Shea drove down the nearly deserted street and parked close to the small medical clinic. This time, as she slid from the seat, she searched the shadows around her carefully, using every sense she could. Sight. Smell. Hearing. Instinct. There was someone, something. It had followed her, was near. She could feel it, but she couldn’t find it.

Jacques?Shetouched his mind gently, suddenly afraid she was feeling something that was happening to him.

I am awaiting your return.She sensed his tiredness. The morning light was even harder on him than on her. She hated being away from him.

I will come soon.Shea took another deep breath and looked around, determined to find what was making her so uneasy. A man lounged lazily in the shade of a tree. He was tall, dark, and motionless, like a hunter. She felt the impact of his eyes as his gaze casually found her.

Her heart jumped. Who was he? Had Wallace found her so soon? Shea turned away. First, before anything, she had to complete her business. She dragged out her laptop computer and typed in the commands to access the clinic’s blood bank. If she had to move Jacques, they would need supplies desperately.

In another moment, Shea felt silly. The door to the small general store across the street swung open. The short, stooped owner emerged, apron tied around his ample middle, a broom in his hand. He waved openly at the motionless figure beneath the tree. “Byron. Good morning to you. Bit early, isn’t it?” She recognized the local dialect.

The tall, dark-haired man replied in the same language, but his voice was low, a beautiful tone. He stepped out of the shadows, young, good-looking. He flashed a quick, friendly smile at the grocer approaching him. Clearly they knew one another, were friendly. The dark-haired man was obviously no stranger to the area. Neither exhibited the least interest in Shea. She watched as Byron bent his head solicitously down to the older man, listening intently, his arm circling the shopkeeper’s shoulders.

Shea breathed a soft sigh of relief. The feeling of being stalked was gone, and she couldn’t be certain if it had been real or imagined. She watched for a moment as the two men moved deeper into the shade, until they were merely a dark shadow blending with the trees. Laughter floated back toward her. The taller, younger man bent his head even closer to the shopkeeper to hear every word. Hurrying into the store, she purchased from the shopkeeper’s assistant an extra blanket and pillow, several blocks of ice, and some clothing for Jacques.

The small hospital was ready with her medical supplies, a friendly clerk asking about her mobile clinic, treating her like a valued client. Feeling slightly guilty, she completed her transactions quickly. She needed to get to her truck and find a dark area to sleep in until it was safe to return to Jacques. She rushed outside.

Light pierced her eyes like a thousand needles. Shea stumbled, then felt a strong hand close like a vise around her upper arm, preventing her from falling. Murmuring a thank you, she fumbled in her pocket for her dark glasses to cover her streaming eyes.

“What are you doing here alone, unprotected?” The voice was pitched low, the dialect and accent eerily similar to Jacques’.

Shea’s breath caught in her throat, and she straggled for release. The tall, dark-haired man merely pushed her into the shadows, her back to the wall of the building, his large frame easily blocking hers. “Who are you?” he asked. “You are small and fair for one of us.” His hand caught her chin so that she met the penetration of his sunglass-shaded eyes. “Your scent is familiar to me but elusive. How is it I did not know of your existence?” For just a moment satisfaction curved his mouth. “You are free. That is good.”

“I don’t know you, sir, and you’re scaring me. I’m in a great hurry, so please let me go.” Shea used her coolest, most disdainful voice, and she deliberately spoke English. The man was enormously strong, and it terrified her.

“I am Byron.” He gave only his first name, as if that should be enough. “I am a male of our race, you a single female. The sun is climbing, and you did not give yourself enough time to seek refuge from the dawn. I can do no other than help you, offer my protection.” He switched easily to heavily accented English.

His voice seemed to slide right inside her. He gave the illusion of being a gentleman, so friendly, yet he had not released her or moved even an inch to allow her to get by him. He inhaled, dragged her scent into his lungs. Suddenly his entire demeanor changed. His body stiffened. His fingers dug into her arm. White teeth gleamed a predator’s flash of warning. “Why did you not answer me when I spoke to you?”

His words were low and menacing. The suave stranger was frightening.

“Let go of me.” She kept her voice even, her mind working at top speed, looking for a way out. He seemed to hold all the cards, but...

“Tell me who you are,” he demanded.

“Let go of me now.” She lowered her voice, pitched it to a soft, hypnotic melody. “You want to let me go.”

The stranger shook his head, his eyes narrowing, recognizing the hint of compulsion in her voice. He inhaled a second time, drinking in her fragrance. At once his face seemed to go still. “I recognize that scent. Jacques. He is dead these seven years, yet his blood runs in your veins.” His voice crawled with deadly threat.

For a moment she was frozen with fear. Was this the betrayer Jacques had spoken of? Shea swung her head sideways to remove his fingers from her chin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Let go of me now!”

Byron let out his breath in a low, venomous hiss. “If you wish to see another night, you will tell me what you have done with him.”

“You’re hurting me.” He was drawing closer, leaning toward her neck, bending her backward like a bow as she tried to elude him. His breath was hot on her throat, and Shea gasped as she felt needle-sharp teeth pierce her skin. With a low cry she jerked sideways, her heart pounding.

Without warning he caught at the neckline of her shirt to examine the bruises at her throat. She could feel his puzzlement, his confusion. Shea took advantage of his momentary distraction. As hard as she was able, she brought up her knee and screamed for all she was worth. Byron looked so shocked, she nearly laughed. He had been absolutely certain she wouldn’t want attention drawn to her. His hiss, a deadly promise of retaliation, was the last thing she heard before he melted away.

And he literally melted away. Shea never saw him move. One moment he was there, his body trapping hers against the wall, and then he was gone. A fine mist was mixing with the layers of fog covering the ground to about knee level.

Two orderlies came running, hearing her screams. Shea, holding her palm to the trickling wound on her neck to cover it, allowed them to soothe her, to assure her the animal she thought she saw lurking in the shadows was most likely a stray dog, not a wolf. They went off shaking their heads and laughing at how silly women could be.

Shea loaded the supplies into her truck, taking as much time as she dared. If the sun affected her, it had to be just as lethal to her assailant if he was like Jacques. It had never occurred to her that she might have to contend with a vampire. Don Wallace had been her nightmare; she suspected this was much worse. She packed the blood carefully in the center of her large cooler, surrounded by the blocks of ice. She had to find a way to get the blood to Jacques without leaving a trail for the vampire.

She waited, stalling now before she left. The sun climbed higher, touched her skin right through the thin cotton of her clothing. A wide-brimmed hat and her dark glasses provided relief. Still, Shea sensed it was safer to stay among people as long as she could; until her weakness left her she had no alternative but to seek rest in her darkened camper in the shade of the woods.