was worse - more humiliating, more angering - was that the sensation was not like the dull, empty horror of a true rape. There was something else there, another emotion, one that he did not want but could not deny.

It wasn't only that she was incredibly beautiful, even without her makeup - maybe more so without it. It was that she just felt so right felt so right. That was the reality of it. In her makeup or out of her makeup, she was the most wonderful woman he had ever been with.

He realized that he had been tricked into making his move. This was no battle to the death. It was a d.a.m.n seduction!

And, oh, my, but it was a good one - so smart, so deeply knowledgeable of Paul Ward. It made his very soul ache to see her trying so hard to win him and to love him through his hate, to draw him to her side and the side of their son.

She stopped. He realized that he had climaxed, but also that she had taken a lot of blood out of him, so much that he was surprised that he was still conscious, let alone capable of coitus. But she knew the human body with incredible precision. The borderland between life and death was where she was most comfortable.

"So," she said as she got off him, "what do we call him? I think it ought to be Paul. Paul Ward, Jr." She smiled the smile of a sultry Venus, the most amazing expression in the most amazing face he had ever seen. "Agreed?"

She lifted him to his shuffling feet and led him through the house in triumph. They had to help him, but he went upstairs. He went into her bedroom - their bedroom - and fell upon their bed.

"It's only a quart," she said. He'd tasted lovely. It had been hard to stop. "You're not that that weak." weak."

His eyes almost twinkled, and he seemed to revive himself. "Okay," he said, "maybe you're right. So let's finish this in bed."

She was heavy, just like him, and lean and strong . . . but also soft, soft in wonderful ways that seemed to fit him just about perfectly.

She lay in his arms, gazing at him with such adoration that he almost wanted to laugh from the pleasure it gave him. All the love and tenderness that he had been trying to suppress, that were part of his nature and one with their bonded spirits, now blossomed forth in him.

"I never will leave you," he said.

"I never will leave you."

This, he felt, was their marriage vow. "You're my wife," he said.

"My husband."

Leo and Sarah, who had come with them, now withdrew from the room. "I think she made it," Leo said.

Sarah just shook her head.

When they had been in bed together for a little time, however, she felt it her duty to be sure that they were entirely comfortable . . . and that all was indeed well.

Miriam gave her a very large smile, her lovely face almost buried beneath Paul's big, plunging back.

Sarah laid her hand on Paul's shoulder. Then she went softly out and closed the door.

Paul finished, a second time within just a few minutes and with a lot of blood lost. He sank down upon her, then slid into the softness of the bed.

What had he done? He'd capitulated. Maybe it was the d.a.m.n blood loss, maybe it was the brilliance of her seduction by violence, maybe it was the staring eyes of the baby - but one thing was certain: He was not going to kill this vampire.

She lay beside him as still as still water, her eyes closed, upon her face a narrow smile. He slipped his hand into hers, and she made a startlingly catlike purring sound.

It was while she was purring that he heard another sound, very soft indeed. Curious as to the origin of this very slight thud, he turned his head and looked toward Sarah's office.

As if by magic, the door came slowly open. First he saw a blond head, then a pale face in the gloom of the curtained bedroom. A small figure came in, moving quickly, almost as catlike as Miriam herself.

What the h.e.l.l? It looked like Peter Pan. As much as his mind wanted to believe that it was part of a dream, he had to face the fact that it was real. He stared. It came, catlike, closer to the bed.

It was small but it seemed extremely dangerous. Paul's struggling heart started to struggle harder. He did not understand. There was n.o.body else in the house, and they were incredibly careful about that.

When the figure reached the bedside, he almost leaped out of his skin with surprise. It was Becky. c.o.c.king her head, she gave him a look that said, Naughty boy, Naughty boy, and the slightest of smiles traveled across her face. and the slightest of smiles traveled across her face.

In that instant - seeing her so unexpectedly - Paul came back to himself. It was a homecoming to see her. His very soul rejoiced. She reached out and touched his cheek, and he was so incredibly glad that he would have cried if he hadn't been such a tough sonofab.i.t.c.h.

She smiled, then, more broadly. She pointed a finger at the vampire and mouthed, "Bang bang."

Paul nodded.

Miriam burst out of the bed, leaping almost to the ceiling. She came flying across Paul and tackled Becky, who was sent crashing all the way back into the office, where her rope still hung from the open skylight.

Paul wasn't as fast, but Becky recovered herself. She dragged out a pistol - and it wasn't a d.a.m.ned magnum. It was one of the French babies. Good! This thing was going to be decided at last.

Miriam snarled when she saw it. She snarled, and then she backed away. In two lithe steps, she was beside him. "Shoot us," she said. She knew d.a.m.n well how it worked. It was meant to clear a room. Becky could not kill Miriam without killing Paul.

"Hey, Beck," Paul said aloud.

"I thought we were a thing, you p.r.i.c.k!"

The natural goodness of a love like that was fresh water in a desert that Paul had not even realized was dry. "Becky," he said, "oh, Christ - "

"Men. They're all the same," Miriam said. She had that little smile on her face that was always there when she felt in control of a situation.

"She's an ugly cuss, Paul! Jesus, you must be drugged or something, man!"

"Becky, I thought you were with Bocage. I thought - "

"We're here for you, Paul. All of us that are left."

"What about Justin?"

"Screw him. And screw the Company."

"They take an enlightened approach, it would seem," Miriam said.

Why in h.e.l.l was she so calm? What did she know? "Be careful, Becky."

"Oh, yeah. Look, Mrs. Blaylock, we've got this place surrounded.

We've got video of one of your little helpers committing a murder. And we've got you."

"You won't kill Paul."

Becky's face changed. It grew as hard as stone. Nothing needed to be said. Miriam took Paul by the arm and began to back out of the room.

Becky stalked forward, bracing the gun. "Shoot, girl," Paul said.

Miriam backed them up another step. Becky came forward. "I love you, Paul," she said.

"Me too, baby." And his heart told him - it's true, it's always been true. He wanted her. He wanted normal human love, and that was what she had to offer. By the G.o.d in heaven, he wanted her.

She closed her eyes. He saw tears. He knew that he was about to die at the hands of the only normal human woman who had ever loved him, before he had even d.a.m.n well kissed her.

So he made a move. Why the h.e.l.l not? Might as well attempt the impossible. What he did was to leap toward Becky, hoping that Miriam wouldn't expect that.

He was free, falling toward her. Becky danced aside. And suddenly he was behind her.

The two women faced each other. Miriam covered her belly with her hands. Miriam screamed. It was the most terrible, bloodcurdling wail of despair Paul had ever heard.

The bedroom door burst open, and Sarah and Leo piled in behind her, both of them bracing Magnums. Paul recognized a standoff. He also recognized a situation that wasn't going to last more than a few seconds.

"We're gonna get 'em all," he murmured to Becky.

In the same instant that she squeezed the trigger, a desperate Miriam used her great speed to leap into her face. Instinct made her raise the weapon - and the blast went crashing into the trompe l'oeil ceiling, which came crashing down in sky-painted chunks, filling the room with dust.

Becky was hurled all the way back against the far wall of the office. She hit the wall with a resounding slap. But she was Becky, she was no ordinary girl, and she came back immediately.

Paul had the gun. Behind Miriam, Sarah and Leo were getting ready to open fire. He started to squeeze off the shot that would reduce them all to pulp.

Then his finger stopped squeezing. He stood, agonizing. "Pull it," Becky shouted, "pull the d.a.m.n trigger!" "pull the d.a.m.n trigger!"

The clock ticked. Sarah Roberts began moving slowly to the left, sliding like a shadow. He saw her plan: she was going to throw herself between them, try to absorb the shot.

"Pull it!"

"Please, Paul," Miriam said.

He stood there like a pillar, and pillars cannot move, they cannot pull triggers. He saw not Miriam, but his baby, the little half-made child who had maybe looked at him.

In all his years of killing, he had never killed a baby, and now he found that this was his limit. This was the one murder he could not commit.

His mind searched for a way to let his heart win. And his mind spoke to him in the voice of his father . . . or maybe it was his father's real spirit there, giving his son the guidance that he needed: "If you kill that child," his father's voice said to him, "my life and my death and all the suffering of our family will have been for nothing."

All those thousands of years of struggle on the earth - the slow evolution of the apes, the coming of the Keepers with their breeding and their feeding and their tremendous acceleration of human evolution - all of it had led to this moment, to the burning, unanswerable moral question of the mother, and to the baby.

"Gimme that gun," Becky said.

He did it. He gave it to her. As he did so, Sarah Roberts came forward. Her face was white, her eyes were huge. She loomed up, pointing her own weapon. With the clarity that comes to men at moments of great extreme, Paul saw a tear come out of her left eye and start down her cheek. And then her magnum roared and Becky's pistol roared, and the room was choked with dust and debris.

Silence followed, and in it the improbable bonging of a distant clock. Before them lay the shattered remains of Sarah Roberts.

Becky looked down, then stepped quickly across the blood-soaked corpse.

The other two were nowhere to be seen. Paul and Becky followed them out and downstairs, saw them as they were disappearing into a pantry.

There was a brick tunnel leading deep. "Know where it goes?"

"Nope."

"s.h.i.t. And there's no map?"

"No map."

"Then we've lost it."

"Temporarily. It ain't over till it's over, girl."

She dropped her gun to her side. "That one really got to you," she said.

He looked down the dark tunnel where the monster that carried his son had taken him. "Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken . . . then the dust shall return to the earth as it was."

"Okay."

They were silent together. Paul could feel the cord that linked him to his boy, feel it unwinding into the void.

"That's the last one," Becky said.

"The last vampire? Are you sure?"

"They're cleaned out. All of them."

"Even here in the U.S?"