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Which was why he remained unchallenged now, twenty minutes after leaving the cottage, as he hunched over the bullet-shaped bike and pushed the engine until it screamed. He darted through traffic, hurtled between semis, and left other bikers swerving in his wake. The occasional fool even tried to race him, which never ended well for the fool.

The ghost of anxiety, however, had no trouble keeping up.

Dominique muttered curses into his helmet. Of course, he would do “what will be.” In fact, what must be tonight was for him to feed on terror to appease the beast that defined his existence as a youngling vampire. If he waited much longer, he would make corpses, and he was in no mood to dispose of those, much less explain them to Cassidy.

But with Serge, “what will be” was never that obvious, and cold foreboding soaked the November night. The faster he could conclude his business and return to Cassidy’s arms, the better.

He took the next available exit ramp.

Within moments, new tension rode his shoulders. This was still well north of the urban jungles of Fort Lauderdale, his intended hunting ground tonight. Would that stop whatever disaster supposedly awaited him? Or put him squarely in its path?

And would he be “strong enough?”

“Idiot,” he cursed, trying to shake Serge’s words out of his skull. He had to focus on the hunt. Everything else, lunatic blood-drinkers included, would have to wait.

The exit deposited him into a neighborhood far past its prime. Fissured sidewalks, squalid apartments, shuttered retailers, and a dingy strip club lined the street, the last blasting a palpitating beat from a speaker. Three prostitutes plied their trade on one corner while a junkie huddled on the other. Farther down, a dealer conferenced with the driver of a gleaming Mercedes sedan.

In his chest, the beast slithered awake. Add one hungry vampire to this cauldron of debauchery.

He stopped long enough to pull off his helmet and set it in the compartment beneath the shotgun seat. To locate the perfect meal, he needed to see, smell, and hear without obstructions. He also shook out his overgrown ebony hair. This softened the sharp lines of his face and the lean cut of his body, lending him an air of pampered vulnerability—or bait.

A group of young men, heavily inked with gang insignia, loitered by a convenience store. Dominique felt their callous eyes on him as he passed, assessing him and his ride, his black motorcycle leathers and silver-studded boots, cataloging him as friend, foe, or mark. He slowed to see if they would climb into their tricked-out Chevy and follow him. They didn’t. No matter; there would be others in less public places.

At the end of a cul-de-sac, he swung through the parking lot of a two-story motel. I boarded several windows, others lit up bright. A handful of cars occupied the lot, some of them pricey and therefore promising indicators of the type of prey he favored.

“Hey, you look like someone who wants to party,” a youngish male voice called out to him.

Dominique pulled up in front of a tall, skinny man with cornrow hair and bright eyes. A too baggy and too well-worn, black jacket—reeking of noxious substances—hung off the man’s narrow shoulders. A sizable diamond stud sparkled in one ear. “I do,” Dominique confirmed as he assessed the stranger’s thin craw. Not much more blood than Serge’s crab, but an acceptable appetizer.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place, my man. We’ve got it all right here.” “All” included a long list of synthetic and prescription intoxicants which he rattled off at a brisk clip, concluding with a wave at the motel behind him, “And, of course, only the classiest girls.”

Dominique cocked his head, focusing on the muffled sounds of a struggle in one of the upstairs rooms.

Misinterpreting the lack of reaction, the dealing pimp elaborated. “We also cater to a wide variety of specialized interests. Just let me know what you’re looking for.”

A scream emerged from the upstairs ruckus. Female. Frightened. Too muted for anyone but Dominique to hear.

“Merde.” He parked the motorcycle. Catching the pimp’s attention, he laced his voice with persuasion and ordered him to not leave the bike’s side. If he couldn’t afford the time to secure it, he could at least post a guard.

Seconds later, he knocked at the door concealing the altercation. The barest whisper of blood shimmered in the night, but the door opened before he realized the disastrous implication.

He almost didn’t notice the doughy white man standing before him, wearing a straw sombrero, cowboy boots, barrel belly—and nothing else. The stink of lust was drowned out by the metallic tang of blood and fear, and the man’s demands for an explanation faded beneath his hammering heartbeat.

A ravenous frenzy shrieked in Dominique’s head. The only thing he could do was the last thing he wanted to do—stand still. Perfectly still.

As long as he stood still, no one would die.

“Did you hear me? Get lost. I paid for the full hour,” the barrel belly said.

Yes, Dominique should get lost. The faster the better. But that girl on the bed could not. She was sprawled face down and naked, her wrists bound behind her back. Blood welled from a gash and coated her buttocks. She turned her head toward the door, and he saw blood smearing her face as well. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen, if that, and she reeked of fear.

Sweet, irresistible fear.

His control slipped as the beast reared up. His vision shifted, making the blood glitter and her veins glow through her earthy-blue aura. A gaping maw of hunger opened in his gut.

The girl’s voice shook in bumpy English and rapid Spanish as she begged for help from the vampire, who craved only to tear open her jugular.

Barrel belly laughed. “She’s worth every penny. You go tell Dex.”