Bulbs of garlic hung in doorways and windows of homes throughout Medvegia. Crucifixes were prominently displayed on doors, and protective symbols were drawn over thresholds and on rooftops in white chalk. Some homes had a profusion of iron nails pounded into the outer walls around every window or entrance; this was a serious expense for such poor families, but less costly than losing a life to a vampire intruder. Directly outside of one cottage, a very large, ornate cross stood upright on its own, pounded into the ground.

Max heard two of the soldiers in his small escort exchange a few quiet words, speculating that the cross had been stolen from the local Orthodox church. It was clear from their tone that they were merely observing, not criticizing. These two young men had been serving in the region for six months; they had seen far too much to be shocked by something as mundane as stealing sacred ornaments from a church. They had also seen enough by now to realize why a God-fearing family had done such a thing, and why the other villagers evidently accepted it.

His back ached, his eyes felt gritty with fatigue, and his stomach rumbled irritably with the nervous digestive disorder he had developed in recent months. He knew he still seemed like a young man to others, with a smooth face, thick brown hair, and a trim, upright figure; but for the first time since his aging process had mysteriously slowed decades ago, he was feeling the true weight of his seventy-five years. Vampire hunting aged a man.

Lieutenant Hoffman, a young officer who had arrived in the region only recently, was riding on Max’s left. A courteous, slightly shy fellow, he had been silent so far. Now he pointed to a tumbledown home as they passed it and asked, “What is that, Dr. Zadok?”

Max’s gaze followed the direction of Hoffman’s gesture. He saw thick, wide streaks of brownish-red all around the cottage’s doorway and its two windows. The same rusty color was splattered on the ground in front of the door

“It’s the blood of a recent victim,” Max explained. “Someone who was a member of that household, or at least a frequent visitor there. The family collected the blood from the remains they found after the person was killed.”

“Mein Gott!” Hoffman exclaimed. “Is that some ghastly mourning ritual?”

“No. The people inside that house think that warding their home this way will prevent the victim from returning there as a vampire.” He paused. “They are mistaken. The odor of blood will attract vampires—including the one which they specifically fear.”

“Should we not warn them?” the lieutenant asked.

“Yes,” Max said. “We will do so.”

But he knew from experience that the locals probably wouldn’t heed his advice. Unable to defeat their ghoulish adversaries, the people of this region clung fervently to their beliefs in various ineffectual wards and remedies. And Max increasingly accepted this. If he couldn’t eliminate the threat or protect these people, then what right did he have to take away their false sense of comfort in empty measures?

There were too many vampires in the region, and their numbers were increasing too rapidly. Locating them or devising protections against them took too long and was too often ineffectual. Fighting them led to too many human casualties while diminishing the vampire population only slightly.

Max felt increasingly helpless—even useless. And he hated the feeling.

Meanwhile, almost as if life were still perfectly normal in this vampire-infested village, local people began emerging and appearing, as if from nowhere, drawn by curiosity to this small group of foreign soldiers and one modestly dressed civilian riding slowly toward the main square. Strangers were uncommon in rural areas, and usually a welcome diversion if they came in peace—though strangers often did not come in peace here. This region had been repeatedly sacked and pillaged by conquerors from the East and from the West for centuries. Yet despite that, Max saw some hesitantly welcoming smiles among the villagers whom he nodded to and greeted now.

Children walked beside the visitors’ horses, looking up at them with round, serious brown eyes. Max smiled down at a black-haired little boy who trotted on foot beside him, so small that he had to hurry to keep up with the plodding pace of Max’s tired mount.

Apparently reassured by this smile, the boy tentatively touched Max’s booted foot and spoke. His highpitched voice was imploring, and even Max, with his marginal Serbian vocabulary, understood what the boy said: “Please make them go away.”

He wanted to promise he would. He wanted to swear with confidence to the child that he would end this horrible nightmare, and then everything would return to normal. But, in truth, he had no idea what he would be able to accomplish here. He was increasingly unnerved by his failures, and even his modest successes as a vampire hunter were marred by subsequent setbacks.

He looked down at that innocent, imploring face and felt unable to lie or give false hope. Least of all to a child.

So instead of making promises that stuck in his dry throat, he said to the boy, “Please inform the village elders that we are here.” He could tell from the slight frown on the child’s face that his foreign accent made the phrase difficult to understand. So he repeated it slowly, enunciating clearly. This time the boy nodded in understanding. Then he ran ahead of Max’s retinue, calling for someone.

Finding the main square of the village was just a matter of following this street until it reached the heart of the community. The boy had done as asked, and five older men were gathering in the square to greet Max and his party, along with many of the other locals. The five men’s faces were stern and grave. One of them was wounded, his arm cradled in an embroidered sling.

To Max’s relief, there was also a modestly prosperous-looking younger man with the elders who spoke some German. This would make communication easier. Max’s mother tongue was Czech, which he’d seldom had occasion to speak in recent years. German was among his strongest languages, along with English, Latin, Greek, and French.

The man who spoke German introduced himself as Aleksandar Bosko. He greeted Max and Lieutenant Hoffman, then introduced them to the village elders. Bosko invited them all into his home nearby, where they sat together in a sparsely furnished but comfortable room to talk, while the four soldiers who had come here under Hoffman’s command patrolled the vicinity. Max accepted something to drink, but declined food—his stomach was still bothering him—and asked the elders to tell him their story. Bosko’s role as interpreter was very useful; but Max had heard so many similar accounts since arriving in the Balkans in the spring of 1730 that he could follow some of the Serbian language in this account.

First, there was a mysterious disappearance, which was very unusual for the village—or at least it was when no foreign armies were marauding through the area. Within a few days, another villager went missing. Then people started dying. They would be found in the morning, white as chalk, their blood drained from their bodies, their corpses horribly mutilated—even partly eaten. Panic and hysteria spread through the village. Old grievances became fresh feuds, and private suspicions turned into public accusations, which soon escalated into violence and mayhem.

More people disappeared, and their families were increasingly too frightened to go out in search of them. Then someone finally saw one of the terrifying creatures that was preying on their village—and lived to tell the tale. That was when they began to understand what was happening to Medvegia.

“Now, Dr. Zadok,” said Bosko, “one person is dead or missing out of every five in Medvegia. We huddle together in fear at night and are preyed on by fiendish monsters. The dead walk among us, and people we knew and loved have become murdering demons who thirst for our blood.”

When the gruesome account was finished, Hoffman looked at Max. “Where shall we start?”

“The local cemetery,” he said promptly. “Let’s commence our work by making sure no new vampires rise from the grave here. We’ll start with the most recent burials.”

“Not a very practical objection, considering the situation,” Max said, his rebellious stomach churning while the stench of decay gradually permeated his nostrils, hair, and clothing.

The more obvious it became that prayer and religious rituals weren’t protecting their flocks or preventing vampire attacks, the more defensive and rigid the village priests tended to become. They were usually men of humble background who had very little education and no previous experience with such matters. Max was sympathetic to the terrified panic he could see in their eyes, but increasingly impatient with their obstreperous behavior.

Among the local volunteers helping with the work this afternoon, there were also, as was often the case, one or two young men who seemed to enjoy these distasteful tasks more than Max thought was seemly.

As night fell and darkness crept across the graveyard, the work continued; but, fortunately, the distractions diminished. Whether the locals were interested in watching the vampire hunter at work or just wanted to shriek at him in protest when he beheaded or staked the bodies of their former neighbors and relatives, the villagers were emphatically not willing to remain at the cemetery after dark. They departed, fleeing to their homes before the creatures of the night emerged, leaving an eerily ominous silence in their wake.

When only two sturdy local volunteers remained, Bosko said, “It’s very dark, Dr. Zadok. Perhaps we should go now.”

“Yes, of course,” Max said absently, noticing some disturbed earth on yet another grave. “By all means. Be vigilant on your way home.”

“I meant that you and your companions should come, too,” Bosko said.

Three of the soldiers were still digging. Hoffman and another soldier were patrolling the graveyard alertly, their weapons ready, their pace measured.

“No, we must remain and work.” Max was still examining the grave which had attracted his attention. “Before you leave, may I ask when the burial in this plot occurred?”

“It’s not safe for you to remain outside after dark,” Bosko warned.

“Based on the elders’ account, being inside isn’t safe in Medvegia anymore, either.”

“That’s true,” Bosko said sadly. “Still . . .”

“I’ve come to your village to hunt vampires,” Max reminded him. “Therefore, it is advantageous for me to remain where I am likely to encounter them.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Well, then.” Bosko cleared his throat. “I must remain here, too, in that case.”

Max glanced at him. “That’s brave, but very dangerous. I don’t advise it. You would be wise to go home, sir.”

“No, I will remain.”

“He is a brave man,” said one of the two local diggers, setting aside his shovel and making preparations to leave. “He has even slain one of the vampires.”

“Have you?” Max said with interest, well able by now to follow Serbian phrases about killing vampires.

The other digger, also setting aside his shovel, said, “Tell him, Aleksandar!” He added to Max, “It’s a good story.”

“No, no,” said Bosko. “I cannot speak of my deed to a true vampire hunter.”

Max said in German, “Based on what your friends have just said, sir, I gather you are a true vampire hunter. The requirements of the vocation are quite simple, after all. It’s surviving them that’s complicated.”

“Yes, surviving the vampire was . . . not simple.” Bosko paused, then said, “If I may ask, Dr. Zadok, does your work make your wife very anxious?”

“Oh, she died some time ago.” It had been more than twenty years; but, given his youthful appearance, he knew better than to say so.

“God rest her soul. I am also a widower.” Seeing Max’s inquisitive expression, Bosko shook his head. “No, not vampires. Childbirth.”

“I see. I am sorry to hear that.” It was a tragically common story. “God rest her soul.”

The two diggers bade them farewell and departed, casting understandably nervous glances around the dark cemetery as they began walking home with long, quick strides

Max’s attention returned to the burial plot that concerned him. “We need to open this grave.”

“Oh, but this is the grave of Miliza Pavle,” Bosko said in surprise. “She was a fine woman. Much admired.”

“Alas, that is no protection against what I fear may have happened to her.”

“But the diggers are gone.”

“They have thoughtfully left their shovels.” Max picked one up.

“Oh,” Bosko said without enthusiasm. “Very well. I shall assist you.”

“When was Miliza Pavle buried?”

Bosko suddenly lifted his head and turned it slightly, as if listening to something Max couldn’t hear. After a moment, Max repeated his question. Bosko still didn’t respond; his attention was obviously engaged by something else.

Max looked around the cemetery, now illuminated only by several torches that the soldiers had posted when darkness fell. Near one of the torches, he saw Hoffman turn suddenly, his body poised alertly as he gazed out into the night. Then the lieutenant called softly over his shoulder to Max and the others, “Riders approaching.”

“Yes.” Bosko nodded. “How strange.”

“Your hearing is most acute,” Max noted, only now becoming aware of the faint thunder of hoofbeats in the distance. “Do you know who that is?”

“No,” said the Serb. “But surely they must be strangers. No one here would make a journey after dark. Not anymore.”

Leaning on his shovel, Max listened for another moment. “Well, I suppose we’ll find out momentarily who they are. They’re headed in this direction. It seems rather—Argh!”

The grave beneath his feet heaved violently, flinging him forward. He careened into Bosko and the two men fell down, hitting the ground together with a thud that knocked the wind out of Max’s lungs.

An undead woman who was presumably Miliza Pavle rose from the grave in a quick, powerful surge of motion, sending dirt flying everywhere as she issued another earsplitting howl of bloodthirsty hunger.

“Oh, dear,” Max gasped, wishing he hadn’t let the shovel fly out of his hand when he fell.

Miliza staggered toward him, her decomposing arms outstretched, foamy saliva hanging from her cracked blue lips, her ravaged torso gaping open where she had received mortal wounds from a vampire while still alive. She gave off a terrible stench.

Bosko screamed and seized the shovel Max had dropped. He leaped to his feet and brandished it at the approaching vampire, shouting in Serbian.

Two shots were fired in close succession, and Max heard shouts in German. One of the words he caught was, “Reload!”

If he lived through tonight, he would obviously need to remind his Austrian retinue that firearms didn’t slay vampires and, unfortunately, seldom even slowed them down.

When Miliza dived for Bosko, who jumped out of reach, particles of dirt flew everywhere—including into Max’s eyes.

“Perdition!” He scuttled backward on the ground, his eyes watering and stinging fiercely, his vision obscured. He needed his ax, which he’d left lying close at hand—or so he thought at the time. Now, disoriented from his fall and unable to see, he didn’t know where the weapon was.

“Yarrrgggghhh!” Miliza roared nearby.

Bosko was still shouting in terror, so at least he was alive.

Another shot was fired, and Max heard the lead ball whiz right past his cheek, barely missing him.

“Hold your fire, man!” he cried, feeling around frantically on the ground for his ax, blinking hard as he tried to clear his vision.

The earth under his hands bulged violently, and then burst upward in an explosion of noise, movement, and fury as another vampire leaped forth from its grave.

“Gott im Himmel,” Max gasped, rolling away from the emerging monster which instantly reached for him, growling and drooling with hunger.

His panicky, crawling retreat from the powerfully grasping hands brought him into unexpected contact with his ax—which he discovered by cutting his hand painfully on it. “Zounds!”

Reflexively cradling the injured hand against his body, he seized the ax with his other hand, rolled to his feet, and took a wild swing at the approaching vampire. He missed its head but did manage to lop off its hand as it spun away from the blow. The vampire bellowed with rage, as well as with what may or may not have been pain—after so many battles against them, Max still wasn’t sure whether the creatures felt pain. In any case, loss of a hand was not a severe enough injury to disable a vampire, as he well knew. When the creature lunged at him an instant later, he danced to one side, holding his ax ready, seeking the opportunity to counterattack.

He heard the shrill whinny of a horse and was vaguely aware that the approaching hoofbeats were very close now. There were male voices, deep-throated shouts echoing through the night. He realized from the howls and screams he heard all around him that more vampires were rising. The epidemic here was even worse than he’d supposed upon hearing the elders’ account. He had neutralized at least seven corpses before nightfall, and yet an alarming number of vampires were nonetheless bursting forth from the hallowed ground.

Then he saw yet another vampire emerging from the darkness, coming from somewhere behind the one he was fighting. He noticed it was approaching from outside the graveyard. Max circled his foe, and the change in his position brought more vampires into view. They weren’t just in the graveyard, emerging from the soil, he realized with dawning horror; they were also attacking now from the woods beyond the cemetery. The victims had evidently fallen there in death and not yet been found or buried.

Max heard more shouting, unfamiliar voices, words he couldn’t distinguish. He looked past the vampire he was fighting, and he saw strangers dismount their horses and run into the graveyard. Three men. One headed for Hoffman, who was frantically trying to reload his carbine while two vampires approached him from opposite directions.

These brave reinforcements gave Max a moment of hope. But then he realized the foolishness of that optimism. The living in this battle were badly outnumbered by the undead. A quick, frantic glance around the cemetery revealed a shocking number of vampires. And more were emerging from the darkness even as Max returned his full attention to trying to defeat the one he was combating before another one could attack him.

There were too many of them. There were just too many . . .

He took a deep breath and recognized that he would die in Medvegia.

Acceptance was best. Fear, panic, and vain protests against his fate would cloud his mind and make him more vulnerable to his adversaries. In this, his final battle, he wanted to fight well and take as many vampires to hell with him as he could.

He also, he realized with sick dread, did not want to become one of them.

Max feinted to the right. The vampire followed his lead. He whirled around, turning a complete circle to the left, and swung a true blow, connecting exactly as intended. The vampire’s head flew off and rolled away. As the decapitated body fell toward him, Max took a step backward to avoid contact—and backed straight into the arms of another vampire.

Heart thundering in his chest, he struggled against the powerful arms that held him, pinning Max’s own arms to his side. He felt blood dripping from his injured hand, making it slippery, making the ax handle difficult to hold onto—especially with his arms being squeezed ruthlessly against his body. The foul odor of the creature which held him was nauseating, and the way the thing snuffled hungrily at his flesh filled him with revulsion. He felt its grip tighten and its head move to sink its teeth into the back of his neck, where it would gnaw and tear, laboriously mauling his living tissue while he screamed in agony and struggled to survive ...

And then he felt the vampire grunt in surprise as it was wrenched violently backward. Its arms flailed, releasing Max. He staggered away, then turned quickly—in time to see, to his utter astonishment, one of the newly arrived strangers turn the creature’s head sharply in his bare hands and rip it off the body.

His blood roaring in his ears, Max just stared in openmouthed shock.

After a moment, the tall, powerfully built, gray-haired man looked up and shouted something at him. Max didn’t understand the language, but the urgency of the tone returned him to his senses. He lunged to the right as he whirled sharply, his ax ready for engagement. The vampire that was attacking him from behind howled in frustration and lunged for him again. Max heard a faint humming sound shoot past him, then he saw the vampire flinch as if in response to a blow. It staggered back a few steps and clutched its chest with both hands. Then it let out a horrible sound and fell down.

Max turned to see the stranger holding a crossbow still aimed at the vampire, which was when he recognized what had just happened. The stranger lowered the weapon, approached Max, and spoke tersely, still in that unfamiliar language. Max realized an instant later what he wanted; the man seized his ax as he strode past him, and he used it to behead the fallen creature.

Just beyond where the stranger was doing this, Max saw the vampire which had once been Miliza Pavle wrestle the shovel away from Bosko and strike him with it. The dazed Serb fell facedown, and the vampire raised the shovel for another blow, clearly intent on bludgeoning the back of Bosko’s head with it.

“No! Fly from her!” Max shouted in Latin, pointing at the shovel, concentrating all his energy on the animative spell.

The shovel flew out of Miliza’s hands and disappeared into the darkness.

The stranger saw this deed. He turned and met Max’s gaze. His heavily lined face, like his gray hair, was a puzzling contrast to his speed, strength, and agility in combat.

He said to Max in Latin, “You are something out of the ordinary, aren’t you?”

“So, it would seem, are you,” Max said in the same language.

They continued staring at each other in puzzled curiosity for another moment.

Then the stranger’s expression changed. “Get down!”

Max dropped to the ground as the man hurled the ax over Max’s head. It connected with a heavy thud behind him. Even as Max was turning to see the attacking vampire fall backward, his ax now planted firmly in its chest, the stranger was already running past him to retrieve the weapon from its target and use it to decapitate the creature.

I might not die after all, Max realized in astonishment.

That glimmer of hope renewed his strength and infused him with the first sense of optimism he’d felt in quite some time. He caught his ax when the vampirekiller tossed it to him, and he re-entered the fray with vigor—well aware, from that point forward, that the three strangers who had arrived in the nick of time were doing the lion’s share of the slaying.

The battle was over in a remarkably short period of time. And to Max’s trembling relief, all five of the young soldiers who had accompanied him to Medvegia were still alive. Hoffman was babbling hysterically and seemed as if he might not be quite himself for a while, and another of the soldiers had a leg wound, but everyone had survived and would live to see the dawn.

Breathing hard with fatigue and limp with relief, Max cradled his injured hand against his chest as he watched the stranger who had saved his life give instructions in his unfamiliar language to the other two men who had arrived with him. They mounted their horses and rode off into the night.

“Where are they going?” Bosko asked, limping to Max’s side.

“Are you all right?” Max was relieved to see the Serbian alive and in one piece.

“Miliza Pavle changed a great deal after death,” he said seriously. “But I am well enough. And you?”

Max looked down at his blood-drenched hand. The cut made by the ax was long and deep. “This isn’t serious, but it is messy. I need to wrap it in something.”

Bosko made a strange gurgling noise. Max looked at him and, in the faint torchlight, saw that the Serb’s gaze was wide-eyed now, fixed on his bloody hand.

“It’s bleeding rather copiously, but it is just a cut,” Max said reassuringly as he extended his hand to catch the wavering light and get a better look at it.

“Magician!” The vampire-slaying stranger called in Latin, crossing the graveyard and coming toward him. “I think that you and I have much to discuss.”

“I agree,” Max called back.

Bosko started to pant anxiously. Max looked at him again and saw that the man’s gaze was still riveted on his bloody hand. The Serb’s face was contorting into an awful expression.

“Does the sight of blood distress you?” It was an affliction Max had encountered before. He turned away, intending to conceal the injury from Bosko’s gaze.

“No!” The man growled in his native language, stopping him with a rough tug on his shoulder. “Give me!”

Bosko seized Max’s hand, dragged it up to his mouth, and sucked furiously on the bloody wound.

“Good God!” Max gasped, trying to pull his hand out of the man’s powerful grasp—and away from that thirstily consuming mouth. “What are you doing?”

“Magician!” the stranger shouted.

As Max struggled for possession of his hand, Bosko made obscene grunting noises of satisfaction, slurping and sucking messily, biting and scratching as Max tried to escape his clutches.

“Stop!” Max cried, caught off guard by the man’s unexpected strength and bizarre behavior. “Release me!”

He heard rapidly thudding footsteps come up behind him, and then the stranger’s harsh breathing was near his ear as a big fist shot past him and hit Bosko sharply in one exultantly closed eye. Bosko cried out in pain and staggered backward, his hand covering his eye and Max’s blood staining his mouth and chin.

The stranger raised his crossbow.

“No!” Max shouted.

Bosko uttered an abortive squeal even as Max lunged for the stranger’s weapon—too late.

Too late.

The crossbow bolt sticking partway out of Bosko’s forehead was still quivering as the Serb fell over dead.

Max turned on the stranger in horrified fury. “What have you done?”

“He was a vampire,” the man said simply.

“No, he wasn’t!”

“He was. And, based on the way he attacked you, he was not in control of himself. He would soon have become a killer, if he was not one already.”

“You’re mad!” He felt he could scarcely breathe as he looked again at the deceased Serb—a man whom he had rather liked.

“Do you imagine he was tending your bloody wound?” Max looked down at his hand in an appalled daze. “He . . . he . . . I . . .” What had Bosko been doing?

“He was drinking your blood. Sating his hunger.”

Revolted, enraged, and grieving over the murder of a good man, Max clung to the only rational thought he could find in his whirling confusion. “He was not undead ! He was as alive as you and I are!”

“Yes, he was,” the stranger agreed. “And he was also a vampire.”

Max stared at him, dumbfounded.

“A made vampire,” the man added. “That much is certain.”

“A made . . .”

“Did you notice him exhibiting any symptoms?”

“What?”

“Heightened senses, for example? Did his hearing, vision, or sense of smell seem abnormally acute?”

“He . . .” Max drew in a sharp breath. “His hearing.” His throat felt raw as he said, “He had unusually good hearing.”

“And he let you notice.” There was a touch of condescension in the stranger’s voice. “That is typical of the made. Especially the newly made. They are unaccustomed to the superior senses of the vampire, and it often shows.”

“The made? What on earth are you saying?”

“He was not born a vampire.”

“Who is ever born a vampire?” Max demanded in frustrated bewilderment.

“He became one. Perhaps quite recently.” The man looked around at the vampire corpses that littered the graveyard. “Certainly there seems to be no shortage of opportunity in this village, if one is so inclined.”

“Opportunity?”

“Do you happen to know if he killed a vampire?”

Max blinked. “Er, yes. He did. How did you know?”

“That is presumably when he drank vampire blood. And thus became made as one.”

“He became a vampire by drinking the blood of . . .” Max looked around at the odorous, decaying bodies of the undead which they had just fought and slain. His restless stomach roiled in revulsion. “Dear God! How could he?”

“He was presumably seeking heightened strength, keener senses, and improved well-being. One who yearns for these gifts overcomes his disgust if only the undead are available. He did what was necessary to fulfill his desire.”

“Necessary?” For a moment, as he imagined what Bosko must have done to become a vampire, Max thought he would vomit.

“He very likely did not anticipate the blood hunger he would experience. And when it came upon him tonight . . .”

Max’s grief and anger returned. “You should not have killed him!”

“The made can be very dangerous. You obviously have no idea how dangerous. If they lack self-control, as he did, they must be executed.” The tall, gray-haired stranger added, “This is precisely why my people rarely allow a vampire to be made.”

“Your peo . . .” Max took a few breaths, trying to steady himself and martial his madly careening thoughts. “Who are your people? Who are you? Where did you come from?”

“My name is Jurgis Radvila. I have come from Vilnius.”

“In Lithuania? That Vilnius?” Max blurted, still bewildered.

“Yes,” said Radvila. “The journey was long. And I now realize that we should have come sooner.”

“We . . .” Max’s gaze returned to Bosko’s corpse as he asked, “Where did your companions go?”

“They are patrolling.”

“It’s dark.”

“We can see better by night than you can.”

Images of the recent battle flooded Max’s mind. “You possess some form of mystical power,” he said slowly.

“So do you, magician.”

“My name is Maximillian Zadok.” He glanced at Radvila’s crossbow. “Why are your crossbows more effective against the undead than our firearms?”

“The bolts we use are made from a special alloy. An ancient formula known only to us.”

“Us?”

“Maximillian, the situation here has clearly passed the point of crisis and is now descending into all-out catastrophe,” Radvila said. “Therefore, I believe we should forego wasting time and be candid with one another.”

Although still appalled by the slaying of Bosko, Max recognized that Jurgis Radvila seemed far better equipped than he to combat the vampire epidemic. Therefore, cooperation was advisable—no, essential.

Max nodded in agreement. “Yes, by all means. Let us exercise candor.”

“Very well. I should perhaps begin by telling you that my comrades and I are vampires.”

Max flinched and fell back a step.

Having apparently expected that reaction, Radvila added, “Not made. And certainly not undead. We are Lithuanian vampires.”

“Does that make a difference?”

“Of course. We are hereditary vampires.”

“Hereditary?”

“And we have come here to halt this vampire epidemic.”

Recalling that the three Lithuanian combatants had slain a veritable army of vampires tonight—whose stinking remains were now scattered all over the graveyard—Max said, “I don’t yet understand what you’re saying. But I suspect that, once I do, I shall be very grateful for your presence here.”

“We must act quickly and decisively,” said Radvila. “The Council of Gediminas is very concerned about the situation in this region.”

“Who?” Max asked.

“The Council of Gediminas,” Radvila repeated. “As I said before, you and I have much to discuss.”