“When you left, I had a little free time, so I dug out Sloan’s old research journal. That fucker has some seriously sick shit in his notes.”

“He dedicated his life to tracking the paranormal.” Fear teases in the back of my mind. And I’m following dangerously close in his footsteps.

“Remind me again—what happened to him?”

Mildly impatient, I quickly rehash the story of the man who taught me how to track and kill vampires.

Like me, Sloan Reynolds had been an adjunct professor at Princeton University. With my Marine background and police training, I’d focused on Law Enforcement Online, a branch of the FBI. Sloan was the son of a successful Baltimore importer-exporter and taught students how to build and manage shipping businesses on the eastern seaboard.

In his spare time, he’d become obsessed with the ancient writings of the vampire hunters employed by the Vatican in the fifteenth century. He believed it was God’s work, and after a few evenings sharing drinks at a local pub, he pulled me into it.

I confess, I didn’t believe any of it at the time, but I was fascinated. I enjoyed studying the old legends and reading the ancient journals, seeing how the job was done centuries ago.

It wasn’t long before I was supplementing my income investigating mysterious deaths and unsolved murders across the states. In the beginning it was only a distraction. Sloan taught me all the signature marks of paranormal criminal behavior—bodies covered in Katrina debris, bodies under the twisted rubble of car crashes, bodies added to crime scenes—the only connection being the victims were all drained of blood.

Unlike the savage murders committed by rogue shape-shifters, a vampire killing generally leaves very little evidence of the attacker. The undead typically do not engage in sexual intercourse with their victims. The act of draining a human mimics the orgasmic state for both victim and killer.

Occasionally, a fetishist vampire will sleep with a victim, however they leave no DNA evidence behind. The two tiny pink puncture wounds are the only indicators of what took place. The blood is completely consumed.

Time passed, and I was drawn deeper into his world. I began to see things I couldn’t easily explain away. Nine months later, we spotted our first vampire. The thing was inexplicably hanging around, lurking in the shadows of a kill when we arrived on the scene.

I could feel its presence. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced in my life—dread mixed with anger mixed with adrenaline. Sloan stayed behind to check the victim, a young runaway. I went after her killer, and I finished him.

It was my first kill. I had my gun, and I shot him straight through the heart with three silver bullets. It was quick and brutal, and I expected to be more shaken by the experience. At the same time, looking back on it, I was able to see how my Marine background prepared me for such a moment.

For years we had been studying and preparing to confront these monsters. Unlike human killers, vampires can’t be rehabilitated. Murder is their nature. The one I executed was cruel and remorseless. He was exactly what I expected a vampire to be, and ridding the world of him was the obvious right answer.

Once he was down, I walked straight to his writhing corpse and cut the head off then torched the body. Vampire corpses are highly flammable. When all that remained were his ashes, I sprayed them away with water. No chance that fucker would ever reanimate.

Unlike me, Sloan was disoriented when I returned. He said another creature had appeared and cursed us both. I searched but could find no signs of anyone else in the area. Knowing vampires are typically loners, I dismissed it, told him to pull himself together.

A month later, my wife Alison disappeared. She’d run out for a pint of ice cream and never came back. We found her dead, drained of blood and dumped in the woods of central New Jersey…

It’s a night I’ll never forget. My life changed that night.

I’ve put away those feelings. I had to or I would never move past it. Nothing in my experience prepared me for the pain of what happened to her. It marked me for a long, long time, and I was convinced I’d never get over it.

I stood over her ghastly white body and swore I’d find her killer. I’d get her justice. From that point on, I was all in.

Patrick and I are quiet a moment as I finish the backstory. All the Knights know what happened to my wife. Their loyalty and commitment to helping me find justice binds us together, makes us brothers. Even after all these years.

Still, my partner isn’t satisfied. “He taught you everything he knew, and then what? He simply disappeared?”

The waitress and an assistant set our plates in front of us, and as they work, I scroll back through the years to that awful month and the sudden retirement of my former mentor. Patrick assures the girl we need nothing more, and she retreats, leaving us to resume our conversation.

“Within days of Alison’s death, he tendered his resignation and withdrew to his mansion. He refused all visitors. He wouldn’t even see me. As far as I know, he’s never come out again. His staff takes care of his needs.”

Patrick shakes his head, lifting his knife and fork to cut into the duck. “And you never went after him? You didn’t demand to know why?”

Stirring the shot of sherry into my soup, I hesitate, remembering my disgust. “I knew why,” I say, before tasting the rich, brown roux.

I know he can sense the change in me. Still, he asks the follow-up question. “Why?”

“He fell in love with one of them. Or lust…”

Patrick’s fork hits his plate with a clang. “You’ve never told me this!”

“It never seemed important before.” I slide my soup aside and take my fork to try the étouffée. “I didn’t know you were digging in his old files.”

“What did it look like?”

“I never saw her.”

“It was a female?” My young partner leans back in his chair, a knowing look on his face.

“I assumed it was. From what I pieced together, he was trying to find a way to change her, bring her back.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Yes,” I nod, stabbing my fork into a curled crawfish tail covered in thick, red-orange sauce. “He didn’t realize it until the end.”

Patrick doesn’t say the question plain in his eyes. He doesn’t have to. The end?

“Somehow, he realized she was beyond redemption.” I take a deep breath, remembering Sloan’s final notes. He left me his files along with a post-it saying only two words: It’s over. “He drove a stake through her heart.”

“Jesus!” My partner hisses. “What the fuck?”

“He’d dedicated his life to eradicating them. After all our years of hunting, he found her, stood right there on the precipice. It took everything he had to make the right decision.”

We’re quiet a long time, neither of us eating. It seems appropriate—a moment of silence for the mortal broken by the immortal.

“Well, he left some kick-ass research behind,” Patrick finally says. “Why haven’t you shared any of it with me?”

Leave it to youth to be able to shake off the gravity of the situation. A small grin lifts the corner of my mouth. “Perhaps I grew a little disillusioned myself.”

“Bullshit,” he hisses. “You’re as focused as you’ve ever been.”

“Maybe I felt it was disrespectful.” Returning to my plate, I try and remember why I’d locked up Sloan’s notes. Patrick’s right. All those years of work should be in our shared arsenal, not my brain alone.

“When he quit, he was tracking a very powerful one,” my partner says. “Possibly the one we’re after.”

Alison’s murderer.

My sense of vengeance toward this particular killer roars like a bonfire in my chest. Patrick knows how important avenging her is to me. Her death was a personal attack, and I won’t rest until I answer it.