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Nasty-looking bites, she has, in the neck, just here. Doctor says as how it’s insects, but they look more like rat bites to me.”
    “I ain’t heard of no influenza what starts with rat bites,” someone warned.
    There was a pause. “Could we be talkin’, you know . . . plague?” the first whispered.
    Stephan knew it wasn’t influenza. It wasn’t insects or rats. No. You might call it a plague, though. He was on the right trail. They were here somewhere. They would need a secluded place. With the number of afflicted victims, there was more than one. Three or four, perhaps. He ate his dinner mechanically. The joy of food was long gone, diminished by his awful purpose into merely the necessity of sustenance.
    He might not be up to four. But if he tried to pick them off one by one, at the first death the others would scatter and he would lose his chance. He had no choice. He must find them together. But first he must find them.
    Abandoned houses. Or . . . wasn’t this area known for its caves? Uncomfortable, but who knew how uncouth these vampires were? Perhaps they liked caves. He pushed back his plate and rose. Tomorrow he would see an estate agent about abandoned houses in the area. He could comb the properties in the early evening and search the caves by himself in the wee hours.
    There was still time tonight. The ostler would know about the local caves. And he would tell Stephan about them whether he wanted to or not, under compulsion. The vampires would be out hunting tonight, but he would know their lair if he found it. Perhaps it was best if he located it while they were away. Then, when they came back in daylight, he would be waiting for them . . .
    Stephan pushed back the fatigue of a long ride. Time to begin the hunt, while he still had eight hours of darkness left to him.

Three

    Ann paced her nursery, her heart thumping in her chest. She couldn’t blame her uncle. He was trying to provide for her future, however misguided he was. But she could blame her cousin. Van Helsing could have no love for her. She had not seen him above half a dozen times. That meant he wanted what she had, not who she was. He’d have heard tales growing up of the money sunk in the Funds. Twelve thousand a year and no mortgages. The fact that she and her uncle lived so modestly only meant the land was in good repair, the latest improvements made to her tenants’ houses, and most of the income ploughed back into the Funds. Oh, she might be called comely, if one could get beyond the look she had of not being quite connected to the world, and the eyes. But her appearance was simply more of what she had, not who she was. Actually, her eyes were the feature of her appearance most “who she was.” That was probably why Van Helsing was uneasy meeting them.
    It didn’t matter. She could not marry. She could not even touch a man, let alone take a husband. Surely her uncledidn’t believe Van Helsing would be content with a marriage without a conjugal relationship! She’d . . . she’d talk to her uncle tomorrow, have him send Van Helsing away whether it was good breeding or not to do so.
    She caught her breath. She was actually panting. She felt out of control, as insane as people all thought her. There was only one remedy for that. She needed calm.
    Ann grabbed a knitted shawl and a candle and turned to the ornate fireplace. She ran her hand over the intricate carving of the right panel. The panel clicked and opened silently onto darkness. Ann breathed. Here was the antidote to the dinner and Van Helsing’s conversation with her uncle. She ducked into the dark passage she knew so well. Down through the walls of the house she tiptoed on the old stone stairs, careful not to touch the narrow walls of the passage or brush against the entrances to several other rooms at Maitlands as she passed. No one used this passage anymore. No one but her even knew of it. At last the floor leveled out. A stone arch with a jagged-toothed design in the