Stretching up, Mark could peer into the window of the room where Stella and the man were, and even from the outside, he knew the smells in that room had nothing to do with chickens. While he watched, he saw Stella’s eyes drift shut, and she slumped to the floor.

“That’s my girl,” the cook said, and reached for her.

Mark had seen enough. He ran around the building until he found the door. It was locked, but he shoved his shoulder against it, splintering it. More chickens than Mark had ever seen at one time fluttered wildly, clucking and shrieking and making even more protesting noises as he ran through them to get to the door that lead to Stella. The man had heard him coming, of course, and was waiting behind the door as Mark burst in. Mark had been expecting it and dodged at the last minute, which was enough to deflect the knife thrust from his back to his arm.

Unfortunately it was the arm with the tire iron, which slipped from Mark’s grasp as he whirled around to face his attacker.

It took Mark only an instant to take in the scene, the man standing in front of where Stella lay sprawled on the bed. He was about to launch himself when a hand moving so fast it seemed to appear from nowhere latched itself onto the killer. Between his legs. Gripping his genitals.

He crumpled with a sound that would have been a scream if he’d had enough breath for it.

Stella went down with him, still squeezing. The expression on her face had nothing to do with the nymphet she’d been pretending to be and everything to do with a vampire.

“All right, you son of of a bitch,” she said. “Tell me who Jane Doe is before I rip your prick off!”

“I don’t know,” he wheezed.

“Are you telling me you don’t know one of your victims is buried in the Spivey family plot?”

“I know she’s there, but I don’t know her name. I don’t know any of their names.”

“You lying sack of shit,” Stella said, squeezing harder. “You kept her clothes, didn’t you? I bet you jacked off in them. There must have been something.”

“Nothing. I swear. Only a little money.”

“Tell me!”

The man’s face was starting to change colors.

“I don’t think he knows,” Mark said.

She didn’t let up.

“Stella, he doesn’t know. Trust me—no man is going to let you keep doing that if he has any way to stop you.”

For a long moment she still didn’t react; then, with a last squeeze, she let go. The man rolled into a ball and whimpered.

“Are you all right?” Mark asked.

“Of course. You know drugs can’t affect me.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Mark admitted. “You’re a very good actress.”

“What about you? That bastard stabbed you,” Stella said, and Mark finally noticed that his arm was bleeding freely. “Does it hurt?”

“Quite a bit, actually.”

Stella stepped over the killer, touched the blood with one finger, and brought the finger up to her mouth. Then she gave Mark a kiss that almost made him forget the pain.

“You’re welcome,” he said breathlessly. “What do we do now?”

“First we take care of your arm,” she said, and leaned over to start lapping at his wound. Not only did it stop the bleeding, but it felt damned good, too.

With that done, Stella dragged the killer from the floor, grabbed his chin to make him look her in the eyes, and bespelled him so thoroughly he’d have laid still for her to finish squeezing his balls off, if she’d asked him to. Then she told him exactly what he was going to remember about this night. How he’d drugged the girl at the truck stop and brought her to his nest, meaning to rape and kill her the way he had the others. But the girl had fought back, gotten in a lucky blow, and left him unconscious on the floor. Meanwhile Mark did a bit of stage decoration, leaving threads from Stella’s clothes on the bed and dropping the princess necklace on the floor. Then they picked up the tire iron and made their way out through the still-agitated flock in the barn.

Their next stop was the pay phone outside the truck stop, where Stella called the police to tell them who had attacked her and where. When they asked who she was, she hung up.

Mark already had the car running, and they lost no time in taking off, driving away just as the first police car arrived, siren blaring.

Despite the lingering pain in his arm, Mark was feeling pretty pleased with himself. “What do you know? We solved the case.”

“No, we didn’t. We still don’t know who Jane Doe is.”

“But we did catch a serial killer. Nancy Drew never did that, I bet. Not only will he not kill anymore, but now they’ll find his other victims. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“Of course it does. I’ve been thinking of all those mothers who must have been wondering what happened to their daughters. It’s made my coming home worthwhile. I just wish we could have found out who Jane is. Her mother needs to know, too.”

They were quiet for a few miles.

Then Mark said, “Stella, about coming home. Why now?”

“I told you. For my birthday.”

“You’ve never come back for your birthday before, and eighty-two isn’t a particularly meaningful birthday.”

“No, but it’s been a meaningful year. Because of you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re the first vampire I’ve sired. Or damned. My first child.”

“I’m not a child.”

“No, but you are the closest thing I’ve got to a child. You’re my bloodline. Is it any wonder that I’ve been thinking about my human bloodline?”

“And about your mother?” he guessed.

She nodded. “Granted that my feelings toward you aren’t precisely maternal—”

“Thank God for that!”

“But it has made me think about being a mother and how I’d feel if anything happened to you. How Mama must have felt when I died. God, Mark, I was a terrible daughter!”

“Why would you say that?”

“I told you—when Vilmos gave me the Choice, I never looked back. Ever. I lived the high life in Europe for decades, and by the time I even thought to check on Mama, she’d been dead for years. I forgot she existed. And I guess she forgot me, too.”

There was no way Mark could answer her, no way he could comfort her, so he didn’t even try.

Only when they were in bed did he say, “If I’m your child, does this mean I’ve got to give you a Mother’s Day present?”

Her smile was his reward. “Damned straight! I want breakfast in bed, flowers, and a bottle of perfume, too.”

“It’s a deal.”

The results of the night’s adventures were all over the news the next morning, and Mark spent most of the day watching the story unfold, as the newscasters put it. He was still watching when Stella woke for the night.

“Did it work?” she asked him.

In answer, he pointed to the TV screen, where the local news was discussing the case, complete with film of Officer Norcomb with the killer cook in cuffs. “They’ve found two bodies already. This guy has been working at the truck stop for several years, so there’s no telling how many more there are.”

“Has he said anything about Jane?”

“Only that he killed her but got interrupted by hunters before he could bury her, and she was found before he had another opportunity. Nothing about who she was.”

“Oh.”

“We did good, Stella. You did good.”

“I know.”

“Besides, with all the extra publicity, maybe somebody will come forward with new information. You know Norcomb isn’t going to give up now. And if he does, you can bespell him into changing his mind.”

“True enough. Are you hungry?”

“I am. Hey! I didn’t eat any food today—I didn’t even think of it.”

“My little boy is growing up.”

He gave her a determinedly Oedipal kiss and said, “There’s an NC State game this evening. Should be a good place to get a bite. I’ll hit the shower. Want to join me?”

“No, thanks. I want to get dinner before midnight this time.”

“Spoilsport.”

When Mark was done, he saw Stella was watching TV but not the news. Instead she was watching the security tape of Jane.