Trembling violently, running with sweat, Yulian came awake, sat bolt upright in his bed. And as from a million miles away he heard again, one last time, Thibor's far, faint voice: Avenge me, Yuliaannn.

He stood up in the dark room, went shakily to the window, looked out on the night. Out there, a mind. A man. Watching. Waiting.

Sweat quickly dried on Yulian and his flesh turned cold, but still he stood there. Panic receded, was replaced by rage, hatred. ‘Avenge you, father?' he finally breathed. ‘Oh, I will. I will!'

In the window's luminous, night-dark pane his reflection was an echo from the dream. But Yulian was neither shocked nor surprised. It simply meant that his metamorphosis was now complete. He looked through the reflection at' the dark, furtive shadow there in the hedgerow

and grinned.

And his grin was like an invitation to step in through the gates of hell .

At the foot of the cruciform hills, Kyle and Quint, Krakovitch and Gulharov waited close together in a small group. It wasn't cold but they stood together, as if for warmth.

The fire was dying down now; the wind which had earlier sprung up out of nowhere had quickly blown itself out, like the dying breath of some unseen Gargantuan. Human figures, half hidden in the trees and the billowing black smoke, toiled above and to the east of the devastated area, containing the fire and beating it down. A grimy, coveralled hulk Of a man came stumbling from the trees at the foot of the slope towards the vampire hunters where they huddled. It was the Romanian ganger, Janni Chevenu.

‘You!' He grabbed Krakovitch's arm. ‘Plague, you said! But did you see it? Did you see that... that thing before it burned? It had eyes, mouths! It lashed, writhed .

it. ...t... my God! My God!'

Under the soot and sweat, Chevenu's face was chalk. Slowly his glazed eyes cleared. He looked from Krakovitch to the others. The gaunt faces that looked back seemed carved of the same raw emotion: a horror, no less than Chevenu's own. ‘Plague, you said,' he dazedly repeated. ‘But that wasn't any kind of plague I ever heard of.'

Krakovitch shook himself loose. ‘Oh yes it was, Janni,' he finally answered. ‘It was the very worst kind. Just consider yourself lucky you were able to destroy it. We're in your debt. All of us. Everywhere...‘

Darcy Clarke should have had the 8.00 P.M.—2.00 A.M. shift; instead he was bedded down at the hotel in Paignton something he'd eaten, apparently. Stomach cramps and violent diarrhoea.

Peter Keen had taken the shift in Clarke's place, driving out to Harkley House and relieving Trevor Jordan of the job of keeping Bodescu under observation.

‘Nothing's happening up there,' Jordan had whispered, leaning in through the open window of his car, handing Keen a powerful crossbow with a hardwood bolt. ‘There's a light on downstairs, but that's all. They're all in there, or if not then they didn't come out through the gate! The light did come on in Bodescu's attic room for a few minutes, then went out again. That was probably him getting his head down. Also, I felt that there just might be someone probing for my thoughts but that lasted for only a moment. Since when it's been quiet as the proverbial tomb.'

Keen had grinned, however nervously. ‘Except we know that not every tomb is quiet, eh?'

Jordan hadn't found it funny. ‘Peter, that's a really weird sense of humour you've got there.' He nodded at the crossbow in Keen's hand. ‘Do you know how to use that? Here, I'll load it for you.'

‘That's OK,' Keen nodded affably. ‘I'll manage it all right. But if you want to do me a real favour, just make sure my relief's on time at two in the morning!'

Jordan got into his car and started it, trying not to rev the engine. ‘This makes twelve hours out of twenty-four for you, doesn't it? Son, you're a glutton for punishment. Keen by name, and all that. You should go far if you don't kill yourself first. Have a nice night!' And he'd pulled carefully away in his car, only turning on the lights when he was a hundred yards down the road.

That had been only half an hour ago but already Keen was cursing himself for his big mouth. His old man had been a soldier. ‘Peter,' he'd once told him, ‘never volunteer. If they need volunteers, that's because nobody wants the job.' And on a night like this it was easy to understand why.

There was something of a ground mist and the air was laden with moisture. The atmosphere felt greasy, and heavy as a tangible weight on Keen's shoulders. He turned up his collar, lifted infra-red binoculars to his eyes. For the tenth time in thirty minutes he scanned the house. Nothing. The house was warm, which showed clearly enough, but nothing moved in there. Or the movement was too slight to detect.

He scanned what could be seen of the grounds. Again, nothing — or rather, something! Keen's sweep had passed over a hazy blue blur of warmth, just a blob of body heat which his special nite-lites had picked up. It could be a fox, badger, dog — or a man? He tried to find it again, failed. So... had he seen something, or hadn't he?

Something buzzed and tingled in Keen's head, like a sudden burst of electrical current, making him start .

Slimy gibber-gobble spying babble-gabble bastard!

Keen froze stiff as a board. What was that? What the hell was that?

You're going to die, die, die! Ha, ha, ha! Gibber-jabber, gobble-gabble... And then some more of the electrical tingling. And silence.

Jesus Christ! But Keen knew without further inquiry what it was: his unruly talent. For a moment then, just for a few seconds, he'd picked up another mind. A mind full of hate!

‘Who?' Keen said out loud, staring all about, ankledeep in swirling mist. ‘What...?‘ Suddenly the night was full of menace.

He'd left the crossbow in his car, loaded and lying on the front seat. The red Capri was parked with-its nose in a field, about twenty-five yards away along the road. Keen was on the verge, his shoes, socks and feet already soaking from walking in the grass. He looked at Harkley House, standing sinister in its misty grounds, then started to back off towards the car. In the grounds of the old house, something loped towards the open gate. Keen saw it for a moment, then lost it in the shadows and the mist.

A dog? A large dog? Darcy Clarke had had trouble with a dog, hadn't he?

Keen backed faster, stumbled and almost fell. An owl hooted somewhere in the night. Other than that there was only silence. And a soft, deliberate padding — and a panting? — from beyond the gate just across the road. Keen backed faster yet, all his senses alert, his nerves starting to jump. Something was coming, he could feel it. And not just a dog.

He slammed backwards into the side of his car, drew breath in an audible, grateful gasp. He half turned, reached in through the open window, groped with his hand on the front seat. He found something, drew it into view . The lignum vitae bolt — broken in two halves — hanging together by a mere splinter of wood! Keen shook his head in dumb disbelief, reached into the car again. This time he found the crossbow, unloaded, its tough metal wings bent back and twisted out of shape.

Something tall and black flowed out of the shadows right up to him. It wore a cape which, at the last moment, it threw back. Keen looked into ,a face which wasn't nearly human. He tried to scream but his throat felt like sandpaper.

The thing in black glared at Keen and its lips drew back. Its teeth were hooked together, meshing like the teeth of a shark. Keen tried to run, leap, move, but couldn't; his feet were rooted to the spot. The thing in black raised its arm in a swift movement and something gleamed a wet, silvery gleam in the night.

A cleaver!