Prologue The smell of fresh paint assaulted his nostrils as he made his way down the newly carpeted hallway and peered through the glass walls he passed. Men and women in business suits sat at computers or stood at book cases, pulling down volumes in red and gold and thumbing through them at a quick pace. In one room, behind sound-proof glass, a tall man in Armani briefed a group of three - one woman, two men - who sat on the opposite side of a polished mahogany table, single blank white sheets of paper and unused pens placed before them. As Michael passed by, the Armani man glanced up. The two exchanged quick nods, and the man went back to his briefing. Michael continued to walk, his gaze skirting from the men behind the glass to the reflection he cast upon it. He was a tall man at 6'3" and had been especially tall in the time that he was from. People had been more than a foot shorter, then, on average, making Michael nothing short of a giant. His hair was thick, wavy and more or less short, though perpetually in need of a cut. Other than his height and build, though, which were somewhat intimidating, it was his eyes that people remarked upon the most. They were royal blue, without a speck of discoloration to their ocean-depths, and he knew that his gaze was disconcerting. It always had been. Michael smiled a slow smile and eyed the reflected suit he was wearing. This morning's call precipitated the need for something practical as well as stylish, and so he wore a tailored ensemble made for him by a very special man in Cuba. It hadn't been cheap, but it was well worth the cost. Michael took a deep breath and paused before the door marked #314 B. Then he reached out and turned the knob, opening the door outward into the hallway he peered into the room. "Michael, I'm glad you could make it. I think you need to see this." Michael ducked his head into the office and searched for a seat. A dozen business-clad men and women occupied the meeting room, all sitting in plastic and metal chairs, legs crossed at the ankle or knee. The Spartan, chilly atmosphere of the room was at sharp contrast to the warm, plush briefing room that Michael had passed only moments before, but Michael was used to such discrepancies. A man at the front of the group gestured to an empty chair beside him. Michael nodded and sat down, then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "What is this about?" His British accent was crisp and clear and his words, though spoken casually and softly, carried easily across the room's expanse. He addressed the redheaded woman who stood beside a large flat-screen television mounted on the wall at the front of the room. "A private anonymous recording, out of Lubbock, Texas. Recorded at 8:13 yesterday morning and delivered to us by an operative who claims the tape appeared on his desk, no label, no address. " Her green eyes settled on Michael's blue eyes and held them fast. "We have a problem." She pressed a button on the remote in her hand and turned her full attention to the screen as it flashed to life. "You'll see what I mean." Michael peered at the screen. Everyone in the room had gone deathly still as the image of a man in long white robes appeared, standing before a congregation of more than a dozen similarly dressed people. A strange thrumming began to course through Michael's veins as he listened to the stranger in robes begin to speak. ".Body of my body, blood of my blood," the man began. He paused and pulled his robes open, revealing a thin, pale chest underneath. He wore nothing more than a loincloth, the bones of his pelvis jutting out painfully. His ribs could easily be counted. Michael's gaze narrowed as one of the men in the front row of the strangely attired congregation handed the skinny man a knife. Michael could read the buck name on its hilt, though he doubted than any normal human being would have been able to spot it. "I give of myself so that you may be whole." the man continued, his voice gentle and lulling. Piercing brown eyes gazed out from a gaunt, bearded face, but something in his countenance suggested a calming aura. Michael thought he knew what, exactly, that something was. As they watched, the man sliced into his own hand and held his palm over the rim of a cup that another figure in the front row held out for him. The blood spilled and gathered until he closed his palm and moved his hand away. Michael swallowed. Sweat beaded upon his brow. The man then took the same knife and held it to his concave abdomen. After a breathless hesitation, he pressed the knife's razor-sharp blade into his flesh and sliced a clean, straight line across the expanse of his pale flesh. He followed this up with two more quick slices, running parallel to each other and ending at the peaks of his hipbones. With one final redline across his lower belly, he'd formed a perfect, bloody square. Michael felt the nearly uncontrollable urge to close his eyes then. He simply knew what the man was going to do next. Everyone in the room did. There was something so painfully obvious about it - as if it were the inevitable period at the ending of a messy and brutal sentence. The man handed the blade to the robed individual who had originally given it to him, and then he placed his hands on either side of the crude square upon his stomach. With one abrupt movement, he dug his fingers into the bleeding gashes and ripped the square of flesh away from the muscle and bone underneath. Blood went spraying out toward the audience in a red arc. Pieces of flesh that had stubbornly stuck to the muscle beneath flopped and dangled, red and torn in the shocked silence. The robed audience gasped and screamed, and in a wave of terrified movement, stood from where they'd been sitting and scrambled back several feet. But by that time, the man's horrible wound was already beginning to heal. Michael could not move, could not even breathe as he watched and listened to the man once again speak. "Be strong and of good courage, fear not, nor be afraid." The man's melodic voice hitched only once, as he swallowed, and his brown eyes momentarily closed. The gaping hole in his abdomen continued to close, new skin forming over muscle and intestines even as he swooned, for only a second, on his feet. ". Fear not, for the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee." He opened his eyes and fixed them upon his companions, one after the other. "He will not fail thee, nor forsake thee." The small crowd of robed men and women stood still where they had scrambled to, the expressions on their faces nothing short of mesmerized. They watched, in utter shock and silence, as the man's body continued to heal itself. Within less than a minute, the horrid wound had returned to nothing more than what appeared to be a puckered, red square upon his stomach. "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish." The man gestured toward the shrinking scar upon his flesh. "But have everlasting life." And then he looked up once again and turned a gentle, reassuring smile upon the men and women who were very slowly returning to their seats before him. The red-haired woman pushed a button on her remote and the screen went blank. The room remained quiet for a very long time. Ever so slowly, Michael blinked. Then he turned his blue eyes to the woman. "Who is he?" He spoke softly, his tone low and laced with something threatening. "We're not sure. Unfortunately, we've found very few records that might pertain to him. We believe he is one of us, of course. The fact that the tape found its way to one of our agents suggests he, at least, knows of our existence. And, to my knowledge, only vampires know about vampires." She turned toward the blank screen, as if seeing what had been on it only moments before. "We think his name is Victor Anson. The portrait we found of Anson bears an uncanny similarity to this man." She absently gestured to the blank screen. "Anson was born in 1495, in Augsburg, Germany. He died in 1528 after attending the University of Freiberg, and receiving," she faced Michael again, a slight smile playing across her lips, "a doctor of theology degree from the University of Ingolstadt, where he became a professor. Just before he died, he traveled to Regenburg and the cathedral records show that he pulled the personal notes of one Balthasar Hubmaier, who had once been chief pastor there. That same year, as you may know, Balthasar was tried and convicted of heresy in Vienna, and burned at the stake." Michael nodded. "I vaguely recall such a thing. He was infamous for embracing Protestant theology. Apparently baptized more than six thousand people by immersion. Didn't the church drown his wife in the Danube?" "Yes." The woman nodded and moved to a chair that waited, empty, against the nearest wall. She picked the chair up, spun it around, and sat in it backwards, draping her arms over the seat back. "Victor died that same year. No one knows how. He was buried in a Roman Catholic cemetery in Regenburg." "Who assisted him?" Michael asked, wondering which adherent had been appointed to the task of freeing Victor Anson from his grave and covering up the evidence. "That's just it," the woman sighed. "The record goes blank there. We have no evidence that any adherent was assigned to Anson at all. As far as we know, we've kept careful track of every one of our adherents for the last three thousand years, and none can recall ever having worked with him." "So, he's a pariah." It happened sometimes. A vampire would die without the Syndicate knowing what they were. They would be buried without the promised aid of an appointed adherent to dig them up and help them along in the first few years of their immortality. Such pariahs had to dig their ways out of their graves, and for many, the task took weeks, if not months. A few vampires went insane. It was rare, but it happened. And it was most likely one of the reasons the Syndicate believed the man on the screen to be Victor Anson. He certainly fit the bill sanity-wise. "I have no idea, unfortunately," the woman replied softly. "Over time, nearly all vampires are detected by our guardians and reported on. However, this man's existence has gone undiscovered until now. At the same time, Victor Anson seems to have remained under our radar for more than five hundred years. All we were able to find were his birth date, school, employment and travel records, and record of his death. Nothing since then. Nothing more." The woman fell into silence and the room lapsed into quiet around him. The scene from the television screen played out in Michael's head. He closed his eyes and saw the wound upon Victor's chest closing. His head began to ache. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Christ." "I think that's the idea," someone muttered behind him. "This is very, very dangerous, Michael." Michael looked up and met the red-haired woman's gaze once more. She had stood, silent as a cat, and was once more standing at the front of the room. "It is crucial that Anson be brought in. As I said, there was no message with the tape, but we assume that whoever filmed it intended for this to be newscast, sooner or later. It may be sooner. Possibly as soon as tonight." Michael nodded, tension mounting in his system. "What procedure do you want me to use with him?" "He has threatened disclosure. Use whatever means necessary to get him back underground. I've assigned four minor enforcers to your aid. You'll have some memories to erase as well, obviously, and you'll need to do it fast to prevent further exposure. These things can have an exponential effect." "Someone really messed up here," said a heavily accented voice behind Michael. He turned in his seat. "Nothing spreads faster than zealotry. And nothing is more deadly. I should know." Michael eyed the man with curiosity. His physique was on the small side, his skin tone dark, his features either Mediterranean or middle-eastern. "I'm sorry. I don't think we've met." Michael extended his hand. The small man beamed. "I'm Wasim. I'm new." They shook hands, and in that instant, Michael absorbed everything he needed to know about Wasim Batul. He was a thirty-one-year-old graduate student of commerce at the University of Delhi. Or, he had been before he'd died in a motorcycle accident, in Delhi, three weeks ago. He'd already been informed of his immortality by a well-assigned adherent and though the accident and death had been real enough, the funeral and cremation had been simulated, as usual. Wasim Batul was a non-practicing Muslim and, since awareness, had questioned not only Islam, but also religion, in general. "Welcome," Michael said. "I'm Michael." Wasim smiled, but his expression was one of expectation. He cocked his head to one side, as if waiting. Michael knew he was waiting for a last name. "It's just Michael." Wasim blinked, and then he nodded. "Oh. Okay. Michael." A throat cleared behind Michael, and he turned in his seat. "Sorry, Anna. We'll leave within the hour." "Glad to hear it." The red-haired woman nodded, her green eyed gaze never wavering. Michael rose from his seat and walked to the door. Behind him, Wasim rose as well, and followed in his footsteps. Michael paused and turned to face him. Wasim shrugged. "I've been assigned, Mr. Michael." Michael looked at Anna, who smiled tightly. "His skill may prove useful." Michael eyed the small man again and wondered just what the Muslim's skill might be. It was the one attribute Michael could not read through touch - a vampire's unique talent. Wasim merely smiled broadly. "Very well." Michael nodded, and with one last rather nervous glance at the flat, black television screen, he exited the room, Wasim Batul hot on his heels. Chapter One "So." Michael checked his rear-view mirror and pulled the Lincoln Continental out of its designated parking space. "Who was it that told you you were one of us?" Wasim had been staring out the window, as if counting the cars parked in rows in the darkened garage. Now he straightened and turned to peer up at the significantly taller vampire beside him. "Mirabel," his heavily accented voice replied. "She had been teaching my course for two weeks. She claimed that the professor was out with some kind of lung disorder. Two days before the accident, she asked me to stay after class." Wasim paused and ran a hand through his thick black hair. "She explained everything." Michael cut his gaze to the man beside him and then turned his attention back to the traffic ahead of him. "You didn't believe her." "No." "And now?" "Well, now I am dead, aren't I? I suppose I believe her. Now." The two fell silent for several minutes. The sun had been set for several hours and the lights of Chicago's downtown area became a steady blur of neon and street lamp as the Continental navigated its way toward the interstate and the airport. "Do you think we will catch him?" Wasim finally asked. "Yes." "You are going to kill him?" "Yes." "Does not even the smallest part of you wonder whether he may not be who you think he is? What if he really is the second coming of Christ or whatever it is you people believe?" Michael smiled a slow, wry smile and once more cut his gaze to the dark man beside him. "Do you think he's telling the truth, Wasim?" Wasim stared up at him for several long moments and then, finally, he shook his head. "I do not believe anything any longer, Mr. Michael." Michael said nothing and turned his gaze to the road. "Do you believe him?" "No." "Why?" Michael's gaze took on a distant quality. "I have my reasons." "How long is the flight to this Lubbock, Texas?" "Roughly two and a half hours." Wasim seemed to think about it for a moment, and then he nodded. Once more, they fell into a companionable silence and each looked out their respective windows. Then, as if he couldn't stand the silence, Wasim spoke up. "So, what is your story?" Michael didn't answer. After several long minutes of silence, Wasim's brow furrowed. "How old are you?" Michael took a deep breath and sighed. "Older than you are." "By how many years, exactly?" "A few. Now, you need to listen carefully," Michael's British accent rang clear and deep in the car's plush interior. "We will be meeting up with four minor enforcers when we land in Texas. They have been assigned to and briefed on the case. From there, we will split into teams, and each taking a contingent of roughly a dozen assignees, we will begin to comb the mapped-out area." Michael cut him a glance. "You'll remain with me, as apparently you possess a talent I can't succeed without." Now it was Wasim's turn not to say anything. Michael seemed satisfied with his silence. The shiny black car continued down I-55 at a safe and inconspicuous 65 miles per hour. * * * * * Abigail Lucia turned to look over her shoulder. The men were still there. Two of them. They seemed to have followed her from the Science Spectrum to the grocery store, and now here. Coincidence was one thing, but they'd managed to remain within fifty yards of her as she'd crossed town to arrive at three different locations. "Mama, I have no food. Have you ever seen any food?" Abbie glanced down at the little girl holding her hand. Big gray-green eyes peered up at her from a tiny face framed by two very blonde and very small pigtails. "Are you already hungry again? Didn't we just eat?" "I want some more French fries." "Jessie, you can't have French fries for every meal." "Pwease?" "No, sweetie." "Pweeease?" "Here, I'm going to carry you for a little while, okay?" Abbie bent and lifted the two-year-old into her arms. With another glance over her shoulder and a furrow of her brow, she ducked into Target and placed her daughter into a cart. "Can we get popcorn and wemonade?" "Sure." Abbie wasn't really listening now. The men had crossed the parking lot and were entering the store. They were speaking to each other and neither was looking her way, but something about them nagged at her. This time, as she peered at them, she took a moment to memorize details. The pair was dressed similarly. The taller of the two most likely reached six feet or a little over. His hair was black, streaked at the temples with gray and he wore a black t-shirt tucked into a pair of black jeans, with black motorcycle boots that had seen plenty of use. The slightly shorter man had long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and wore a gray t-shirt and blue jeans with white Nike's on his feet. The taller man had a scar across his right eye, beginning at the center of his forehead, and ending about an inch above the left side of his mouth. The eye seemed to be intact, though it had no doubt been a close call. His eyes were gray. The shorter man had very light blue eyes, nearly white. Abbie stored this information away in her brain and looked away, pushing her cart toward the snack bar. "Excuse me." She maneuvered the cart between two employees in red shirts who were obviously on break and pushed her daughter to the snack bar counter. "May I have the number one popcorn combo, please?" She found herself wondering who the men were. Farmers? Ranchers? Lubbock was full of them. But neither had been wearing the right shoes. Construction workers? But the taller of the two had been dressed in black. Not smart in this heat if you had to work out in the sun all day. And they'd been clean. Just friends, then. Running errands. So, why was she sweating? Abbie started when she realized that the man behind the counter had had to address her twice to get her attention. "Sorry," she said softly as she took the container of popcorn and handed it to her daughter. "Thank you." "Oh, fank you, mama!" Jessie grinned. Deep dimples formed in her cheeks. "May I have some wemonade?" "Yes, sweetie, I'm getting it." As if on impulse, she chanced another glance over her shoulder. The men were gone. She turned fully around and cast her gaze up and down the aisles that were visible from the snack bar. There was no sign of them. It was all in her imagination. With three stores in a town as small as Lubbock lots of people had to shop and this was Saturday. Maybe it really was coincidence. "One-oh-seven, ma'am." Abbie pocketed the change. After maneuvering the cart to the soda fountain, filling the empty container with lemonade, and handing the cup and straw to her daughter, she pushed the cart out of the snack bar area and tried to remember why she'd needed to come to Target in the first place. In forty minutes, she was through the checkout line and heading toward her car. The sun had already begun to set and, for some reason that she couldn't put her finger on, Abbie's nerves were raw. She combed the parking lot with darting eyes, her right arm hefting her daughter, her left hand curled around the thin, cutting handles of three white plastic bags. "I wanna hode one." "Fine, but don't drop it, okay?" "Okay." Abbie lifted the bags and expertly separated one out without dropping either the bags or her daughter. "Put your arm up and hold out your hand." Jessie held out her hand and Abbie's attention was snagged by the small birthmark between her daughter's thumb and forefinger. It was shaped like a series of geometric symbols or lines, etched in strawberry across perfect pink flesh. She'd grown used to it, but for some reason, it looked as if it had darkened. Abbie placed the lightest of the three bags in Jessie's small hand and curled the child's fingers around it. "Promise you won't drop it?" "Yeah." Abbie stilled. A sudden chill raced down her spine. She glanced in every direction, peering in between the rows of cars on either side of her. A morbidly obese woman was pushing a cart across the loading zone, a roll of her stomach poking out from in between her jeans and the bottom of her brown t-shirt. An old man was slowly getting into a car parked in the handicap lot. Two young Hispanic boys ran past him, the taller of the two chasing the shorter one. Traffic zoomed past on Loop 289 and cars were stopped at a red traffic light under the bridge beneath it. The wind picked up and the air smelled of feedlot manure and popcorn. She glanced back down. The popcorn smell was coming from Jessie. Everything looked normal, as it always did. Abbie took a deep breath and continued toward her car. As they approached it, Jessie whispered, "uhoh" and the bag slipped from her hand. Abbie closed her eyes when something inside the bag made a strange crunching sound. She sighed and, leaning against her car, she bent down to pick it up. She had the bag in her hand just as a popping noise sounded above her and a strange vibration thrummed through the car. She straightened and turned around. A large dart was embedded in the left passenger window and a spider web of cracks had spread from the contact point. "What the." Reality hit her like a sledgehammer and Abbie's heartbeat sped up. She stared at the dart for several long moments. Her vision blurred and then cleared again and her arm went numb where it was wrapped around her daughter's small body. "Mama, what's dat?" Suddenly spurred into motion at the sound of Jessie's voice, Abbie ducked beside her car, just as a second dart shot noiselessly past her and hit the metal between the windows at eye level. Abbie stifled a shriek, crouched lower, and put her hand over Jessie's mouth. "Hush, baby. Don't talk." She peered down the alley between her car and three trucks, her breath now caught in petrified lungs. This isn't real. This isn't happening. Jessie seemed to sense her mother's fear, because she said nothing further and didn't struggle in her grasp. Abbie went still, waiting several long moments before she even remembered to breathe again. Then she slowly placed her daughter's feet on the ground and dug her keys out of her purse. Who the fuck is shooting at me? She cut her gaze to the second dart, which lay on its side on the ground a foot away. Thin, clear liquid pooled around the dart's long, metal needle. And, what are they shooting at me? Several more tense moments went by and she cursed fate that no fat woman or crippled old man or even a pair of screaming children happened by. Abbie took her daughter by the upper arms and held her tight, peering hard into her big eyes as she spoke. "Jessie, listen carefully to Mama, okay?" "Okay." "I'm going to unlock the car and put you on the floor behind the seat. I want you to lay still and not get up until I tell you, do you understand?" "Okay." Jessie nodded, her gray-green eyes searching her mother's face for some sort of reassurance. "I mean it, Jessie. You can't move, baby. You could get hurt. You have to stay down." "Okay." Abbie pressed the automatic unlock in her keypad and all four locks switched off. Then she eased her arm up and laced her fingers around the handle. She popped the door open and, as if she'd been called, Jessie immediately moved toward her, allowing her mother to pick her up and slide her small form into the large crack between the seats. "Don't move, okay, Jessie? Do. Not. Move." This time, the toddler didn't answer and Abbie could tell that she was scared. Abbie shut the door. Tears formed in her eyes as she duck-crawled to the front door, popped it open, and crawled inside. Once there, she reached for the cell phone in its recharging station. It was gone. A third dart zinged into the car door, nicking her thigh through her jeans as it raced past and slammed into the door's speaker, cracking the plastic. The pain didn't even register and logical thought was no longer an option as Abbie jumped up into the seat, slammed the car door shut, and jammed her keys into the ignition. She plunged the car into reverse and stepped on the gas. The car lurched into motion, screeching backward fifteen feet and coming to an equally loud stop. Abbie thrust the gearshift into drive and yanked the wheel to the right, slamming her foot down on the gas pedal as she did so. She managed to pull out of the lot without hitting the giant diesel beside her, though she would later wonder at the miracle. The car tore across the asphalt at a wide arc, heading straight for the exit onto University Avenue without slowing. On-coming trucks and SUV's began honking as Abbie paused only long enough to make certain nothing would sweep her off of the road and then drove straight out into traffic, accelerating to fifty miles an hour as quickly as she could manage. Once she'd gone several stoplights and had the incredibly bad luck not to get pulled over in the process, Abbie slowed. "Jessie, are you okay?" "Yeah, I just hit my head." "I'm sorry, baby. You'll be okay. Stay down, all right?" "Okay." "We're almost home." A wave of dizziness swept over her, and her hands instinctively tightened on the wheel. She closed her eyes and opened them again, refocusing on the road. Her arms began to feel heavy. "No. No, no." She muttered to herself, remembering the dart and the tear it had made in her pants leg. She willed herself to stay focused and took the most direct route possible to her neighborhood, merely slowing at stop signs and driving well over the speed limit. Finally, she pulled into her driveway and rammed the car into park. She threw open her door, jumped out of the seat, and nearly fell as her legs buckled beneath her. With great effort, she forced herself to stand and moved around to the back of the car, pulling the back door open as she went. Jessie immediately rolled over and pulled herself up and into her mother's arms. She said nothing but curled up tightly against Abbie and hid her face in the curve of her mother's neck. Abbie limped from the car to the front door of the house, slid the key in the lock with a fiercely shaking hand, and kicked the door open. She needed to get to the phone.