If she was going to survive, she had to make herself hard and strong. She couldn't care about anybody
else, or trust anybody, or rely on anybody. Nobody could protect her. Not even Mommy had been able
to do that.
She had to protect herself. She had to learn to fight.
Chapter 3
God, it stank.
RashelJordan had seen a lot of vampire lairs in her seventeen years, but this was probably the most
disgusting. She held her breath as she stirred the nest of tattered cloth with the toe of one boot. She could
read the story of this collection of garbage as easily as if the inhabitant had written out a full confession,
signed it, and posted it on the wall.
One vampire. A rogue, an outcast who lived on the fringe of both the human world and the Night World.
He probably moved to anew city every few weeks to avoid getting caught. And he undoubtedly looked
like any other homeless guy, except that none of the human homeless would be hanging around aBoston
dock on a Tuesday night in early March.
He brings his victims here, Rashel thought. The pier's deserted, it's private, he can take his time with
them. And of course he can't resist keeping a few trophies.
Her foot stirred them gently. A pink-and-blue knit baby jacket, a plaid sash from a school uniform, a
Spiderman tennis shoe. All bloodstained. All very small.
There had been a rash of missing children lately. TheBoston police would never discover where they had
gone-but now Rashel knew. She felt her lips draw back slightly from her teeth in something that wasn't
really a smile.
She was aware of everything around her: the soft plash of water against the wooden pier, the rank
coppery smell that was almost a taste, the darkness of a night lit only by a half moon. Even the light
moisture of the cold breeze against her skin. She was aware of all of it without being preoccupied with
any of it-and when the tiny scratch sounded behind her, she moved as smoothly and gracefully as if she
were taking her turn in a dance.
She pivoted on her left foot, drawing her bokken in the same motion, and without a break in the
movement, she stabbed straight to the vampire's chest. She drove the blow from her hips, exhaling in a
hiss as she did it, putting all her strength behind it.
"Gotta be faster than that," she said.
The vampire, skewered like a hot dog, waved his arms and gibbered. He was dressed in filthy clothing
and his hair was a bushy tangle. His eyes were wide, full of surprise and hatred, shining as silver as an
animal's in the faint light. His teeth weren't so much fangs as tusks: fully extended, they reached almost to
his chin.
"I know," Rashel said. "You really, really wanted to kill me. Life's tough, isn't it?"
The vampire snarled one more time and then the silver went out of his eyes, leaving only the look of
astonishment. His body stiffened and slumped backward. It lay still on the ground.
Grimacing, Rashel pulled her wooden sword out of the chest. She started to wipe the blade on the
vampire's pants, then hesitated, peering at them more closely. Yes, those were definitely little crawly
things. And the blankets were just as repulsive.
Oh, well. Use your own jeans. It won't be the first time.
She carefully wiped the bokken clean. It was two and a half feet long and just slightly, gracefully curved,
with a narrow, sharp, angled tip. Designed to penetrate a body as efficiently as possible-if that body was
susceptible to wood.
The sword slipped back into its sheath with a papery whisper. Then Rashel glanced at the body again.
Mr. Vampire was already going mummified. His skin was now yellow and tough; his staring eyes were
dried up, his lips shrunken, his tusks collapsed. Rashel bent over him, reaching into her back pocket.
What she pulled out looked like the snapped-off end of a bamboo backscratcher-which was exactly
what it was. She'd had it for years.
Very precisely, Rashel drew the five lacquered fingers of the scratcher down the vampire's forehead. On
the yellow skin five brown marks appeared, like the marks of a cat's claws. Vampire skin was easy to
mark tight after death.
"This kitten has claws," she murmured. It was a ritual sentence; she'd repeated it ever since the night
she'd killed her first vampire at the age of twelve. In memory of her mother, who'd always called her
kitten. In memory of herself at age five, and all the innocence she'd lost. She'd never be a helpless kitten again.
Besides, it was a little joke. Vampires... bats. Herself... a cat. Anybody who'd grown up with Batman
and Catwoman would get it.
Well. All done. Whistling softly, she rolled the body over and over with her foot to the end of the pier.
She didn't feel like carting the mummy all the way out to the fens, the salt marshes where bodies were
traditionally left inBoston . With a mental apology to everybody who was trying to clean up the harbor,
she gave the corpse a final push and listened for the splash.
She was still whistling as she emerged from the pier onto the street. Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work we go---
She was in a very good mood.
The only disappointment was the constant one, that it hadn't been the vampire, the one she'd been
looking for ever since she'd been five years old. It had been a rogue, all right-a depraved monster
who killed human kids foolishly close to human habitations. But it hadn't been the rogue.
Rashel would never forget his face. And she knew that someday she would see it again. Meanwhile,
there was nothing to do but shish-kebab as many of the parasites as possible.
She scanned the streets as she walked, alert for any sign of Night People. All she saw were quiet brick