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Eph stopped to catch his breath. His headlamp was dimming, and he tapped it, the light flickering. He needed to figure out where he was and surface, or else be lost in this dark labyrinth. He was anxious to let the others know that he was ready to go to the camp and fight.

He turned the next corner, and at the end of the long, dark corridor, Eph saw a figure. Something about its stance—low-armed, knees lightly flexed—said “vampire.”

Eph’s sword came up. He went a few steps forward, hoping to light the creature better.

It remained still. The narrow corridor walls drifted a bit in Eph’s vision, wobbling thanks to the Vikes. Maybe he was seeing things—seeing what he wanted to see. He had wanted a fight.

Convinced now that it was a figment of his imagination, Eph grew more emboldened, approaching the ghost.

“Come here,” he said, his rage at Kelly and the Master still brimming. “Come and get it.”

The creature stood its ground, allowing Eph a better look. A sweatshirt hood formed a triangular cotton point over its head, shadowing its face and obscuring its eyes. Boots and jeans. One arm hung low at its side, the other hand just hidden behind its back.

Eph strode toward the figure with angry determination, like that of a man crossing a room to slam a door shut. The figure never moved. Eph planted his back leg and delivered a two-handed baseball swing aimed at the neck.

To Eph’s surprise, his sword clanged and his arms kicked back, the handle almost springing loose from his grip. A burst of sparks briefly lit the corridor.

It took Eph a moment to realize that the vampire had parried his blow with a length of steel.

Eph regripped his sword with his stinging palms and rattled knuckles and reared back to swing again. The vampire wielded his steel bar one-handedly, easily deflecting the attack. A sudden boot thrust into Eph’s chest sent him sprawling, tripping over his own feet as he collapsed to the floor.

Eph stared up at the shadowy figure. Entirely real, but… also different. Not one of the semi-intelligent drones he was used to facing. This vamp had a stillness, a self-composure, that set him apart from the seething masses.

Eph scrambled back up onto his feet. The challenge stoked the fire burning inside him. He didn’t know what this vampire was, and he didn’t care. “Come on!” he shouted, beckoning the vamp. Again, the creature did not move. Eph evened out his blade, showing the vamp the sharp silver point. He feigned a stab, spinning quickly, one of his best moves, slashing with enough force to cut the creature in two. But the vamp foresaw the move, raising his steel to parry, and Eph countered again, dodging, coming back around the other way and going straight for its neck.

The vamp was ready for him. Its hand grabbed Eph’s forearm, closing on it like a hot clamp. It twisted Eph’s arm with such force that Eph had to arch backward to keep his elbow and shoulder from snapping under pressure. Eph howled in pain, unable to keep his grip on the sword. It popped from his hand and clattered to the floor. With his free hand, Eph went to his belt for his hip dagger, slashing at the vampire’s face.

Surprised, the thing shoved Eph to the floor, reeling back.

Eph crawled away, his elbow burning with pain. Two more figures came running from his end of the hallway, two humans. Fet and Gus.

Just in time. Eph turned toward the outnumbered vamp, expecting it to hiss and charge.

Instead, the creature reached down to the floor, lifting Eph’s sword by its leather-wrapped handle. It turned the silver-bladed weapon this way and that, as though judging its weight and construction.

Eph had never seen a vampire willingly get that close to silver before—much less take a weapon into its hands.

Fet had drawn his sword, but Gus stopped him with a hand, walking past Eph without offering to help him up. The vampire tossed Eph’s sword to Gus, casually, grip first. Gus caught it easily and lowered the blade.

“Of all the things you taught me,” said Gus, “you left out the part about making these great fucking entrances.”

The vampire’s response was telepathic and exclusive to Gus. It pushed back its black hood, revealing a perfectly bald and earless head, preternaturally smooth, almost in the way that thieves appear with nylons stretched over their faces.

Except for its eyes. They glowed fiercely red, like those of a rat.

Eph stood up, rubbing his elbow. This thing was obviously strigoi, and yet Gus stood near it. Stood with it.

Fet, his hand still on his own sword grip, said, “You again.”

“What the hell is this?” said Eph, apparently the last one to this party.

Gus tossed Eph’s sword back at him, harder than was necessary. “You should remember Mr. Quinlan,” said Gus. “The Ancients’ top hunter. And currently the baddest man in the whole damn town.” Gus then turned back to Mr. Quinlan. “A friend of ours got herself thrown into a blood camp. We want her back.”