"You got anything for me?" Simon asked.
"A fresh lead, if you want it." Turner sounded as if he hadn't slept in a while. He was one of the newer hunters, and he probably wouldn't last long.
Few people did.
"Tell me," Simon said.
"Someone spotted a vampire at theStop & Stockon 12th Street. He left covered in blood."
Simon's posture straightened. "Victim?"
"Unknown. But get this, he's headed to Suds Laundromat. Probably wants to wash away the evidence."
Hiding the evidence was, indeed, classic vampire behavior. Simon had seen it countless times.
What hehadn'tseen was a vampire who went to the laundromat to do it.
But there was a first time for everything. Or so they said.
"We think," Turner said, "this might be that Charlie Dracul you've been looking for."
Simon's brows furrowed. He'd been hunting that particular vampire for weeks, ever since he first heard the rumors.
Would tonight be the night he finally got to put a stake through that monster's heart?
"I'll head out immediately."
"Director Harmon specifically requested you report to him first."
"Tell Harmon I'll report when it's done."
Simon ended the call and pulled up the dossier on his tablet. It contained all the intel he had gathered on the bastard that had been terrorizing the city recently.
One rumor claimed that he had drained three people in a single night last month. Another that he kept his victims alive for days,locked up in a warehouse somewhere. Superhuman strength was mentioned.
This vampire might be centuries old.
Especially with a name like Dracul. Other vampires would not let him claim that easily.
Simon moved to the weapon cabinet and selected a silver-plated stake—not a single scratch marred its polished surface—and placed it in a leather holster.
The rest of his gear he packed into a black duffel bag. Holy water. Bright flashlight. Garlic concentrate.
This sucker would not get away.
Simon had earned his reputation as the Organization's most effective hunter for good reason. One hundred and seventeen eliminations in five years. Zero failures.
Charlie Dracul would make it one hundred and eighteen.
Simon went down to the parking garage.
If Charlie Dracul was indeed washing blood from his clothes, it meant he'd fed recently. He would be dangerous.
Good.
Simon liked challenges. They kept him sharp.
He started his motorcycle with a low growl that echoed off the walls. The recent hunts had been disappointingly routine, most of them young vampires who were careless and easily tracked.
