He had never understood why he had stopped. It was not in his nature.

But something had compelled him.

Behind the wheel of the wreck, he had found a woman who was not just a woman. She had been a female of a different species: The deer she had hit was still struggling on the ground, and as it expired, her open mouth had shown him the kind of anatomy that he was unfamiliar with.

Fangs.

She had coded in his car on the way to the lab. Twice. He had pulled over and revived her both times.

As soon as he had her in secure custody, so to speak, he had talked to his partner, who had instantly seen the possibility. And as they had worked on her, he had discovered where to find others. Make deals.

Seven of them. Over the course of thirty years. Males and females. Then one who had been born in captivity, the result of a breeding.

He had learned so much. He had …

Robert Kraiten abruptly realized that he was up off the floor, on his feet, in the kitchen. Blood was all down his chest and his belly. And as he looked down at himself, he noted that he hid his old man body under well-tailored suits.

Pudgy, flabby, gray hair on his chest.

He had been fit once—

His hands were moving, pulling open a drawer that revealed things that flashed, mirror bright, under the overhead lights.

Knives. Chef knives. Freshly sharpened, state-of-the-art, knives.

Tears formed in his eyes, flowing down, mixing with the blood that drip, drip … dripped from his forehead into the drawer, onto the blades.

His right hand, the hand he wrote with, reached in and gripped one of the fourteen-inch Masamotos. The blade at the tip was tiny. At the base, it was two inches. This was the knife that was used to cleave slices off turkeys and roast beefs.

He had always been in control of everything. His whole life, he had ruled everyone around him.

Now, at the end of his mortal coil, he could control nothing.

“No …” he said through the blood in his mouth.

Robert Kraiten watched as his hand turned the knife around and the other one joined its mate in steadfast grip, all ten of his knuckles standing out in stark relief under the skin that covered them.

His lips peeled off his teeth as he gritted and fought and tried to stop the stabbing. Fruitless. It was like fighting a foe, a third party, an attacker who had snuck up on him.

Veins popped down his thin forearms as they shook.

There was sound all around him now, a loud sound that was echoing around the closed, smooth cabinets and empty counters and chrome appliances.

His scream was that of bloody murder … as he drove the knife into his abdomen and jerked it side to side, over and over again, turning his digestive tract to soup held within the tureen of his pelvic cradle.

He died in a crumbled mess three minutes later.

Some two hours after the killing party started, Murhder stabbed a third lesser back to the Omega. With that tire iron. And then he tossed the tool to John Matthew, who dispatched number four.

They were blocks and blocks away from where they had engaged the first pair, at least a mile and a half, maybe two, to the west, and as they’d gone along, he’d been shocked at how few of the slayers were out and about. Kind of frustrating when you were looking for quantity—and P.S., the quality of these fighters sucked. Every one of them was newly turned, unequipped, and ragged as the first had been.

But beggars/choosers and all that.

As John’s pop and flash lit up the vacant street, Murhder laughed.

Just threw his head back and laughed as loud as he wanted to.

Across the street, lights came on in a walk-up, humans stirring, not that he cared.

John straightened and flipped the tire iron end over end, catching it in a snap and smiling. Murhder nodded without the guy having to ask anything: More. They needed more.

The freedom was intoxicating, the city spread before them, a field to hunt and find the enemy in, a playground in which to eliminate those who sought to kill innocent males and females—for no other reason than the Omega wanted to destroy that which the Scribe Virgin had created.

Murhder double-checked the sky. The position of the stars suggested a number of hours had passed, but there was time still left before the dawn came and robbed them of their pursuits. Not enough though. He wanted night after night after night of this buzz, this deadly hunt and peck, this sense that he was doing meaningful work.

“Where have they all gone?” He motioned around the street. “There should be dozens of lessers out tonight, but we’ve seen only four?”

John made a slicing motion across the front of his throat.

“They’re dying off?” When the male nodded, Murhder frowned. “The Omega can’t die. It’s as immortal as the Scribe Virgin.”

John shook his head again.

“Wait, what?” He was vaguely aware of humans moving around in those lighted windows, and he sank back into the shadows at the head of an alley. “I don’t understand. The Omega is gone?”

More of that shaking.

“The Scribe Virgin is gone? What the hell’s been going on here—”

“You two have gone rogue. That’s what the fuck’s been going on.”

Murhder looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Tohr! What’s up! How’re you?”

The Brother with the levelheaded reputation was not looking particularly even-keeled at the moment. He was hair-across-the-ass mad, his lips thin, his stance tilted forward as if he were on the verge of punching someone.

And hey, ho, what do you know, Murhder appeared to be first in that line.

“John,” the Brother said, “go back home. Now.”

Murhder frowned. “Excuse me?”

Tohr jabbed a finger at the center of Murhder’s chest. “Stay out of this. John, get the fuck out of here—”

“Don’t talk to him like that.” “That’s an order, John!”

“He’s not a young, you know. He’s a grown male who can do what the hell he wants—”

Tohr stepped up to Murhder, putting their faces nose to nose. “He is injured—and you are way fucking out of line bringing him into the field. You think it’s a fucking joke that the two of you are working outside of the system, taking risks you can’t handle and putting the rest of us in jeopardy, too?”

“Outside of the system? What system?” Murhder tilted his head to one side and raised his voice. “And we didn’t take any risks we couldn’t handle. We’re still standing and four lessers are back to the goddamn Omega. What the fuck is wrong with you? Back in the day, we didn’t need a system—”

Tohr punched at Murhder’s shoulders. “We don’t work without a coordinated plan anymore. And in case you haven’t noticed, we’re finally winning this war—without your help.”

Murhder punched the guy back. “You sanctimonious piece of shit—”

“How many weapons do you have between the two of you.”

When Murhder took a pause to try to answer that in the best way possible, the Brother said, “Cell phones? Either of you? Because I know that people have tried to reach him so I’m thinking he’s either ignoring his own shellan, or he left his phone at home. She’s worried about him, but here you are, leading him on a death mission out here alone—”