and ready to go, but then you don't take another picture. That flash sits on the camera until something sets it off and then it discharges. That's all the muscles are doing—discharging, so to speak."
The story was ludicrous, but Simon could tell from the way his father's breath hitched and his heart started beating faster that the old man believed it. Simon wanted to laugh but then wondered how it was possible for him to hear his father's beating heart—or the way his father's pulse raced, sounding like an underground current of rushing water.
The pain now was crippling, and unable to ignore it any longer, Simon opened his eyes and stared into the shocked face of his father, who for once was speechless.
"Oh, shit," Fred said from elsewhere in the room, his voice little more than a muffled noise beneath the sound of hearts beating too fast.
Brady's vision faded to red and he became aware of nothing more than the hunger driving him.
Pulling to a stop in the front drive of the funeral home, John turned off the car and studied the building, noticing how too few outside lights and too many shrubs and trees cast dark shadows around the sides and front of the building. The cemetery, with its aboveground tombs, stretched out to the right while undeveloped acreage intended for future expansion was to the left.
John had replaced his confiscated Glock with an S&W .44 mag , which he now pulled from his holster. He flipped open the cylinder and checked the six chambers to make sure they were loaded.
"Stay here," he told her as he reached for the door handle.
"Absolutely not," she protested, starting to open her door. "You brought me along to help. Give me my dagger and let's go stake a vampire."
He grabbed her arm and forcefully held her in place. "I said, stay here. If I need your help, I'll come get you."
"If you need my help," she countered, "you won't have the chance to ask for it."
He knew she was right, but he didn't really have a choice. "I don't have your dagger or stakes here, okay? All I have is this gun, so stay in the car, lock the doors and let me check things out first by myself." He was growing all too familiar with the stubborn set of her jaw and seeing it again wasn't helping his mood. "I mean it, Jessica. Stay in the car." He got out before she could protest further and pocketed the keys.
Walking to the front entrance, he wondered how he would get inside. As it turned out, the door was unlocked, which he found odd at this time of night.
He listened for a few seconds, but heard no sounds coming from inside. Moving forward as silently as he could, his senses alert, he began checking out each room as he came to it. The first two visitation rooms were empty. Standing in the doorway of the third, John took in the room's appearance at a glance. The soft glow from electric wall sconces lit the scene. Black drapes hung across the windows, providing a backdrop for the black-and-gold casket set before it. The lid was up and from where he stood, John saw that the casket was empty. Off to one side was a table with Simon Brady's framed picture on top. Beside it were several candles that had been left burning.
Chairs, covered in black cloth, stood in neat rows in the back half of the room. The chairs in the first couple of rows, closest to the casket, had been pushed aside and some had been knocked over—and lying in their midst was Franklin Brody.
John rushed to the old man's side. He was pretty sure the man was dead, but went through the motions of double-checking. When he went to press his fingers against the man's neck he spotted the two puncture holes. They appeared to be fresh—the blood was just starting to congeal.
Movement drew John's glance to the door, even as he trained his gun on the figure standing there. "Damn it—I told you to stay in the car."
"I don't like being out there alone," Jessica whispered, coming forward to kneel beside him. "Is he … ?"
"Yes."
"What about the other guy?"
John