"Help us, please," Molly implored to the faces above. Two sailors from the Whitecloud swung down.

Valentine took Rho into the dim compartment. A pair of tiny bunks angled together into the sharp prow of the vessel. He laid the Lifeweaver down.

Thank you, Lee... David. You have a strong aura. It might be best if... the others didn't see me, after... The mind's touch faltered.

"It's not over, sir. Just rest."

It... Rho began, but never finished. He flickered one final time, before shifting back to his natural form. The thing he knew as Rho collapsed into a rubbery ma.s.s the size of a teenage boy. Rho sagged-there was no skeleton to support his body-into something that looked like a blue octopus with a bit of bat in the evolutionary tree. Leathery fins ran the sides of his tentacles, the longer limbs at the back of his body joined by the veiny membranes almost to the sucker-tipped ends like a ribbed cape, the shorter ones at the front unattached and with smaller, more delicate suckers. His aqua-colored skin, more blue around cephalopod skull, changed to sea-foam green along his limbs, with a latticework of delicate black lines covering the skin that he found eerily beautiful, though if they were decorative or functional Valentine could not say. Spicules and flaps formed a band under the brain-in-a-bag of its head, but whether they were noses, ears, breathing tubes, or even s.e.xual organs was anyone's guess. The bulging eyes, lids opening wider and wider as it relaxed into death, drew Valentine's gaze back every time he looked elsewhere. They were like yellowish crystal b.a.l.l.s flecked with red, with a black band running across the middle.

G.o.d, it was ugly for an angel. Or a devil, for that matter.

Valentine hugged the moist, limp form to himself. He owed his and Molly's life to the dead Life weaver. When the warmth had left the body, he covered it with a blanket.

He should stuff Rho's body in a bucket or a big jug, preserve it with alcohol, and get it back to the Miskatonic. The researchers there might be able to find a weakness, some flaw that would allow them to kill the Kurians without blasting into their lairs and blowing them to bits. Duty, and loyalty to his species, demanded it.

He exited the cabin and went to the engine.

"Take any gear and fixtures you want out of her," he said to the crewmen of the Whitecloud. "But don't go in the cabin."

He found a hose and siphoned some gasoline up into a water bottle. He took the fuel down into the forward compartment and splashed it on the carpet and wood paneling. He repeated the process until the gas was gone and the speedboat reeked of fumes. He followed his shipmates into the sailing vessel as the sailors pulled the powerful outboard up out of its mount with a block and tackle.

Valentine reached into his pockets and found one more tin of matches. He struck them all at once, and tossed the flaming handful into the cabin. Flames raced through the boat, and the Whitecloud sailors cast it off.

He watched and waited until the lake consumed the flaming wreck. The smoke dissipated into the fresh breeze.

Sailors are used to the unexpected. A woman with a long, thin-boned face introduced herself as Collier, the captain of the Whitecloud, and offered them blankets and hot coffee.

She invited them below to the cramped galley. Valentine showed the captain his card, the chit given him by Captain Doss of the White Lightning. She agreed to take them north, where they could transfer to another ship, which could take them anywhere in the Great Lakes they wished to go. "I'd do it anyway, even without Dossie's card. Something tells me you went through a lot to get here."

He, Molly, and J. P. discussed their options on the coming voyage. They decided to winter in the familiar (at least to Valentine) reaches of the Boundary Waters. He would see Father Max again. Only when spring came would he have to make new decisions.

A very weary David Valentine took Molly into the clean, cold air of the Lake Michigan morning. They looked west as the sh.o.r.eline slowly became distinct and the sun penetrated the clouds. He thought of all the doomed souls beyond the distant, mist-shrouded sh.o.r.e. He had saved Molly, but how many others had died to feed the Reapers in the last three days?

He remembered a story that Father Max used to tell, and a quote he had to memorize from the green blackboard, of a tireless nun named Mother Teresa. She and her Sisters of Mercy had worked with the mult.i.tudes of impoverished, disease-stricken people in India. A journalist had asked her how she managed to keep her spirits up, when despite her unceasing labors there would always be more suffering than she could possibly cure.

Mother Teresa had thought for a moment, and then said: "You start with one."

David Valentine turned to watch the dawn, Molly's hand in his.

One.

This ends the first volume tracking the career of David Valentine. He will return to face the mysterious Twisted Cross in Choice of the Cat, the second book in the Vampire Earth series. For more information on it and other tales of Vampire Earth, please visit the author's Web site at www. vampireearth. com.

Glossary Aspirants: Teenagers, often sons and daughters of those in a particular caste, who travel with the Hunters and perform a.s.sorted camp functions.

Bears: Hunters and the most fearsome of the Lifeweavers' human weapons. The Bears are proud to take on anything the Kurians can design.

buckchits: The plastic currency of the Ozark Free Territory, they are doughnut-shaped coins of various denominations.

Cats: Trained by the Lifeweavers, these Hunters act as spies, saboteurs, and a.s.sa.s.sins in the Kurian Zone. Some work in disguises; others work openly.

Grogs: Any of the mult.i.tude of creations the Kurians have designed or enhanced to help subjugate man. They come in many shapes and sizes; some are intelligent enough to use weapons.

Hunters: Human beings who have been enhanced by the technomagic of the Lifeweavers to cope with the sp.a.w.n of Kur.

Interworld Tree: An ancient network of portals between the stars, the doors of which allow instantaneous transportation across the light-years.

Kurians: Lifeweavers from the planet Kur who learned how to indefinitely lengthen their lives by absorbing vital aura. They are the true vampires of the New Order.

lifesign: Energy given off by any living thing in proportion to its size and sentience. The Reapers use it, in addition to the normal senses, to track their human prey.

parang: A short, fat machete with a slight curve at the tip. Its three cutting edges can be used to skin game, chop down small trees, or even dig.

Pre-ent.i.ties: The Old Ones, a vampiric race that died out long before man walked the Earth. From their knowledge the Kur learned how to become vampires by living off vital aura.

Quislings: Humans who a.s.sist the Kurians in running the New Order.

Reapers: The Praetorian Guard of the New Order, they are in fact avatars animated by their master vampire. They permit the reclusive Kurians to interact with humans and others, and more important, absorb the vital aura through a psychic connection with the avatar without physical risk. The Reaper lives off the blood of the victim, while the aura sustains the Master Kurian. Also known colloquially as Capos, Governors, Hoods, Rigs, Skulls, Scowls, Tongue-Tong, Creeps, Hooded Ones, and Vampires.

vital aura: An energy field created by a living creature. Sadly, humans are rich in it.

Wolves: The most numerous caste of the Hunters, trieir patrols watch the no-man's-land between the Kurian Zone and the Free Territories. They also act as guerrilla fighters, couriers, and scouts.

Read on for a special preview of E. E. Knight's next volume of the VAMPIRE EARTH.

Available from Roc in May 2004 Lt. David Valentine looked back down into the gully. His platoon, numbering thirty-five in all, rested against leafing trees, using their packs to keep their backsides off of the rain- soaked earth. They had covered a lot of ground since skirting the northern edge of Lake Oologah that morning, moving at a steady, mile-eating run. The Wolves held rifles in their laps. Their leather uniforms were cut in variegated styles. Some Wolves still wore their winter beards, and no two hats matched. The only accoutrement his three squads shared were their short, broad-bladed machetes known as parangs, though as would be expected of the individualistic Wolves, some wore them on their belts, some across their chests, and some sheathed in their moccasin-leather puttees.

Valentine signaled with two fingers to the men waiting in the gully, and Sergeant Stafford climbed up the wash to join him in the damp bracken. His platoon sergeant, known as "Gator" off-duty because of his leathery skin and wide, toothy grin, worked his way slowly to Valentine's overlook. Wordlessly, the lieutenant pa.s.sed Stafford his binoculars. Stafford examined the compound as Valentine worked another inch off of the gra.s.s stalk clamped in his teeth.

"Looks like that last sprint was for nothing," Valentine said. "The tractor trailer pulled in here. We wouldn't have intercepted anyway. This must be a pretty good stretch of road."

"How do you figure that, sir?" Stafford said, searching the compound in vain for any sign of the tanker truck they had spotted crawling through the rain that morning. Using a map, making some guesswork, and trusting to luck, the platoon had dashed cross-country to ambush the tanker, hardly a forlorn hope given the terrible state of the roads in this part of the Kurain Zone.

"Look at the ruts by the gate, turning off the road. They've got to have been made by an eighteen wheeler," Valentine said.

"Could have been from yesterday-even the day before, Lieutenant."

Valentine raised an eyebrow. "No puddles. Rain would have filled in something that deep.

Those were made since the shower ended, what, a half hour ago?"

"Err, okay, yeah. So the truck's in one of those big garages getting worked on. We get in touch with the captain, the rest of the company is here in a day or two, and we burn the compound. I figure fifteen or twenty guarding this place at most. Ten's more likely."

"I'd like nothing better, Staff. Time's a problem, though."

"Val, I know food's short, but what else is new? There's enough game and forage in these woods."

"Sorry, Gator," Valentine said, taking the binoculars back. "I misspoke. I should have said time's running short for them."

Stafford's eyebrows arched in surprise. "What, those four tied up down there? Okay, it's ugly, but since when have we had much control over the punishment handed out by these little Territorial commandants?"

"I don't think it's just punishment," Valentine said, his eyes now on the two-story house.

"h.e.l.l, sir, you know these collaborator creeps-they'll flog a woman for not getting the skid marks out of their skivvies. These four probably were last out of the barracks for role call or something. G.o.d knows."

Valentine waited for a moment, wondering whether to give voice to a feeling. "Staff, I think they're breakfast. There's a Reaper in that house, maybe more than one."

Sergeant Tom Stafford blanched. "H-how d-do you figure that, sir?"

Valentine read the sergeant's terror with a species of relief. He wanted a subordinate in mortal fear of the Reapers. Any man who did not tremble at the thought of facing a couple of Hoods was either a fool or inexperienced, and there were far too many inexperienced Wolves in Foxtrot Company. Whether or not the whole lot, officers included, were fools was a question Valentine sometimes debated with himself on long winter nights until his thoughts became too much for him.

"Look at the first story of the house, Sergeant," Valentine said, pa.s.sing the binoculars back.

"It's a nice day. Someone is letting in the spring air. But that second story-shuttered. I think I even see a blanket or something stuffed between the slats. And that little stovepipe coming out of the wall-that's got to be for a bedroom, not the kitchen. See the vapor?

Someone has a fire going."

"Dark and warm. Hoods like it like that," Stafford agreed.

"My guess is that after the sun's down, the visitor will rise and go about its business. It won't feed till almost morning. It wouldn't risk taking them before it could sleep safe again.

You know how dopey they get after feeding."

"Okay, sir, then that's the time to hit 'em. Tomorrow morning." Stafford couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice. "Maybe the captain could even get here by then. That refinery he's scouting can't be more than thirty miles away. They feed, dawn comes, and they b.u.t.ton up in that house. We burn them out, even if it rains again, and have enough guns to knock 'em down and keep 'em down till we can get in with the blades."

"That would be my plan exactly, Sergeant," Valentine agreed. "Except for one thing."

"What, you think that house won't burn if it rains again? Those phosphorous candles, I've seen them burn through tin, sir. They'll get the job done."

"You missed my point, Staff," he said, spitting out the thoroughly chewed blade of gra.s.s.

"I'm not going to let the Hoods get their tongues into those poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

Valentine knew the word "incredulous" was probably not in his platoon sergeant's vocabulary, but Stafford's expression neatly ill.u.s.trated the meaning of the word. "Er, sir, I feel for them too, but h.e.l.l, it's too much of a risk."

"Having thirty Wolves within a mile of the Reapers is a risk too. Even if we all concentrate on lowering lifesign, they still might pick up on us. Then we'd be faced with Reapers coming from who knows where in the dark. The sun isn't waiting. I've made up my mind. We're going to hit them now with the platoon while most of the guards are off in the fields. That's all there is to it, Sergeant. Keep an eye on the camp up here. Whistle if anything happens."

The lieutenant returned to his platoon, scooting backwards on his belly until he reached the cut in the hillside. He gathered his three squads around him."Heads up, Second Platoon. The captain detached us with orders to raise a little h.e.l.l if we get the chance, and we just got it There's a pretty big civvy compound on the other side of this hill.

Looks like farm workers and maybe some mechanics-there's a couple of big garages behind the wire. Two guard towers with a man in each. I figure most of the able-bodied are out in the fields to the north, and most of the garrison is keeping an eye on them. Chances are there are only a few left in the compound, counting the two in the towers. But it looks like there could be Hoods in there too."

Valentine gave them a moment to digest this. Newer Wolves comprised the majority of Foxtrot Company, which had been rebuilt after being bled white in action east of Hazlett, Missouri, in the summer of '65. Each of his three squads had only one or two reliable veterans. Most of the experienced men were with the captain or leading smaller patrols on similar scouting forays into the Gulag lands north of Tulsa. While all of Foxtrot had gone through arduous training by Southern Command, the gulf between training and experience had been crossed by only a handful of his men. But they were eager to prove themselves as true Wolves, and all had reason to hate the Reapers and the Quislings a.s.sisting them.

Valentine searched the expectant eyes for a pair of almost cherubic young faces. "Jenkins and Oliver, take a map and head south. Sergeant Stafford will show you where the captain's headquarters is supposed to be. If he's not there, go back to summer camp south of the Pensacola dam and report. If you do find him, tell him we're about to hit some Reapers. I expect the Territorials'll react, and there'll be columns from all over converging on this spot.

Maybe he can bushwhack one. We're going to run east and wait at camp. Got it?"

Marion Oliver held up her hand. "Sir, can't we be in on the attack, then go find the captain?"

Valentine shook his head. "Oliver, I could sure use you, but just in case this goes to h.e.l.l, the captain would want to know what we found, where we were when we found it, and what we were going to do about it. Getting that information to the captain might save our lives.

"When it was raining earlier, I saw a few of you with those new rain ponchos you lifted outta that storehouse we broke into a couple days ago. I need to borrow three of them, and two volunteers."

An hour later Valentine walked down the empty road towards the camp, watching clouds build up again to the southwest. He hoped for more rain overnight. It would slow pursuit.

He wore a green rain slicker, an oily-smelling poncho borrowed from one of his men. Behind him two of his best snapshooters walked down the road, brisk and bold in the open daylight, also wearing the rain gear stolen from the Quisling Territorials. Valentine had his sleeves tucked together like a Chinese mandarin he'd once seen in a laminated placemat pinned to an eatery wall.

As the trio approached the camp, the guard in the south tower near the road waved lazily and called something down to the cinder-block guardhouse below. Valentine smelled concentrated humanity ahead, along with the odors of gasoline and oil.

Thanks to the Lifeweavers, humanity's allies in the battle against their fallen brothers, Valentine, like all Wolves, possessed an almost feral sense of hearing and smell, superhuman endurance, and remarkable reflexes. Valentine made use of his hearing as he approached the camp, focusing on the two guards walking up to the gate.

"Guy in front looks Injun if you ask me," one uniformed figure commented to his a.s.sociate.

Valentine, still a hundred yards away, heard every word as if from ten feet. "Mebbe he's Osage or something." "Didn't ask you, Gomez," the older of the two replied, scratching the stubble on his chin in thought. "Better go tell the Looie, strangers comin' to the gate on foot."

"Franks is having a beer with that truck driver. Any excuse for that p.i.s.ser. They've been through six by now, prolly."

"You'd better tell him or he'll have you stripped. He's jumpy, what with the Visitors."

Valentine worked the safety on the pistol in his left hand. The gun in his right hand was a revolver; he covered the hammer with his thumb, so it would not catch when he pulled it from the baggy sleeves that covered his arms and hands. The seconds seemed to stretch as the Wolves approached the gate. The Territorial named Gomez returned with a tall thin man who threw away a cigarette as he exited the gatehouse.

"s.h.i.t, four at the gate," Alpin, the young Wolf behind him, muttered.

"Stick to the plan. I just want you two to get the guy in the tower," Valentine said, quickening his step. "Hi there," he called. "I'm supposed to see a Lieutenant Franks. He's here, right? I got a message for him."

The bored guard at the southern tower leaned over to hear the exchange below, rifle held ready but pointed skyward. Valentine took a final glance around the compound. Back towards the barracks, a few women and children squatted on the steps or peered out of tiny windows at the visitors.

The tall lieutenant stepped forward and eyed Valentine through the wire, hand on his stiff canvas holster. "I don't know you, kid. Where's the message, and who sent you?"

"It's verbal, Lieutenant," Valentine answered. "Let me think... It goes Uke this: you're a s.h.i.t-eating, traitorous, murderous disgrace to the human race. That's about it."

The guards inside the gate froze.

"What?" Franks barked. Franks seized his side arm, the Velcro on the clasp making a tiny tearing sound, but Valentine had his two pistols out before the Quisling's hand even got around the grip. Valentine squeezed off two shots from the automatic and one from the revolver into the lieutenant's chest, spinning the man in a full 180 with the impact.

Behind him, the two Wolves raised their carbines. One had some trouble with his poncho, delaying him for a second, but Alpin aimed his gun up and put a bullet through the guard's chin while the sentry was still shouldering his rifle. The other Wolf got his gun clear in time to put another shot into the lurching figure even as the magazine-fed battle rifle fell out of the tower.

In the time it took the guard's rifle to smack into the wet dirt twenty feet below, Valentine emptied his two pistols into the other Quislings at the gate. The three Wolves dived for the roadside ditch, splashing into puddled rainwater. Valentine abandoned the empty revolver and slipped a fresh magazine into the automatic, sliding the action to chamber the first round. A shot fired from the northern tower whizzed overhead.

Alpin slithered along the ditch as Valentine popped his gun arm and one eye over the crest of the depression, gun following his gaze as he checked the door and windows of the old guardhouse. An unlatched metal screen door with the word "Welcome" worked into the mesh squeaked in the gusty breeze. Valentine ducked back into the ditch.

"Should I make a try at the gate, sir?" McFerrin asked, muddy water dripping from his face.Valentine shook his head. "Stay put and wait for the Sarge."

Farther down the ditch Alpin popped up to swap shots with the northern tower.

"Alpin, stay down, dammit!" Valentine yelled.

The young Wolf brought his gun up again, and a bullet burrowed into the ground right in front of this face. Dirt flew, and with a pained cry Alpin dropped his gun and brought his hands up to his right eye. Valentine crawled toward the youth, swearing through clenched teeth, when he heard a wet smack followed by the report of the shot. Alpin toppled backwards into the ditch. Valentine risked a dash to Alpin, whose one good eye fluttered open and shut next to the b.l.o.o.d.y ruin of the other.