What other? said Harry.

Faethor sighed, but eventually: There was one other, aye, he finally said. Listen and I'll tell you about him:

During the 15th, 16th and 17th Centuries, and even to the 18th, the supposed civilized world had grown more aware of so-called 'witches' and the 'Black Arts'. Witches, necromancers, demons, vampires, and all such creatures -real and imagined, guilty or innocent - were harried by relentless witchfinders, 'proved' by torture, and destroyed. Now, the true vampire was ever aware of his mortality and of the one Great Enemy of all his kind, called Prominence! And the 16th Century especially was not a good time for a person to be found too old or different or reclusive or even noticeable. In short, while anonymity among the Wamphyri has ever been a synonym for longevity, it was never more so than in those dark and doomful 16th and 17th Centuries!

Now, in the middle and to the end of the 17th Century the witchfinders were active in America, and from a place called Salem was driven a man called Edward Hutchinson. He obtained a lease on my old house in the mountains and dwelled there... far too long! He was a diabolist, a necromancer, and possibly a vampire. Perhaps even Wamphyri! But as I have hinted, he was imprudent; he lived too long in the one place and made himself prominent.

He studied the history of the house and took for his own several grand pseudonyms: as well as Edward he was wont to call himself 'Baron' or 'Janos' - aye, and even 'Faethor'! And finally he settled for 'Baron Ferenczy'. Now this, as might well be imagined, was what brought him to my attention. It offended me; likewise his occupancy of the castle, for I had thought me that one day I might return there myself, when things were different and Janos's taint faded a little with the years. The Wamphyri are territorial, as you know. And so I vowed that at a time of my choosing and as chance permitted, then I'd square these things with this Hutchinson.

But chance never did permit; no, for I had my own existence to look to, and the world was ever abustle and full of change. And so for two hundred years and more this foreign man lived in the castle I had builded, while I in my turn lived alone in my house in Ploiesti.

As I have said, he made himself prominent in some way, perhaps in several. Certainly he would soon have been summoned to Bucuresti, to make account of himself, if not for that titan explosion which finished him and his works forever. But as for Janos: I can only assume he lay in his jar or urn in a secret place, and waited for his time and a certain three-fingered son of the Szgany to find and rescue him.

Myself ... I went back there once - in 1930, I think -do not ask me why. Perhaps I desired to see what remained of the place; I might even have lived there again, if it was habitable. But no, Janos's touch was still on the stone, his taint in the mortar, his hated memory in the very air of the ruins. Of course it was, for Janos himself was still there! But I did not know that.

But do you know, I believe that in the end Janos had been closer to his Wamphyri sources than I might ever have imagined? For however cursory my exploration of those ruins that time in 1930, nevertheless I found evidence of works which... but enough. We are both tired, and you are not giving me your best attention. Still, nothing will waste; you know the bulk of it; the rest will keep until another time.

You're right, said Harry, / am tired. Nervous exhaustion, I suppose. And he made himself a promise that between Athens and Rhodes he'd sleep.

And he did ...

... But coming awake just before the landing, and as Harry stepped down from the plane into the blasting sunlight and made his way with the other passengers towards customs, he could feel inside that something was very much amiss. And his heart speeded up a little when, beyond the barriers in the arrivals area, he saw Manolis Papastamos and Darcy Clarke waiting for him; for it was written in their faces, too, that something was wrong. For all the sunshine and warmth, still they looked cold, pale, sick.

He looked at the two of them where they waited, searched their faces for an answer, and almost snatched back his forged passport when it was handed to him. Then he hurried to them, thinking: There's a face missing, Sandra's, but that's only right for she'll be in London now... won't she?

'Is it Sandra?' he said, when they were face to face. They looked at him, then looked away. And: Tell me about it,' he said, curiously calm now for all that he felt very, very ill.

And so they told him about it...

Twenty-one hours earlier:

Darcy had escorted Sandra to the airport outside Rhodes and stayed with her until she was called forward for her London flight - almost. But at the last moment he had been obliged to answer a call of nature. The toilets were a little distant from the boarding gates, so that coming out he had to run the length of the terminal in order to wave her goodbye. By the time he'd found a vantage point, the last of the passengers were already climbing the gantry steps to the aircraft's door. But he waved anyway, thinking that perhaps she would see him from her window.

After the plane left he drove back to the villa and began packing his things, only to be interrupted by a telephone call from Manolis at the police station. It had been Manolis's idea that when Sandra was out of it Darcy shouldn't stay on his own. The Greek policeman had rooms in an hotel in the centre of town; Darcy would be welcome to stay there. But before driving out to the villa to act as Darcy's guide to his new lodgings, and because it happened now and then that flights were late, Manolis had thought to call the airport first and ensure that Sandra was safely away. And he'd discovered that she wasn't away at all but had missed her flight.

'What?' Darcy couldn't believe it. 'But... I was there. I mean, I was in the...'

'Yes?'

'Shit!' Darcy gasped, as the truth hit him.

'You were in the shit?'

'No, in the bloody toilets,' Darcy groaned, 'which in this case amounts to much the same thing! Manolis, don't you see? It was my talent working for me - or against me. Against that poor girl, anyway.'

'Your talent?'

'My guardian angel, the thing that keeps me out of trouble. It isn't something I can control. It works in different ways. This time it saw danger around the corner and... and I had to go to the damned toilet!'

Now Manolis understood, and knew the worst of it. They've taken her?' he hissed. 'The Lazarides creature and his vampires, they have drawn the first blood?'

'God, yes!' Darcy answered. 'I can't think of any other explanation.'

In his native Greek, Manolis said a long stream of things then; curses, Darcy supposed. And: 'Look, stay where you are and I'll be right there.'

'No,' Darcy answered. 'No, meet me at that place where we ate the other night. Christ, I need a drink!'

'Very well,' said Papastamos. 'Fifteen minutes...'

Darcy was into his third large Metaxa when Manolis arrived. 'Will you get drunk?' he said. 'It won't help.'

'No,' Darcy answered. 'I just needed a stiffener, that's all. And do you know what I keep thinking? What will I tell Harry? That's what!'

'It isn't your fault,' Manolis commiserated, 'and you must stop thinking about it. Harry is back tomorrow. We must let him take the lead. Meanwhile, every policeman on the island is looking for Lazarides, his crew and his boat - and Sandra, of course. I made the call and gave the orders before I came here. Also, I should have the complete background information on this... this Vrykoulakas pig by morning! Not only from Athens but also America. Lazarides's right-hand man, called Armstrong, is an American.'