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ago—and he saw something that scared him and ran off. It could have been Aristotle Draconis, the vampire from the boat; it could have been something else. We won't know until we find him. Mr. McGuire here has offered to help.”
    â€œIt's a big city, John Justin,” said Winnifred. “We'd best split up.”
    â€œYou're not going anywhere,” said Mallory. “I want you to stay home and get your strength back.”
    â€œAre we equal partners, John Justin?”
    â€œYou know we are.”
    â€œThen stop giving me orders,” she said. “We're splitting up.” She walked toward her bedroom. “You wait here for a moment. I'll be right back.”
    She entered the bedroom and closed the door behind her.
    â€œProbably gone to put rouge on her cheeks so she won't appear so pale,” suggested McGuire.
    Mallory shook his head. “Not her,” he said. “She's got something else in mind, but I'll be damned if I know what.” He shrugged. “Oh well, we'll find out soon enough.”
    â€œShe's quite a hunter,” said McGuire, studying her trophies.
    â€œThe best,” said Mallory.
    â€œAnd a romantic, too,” added the vampire, glancing at the shelves of love stories.
    â€œNot quite as successful,” commented Mallory. “But she deserved to be.”
    McGuire spent another few minutes looking at the accumulation of a lifetime spent proving herself against the fiercest beasts of the jungle while hiding from beasts of the cities—the ones that wore suits, carried briefcases, and drank martinis. Then the bedroom door opened again, and Winnifred stepped out.
    She was dressed in khaki shirt and shorts, hunting boots, and a pith helmet. She strode over to her gun rack, where she pulled out her favorite, a .550 Nitro Express.
    â€œI'm ready now,” she said.
    â€œYou can't go out alone,” protested Mallory. “Look at you. You can barely lift the damned gun.”
    â€œIt's a rifle, John Justin,” she corrected him. “You carry guns in hip pockets. You blow away vampires with a Nitro Express.” She turned to McGuire. “No insult intended.”
    â€œWinnifred, this is ridiculous, maybe even suicidal. You're in no condition to come face to face with something that's probably impervious to bullets.”
    â€œI've also got my hunting knife and my wits,” she said. “They've served me pretty well in the past.”
    â€œYou haven't been in the jungle for almost ten years,” said Mallory, “and you've lost a lost of blood. I don't want you facing Aristotle Draconis alone.”
    â€œI won't be.”
    He frowned. “I thought you said we were splitting up.”
    â€œWe are.”
    â€œThen—?”
    â€œThere's a phone in my bedroom,” she said. “While I was changing, I called my former safari team—my gunbearer, skinner, and tracker trolls. They'll be here in five minutes, and then the old crew will be off to hunt for this Draconis.”
    â€œI'm not going to talk you out of it, am I?” said Mallory.
    â€œNo.”
    Mallory sighed. “Then I wish you a safe and uneventful hunt. The only things I can tell you about Draconis are that his first name is Aristotle, he's seven feet tall, skinny as a rail, and dresses in black.”
    â€œThen that will have to do,” she replied. “We should decide where to meet in a few hours to compare notes and further coordinate our hunt, John Justin.”
    â€œYeah, no sense going over the same ground twice. I'll start south of Central Park, you take from the park north, and we'll meet”—he checked his wristwatch—“at half past midnight.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œMay I make a suggestion?” said McGuire.
    â€œShoot,” said Mallory.
    McGuire threw himself to the ground, then got up rather shamefacedly when he realized that Mallory was not giving an instruction to