But she came forward and knocked him facedown to the ground, then yanked her sword free. That hurt worse than when it went in. He braced himself for the metal against his neck.

  Instead Eadburg fell thunderously on top of him, and her armor clattered around her. Her sword fell to the ground with a thud.

  Ante rolled away just in time to see her dust settling. Shocked and not quite understanding what had happened, Ante looked up to find Peter standing over him, bloody and pale.

  “Just like Buffy,” Peter said in a wobbly voice. “And that armor sucked.”

  Lee was advancing again, his gait awkward. It looked like a broken leg.

  “Take the sword,” said Ante, holding the weapon toward Peter.

  A miracle occurred—Peter obeyed without argument or question. And then he ran off to defend Frank, who was being attacked by three vampires at once.

  There was no part of Ante that didn’t hurt, he couldn’t see well, and he’d had enough of death. But his soldier’s lessons hadn’t faded over the years, and when Lee came at him again, Ante braced himself. Again they rolled together on the ground—until Lee stabbed Ante with a surreptitiously acquired branch. The piece of wood missed Ante’s heart by inches.

  But it didn’t end him.

  Ante punched Lee’s flattened nose, driving him down onto the soil. Before Lee could move, Ante struck like a snake and left a huge, gaping wound in Lee’s throat, but it wasn’t enough to destroy him. Yet Lee went very still and stared up at Ante, wide-eyed. It was very much like the moment Lee had discovered whom he’d followed to a cold tenement room. The moment before Ante murdered him. And Ante realized something horrifying: Lee never truly believed Ante would kill him. Not then, over a century earlier. Not now, under the redwoods a continent away from New York.

  “I am so sorry,” Ante said. He yanked the makeshift stake out of his own body and thrust it into Lee’s. His aim was true.

  Lee gasped a word Ante couldn’t understand, reached up with one hand, and blinked blue eyes gone innocent and guileless. Ante looked into those eyes and knew he’d made the right decision. Something deep within his body snapped, and the pull he’d been feeling for a hundred years disappeared. It was like setting down a heavy burden.

  One more gasp and Lee was gone, and his expensive suit was nothing but dust.

  Shaky and weak, Ante rose to his feet. All around him the fight continued. Bodies lay on the ground, but Ante couldn’t stop to find out whether they retained any life. He needed to find Peter. He lurched from tree to tree in the dancing shadows of the lanterns. He paused to help the tattooed fairy, who was being gnawed by a vampire in a tracksuit. Ante still held the stick he’d used on Lee, and he slammed it into the vampire’s back. He didn’t reach the heart, but as he considered what to do next, the fairy pushed the vampire backward. The vampire landed on the protruding wood, propelling it into his heart.

  “Will you live?” Ante asked the fairy tersely. The fairy held a hand to its neck and made an affirmative noise, which was enough for Ante. He staggered off.

  The forest played tricks on him, and the battle damage around one of his eyes wasn’t helping. It felt as if his insides were doing their best to find their way out. He saw flashes of movement, heard myriad cries, but none of them were Peter’s. Certain that Peter already lay dead on the ground, Ante shouted his name. “Peter! Peter!”

  A weak response called back: “Ante!”

  Using his last reserves of strength, Ante ran toward the voice. He rounded a wide tree trunk—and skidded to a halt.

  Peter was alive and standing. But Dorothy stood behind him, holding Eadburg’s bloody sword to Peter’s throat.

  “Stay right there,” Dorothy commanded. Her dress was torn and filthy, and three arrows pierced her side.

  “Let him go.” Ante’s voice was raw, either from the screaming or the wound. But he didn’t waver.

  “No. He’s what we came here for.”

  “Lee is dust, Dorothy.”

  A vampire couldn’t pale, but she came close. “No,” she whispered.

  “I did it myself.”

  “But… you made him.”

  “And doing so was a terrible mistake, although not the worst I have ever made.”

  Peter managed a smile despite the blade at his neck. “But you’ve made some damned good choices too, Ante. Remember that.”

  Ignoring Peter, Dorothy narrowed her eyes at Ante. “Why would you choose this elf you’ve just met over the vampire you created?”

  “Because that elf—his name is Peter—is a good man. And a warrior. He destroyed Eadburg tonight.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Why would I?”

  Nearby, someone shrieked. “Stop the fighting, Dorothy,” Ante said, his voice cracking with emotion. “Please. Let this be between the two of us and do not let anyone else die tonight.”

  She was silent for a long time. Ante thought she would ignore his plea and slice Peter instead. But she didn’t. She drew a deep breath, then yelled at the top of her lungs. “Shadows! Shadows! This is Dorothy. Retreat to your cars!”

  Perhaps discipline within the organization was stronger than Ante had thought. The battle swiftly dwindled, then stopped. Vampires skulked to their vehicles. There were far fewer than had initially arrived, and most of them sported arrows and ghastly wounds. While some of the Iwapkutians tended to their wounded, the rest gathered silently behind Ante.

  “Why the hell are these… creatures helping you?” Dorothy asked.

  “I… I am not sure. We asked for sanctuary, for assistance. They have given it to us.”

  “But you’re a monster!”

  Ante gazed at her and saw a young woman who’d worked in a diner and maybe dreamed of a better life for herself. Dorothy blinked slowly and spoke softly, as if in a trance or a dream. “I was a single mom. There weren’t many of us back then. People called me all kinds of things. But I worked real hard for my son.”

  “Yes,” Ante said. It was almost as if she was seeing herself through Ante’s eyes.

  “I worked the late shift because that’s when my sister could babysit. I was walking home from the restaurant that night. I had a plate of leftover strawberry rhubarb pie I was gonna let him have for breakfast. Special treat.”

  “You still love him.”

  “I never saw him again. He died ten years later in a car wreck.”

  Thinking about how some wounds never healed, Ante nodded. “But you still love him.”

  “I… I….”

  “We are still capable of love, Dorothy. Of good. I love Peter, whose life you hold in your hands.”

  Peter, who was standing very still, smiled. “You have the weirdest ways of being romantic. I like it.”

  “Love,” Dorothy said thoughtfully as tears coursed down her cheeks.

  “And friendship,” Ante said. “And happiness and optimism and new adventures. We are not lions—we are people.”

  Peter added his agreement. “Just a little sunlight-challenged is all.”

  Dorothy bit her lip. “The Shadows.”

  Hoping he wasn’t making a mistake, Ante took a few steps closer. “You can lead them, Dorothy. But you need not be a cruel leader. Most of the people who run businesses in Vegas do so without terrorizing and murdering, and yet they still manage to make themselves very wealthy. The Shadows will follow you—they know how intelligent you are.” This wasn’t false flattery. Dorothy was very smart, and the members of the Shadows seemed to crave having someone in charge.

  A trickle of blood dripped from Peter’s neck onto his collar; Ante could smell it from where he stood. He was surprised that Dorothy didn’t seem to notice the delicious scent. Instead she appeared deep in thought, while hope and dread warred in Ante’s belly. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could remain standing. Behind him, the Iwapkutians held their collective breath.

  Dorothy dropped the sword.

  Peter ran to Ante, and the relief was just too much—Ante collapsed into his arms, and Peter bore him gently to the ground, where he cradled Ante’s head in his lap.

  “Thank you, Dorothy,” Ante whispered, knowing she would hear.

  She started to walk toward the cars but paused and looked back over her shoulder. “Good luck. If you have a wedding, invite me. I always wanted to be a bridesmaid.” Then she walked away.

  PETER wanted to carry Ante back to the fairies’ house, but Ante refused. “I can help the wounded, I think.”

  “How?”

  Ante grabbed Peter and pulled him close, then licked the small wound on his neck. The cut closed immediately, and Ante ran his tongue over his lips to chase the few drops of blood.

  “You want to lick people?” Peter asked with some incredulity.

  “If it helps.”

  “But you’re in about ten pieces yourself.”

  “I will mend. In fact, the blood will help me a bit.”

  Peter looked stubborn, and Ante prepared for a new and different kind of battle. But then Peter sighed and ran off to confer with some of the others. When he returned a few minutes later, he brought a bearded man in his thirties. “Looks like I’m dinner,” the man said with a grin.

  He didn’t complain when Ante bit into his wrist. He did moan, but not in pain, and when Ante had drunk a pint or so and then licked the punctures closed, the man blinked at him. “That’s the best high I’ve ever had. Whoa.”

  Ante’s injuries began to heal even while he helped tend the wounded. If any of them thought being licked by a vampire was disgusting, they didn’t show it.

  It had grown late by the time a woman gave Ante’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. She was Chloe’s wife, the healer, and she’d been working on the worst injuries while Ante dealt with the minor ones. “That’s enough for tonight,” she said. “We all need our rest.”

  Ante had been sitting on the ground, and now he looked up at her. “How many died?”

  “I’m not sure about the vampires. Our people? Three.” And she gave three names. Ante didn’t recognize the first two, but he knew the last.

  “Rajiya? Oh no! And the others!” He buried his face in his hands.

  “Honey, Raj was over a thousand years old. She used to talk all the time about how she was sorry she wouldn’t get to die in battle. But now she has.”

  Ante could understand that. He’d nearly grown weary of his existence too. “And the others?”

  “They chose to go into this. Knew what they were signing up for. We’ll be mourning them, but they went out as heroes. And with that blond guy dead and that lady vampire in charge, I bet a lot fewer people will die in the long run. Our friends helped do that.”

  “All right.” He sighed. “If there is some way I can repay their families and the whole community….”

  “You can. Join us. We’d like some new blood.”

  Peter helped Ante to his feet and, wrapping an arm around his waist, walked him slowly back to the little village.

  “You said you love me,” Peter said.

  “I did.”

  “I didn’t say I love you back.”

  Ante shook his head. “You do not have to. I know.” And he did know—deep in his unbeating but not yet dead heart.

  “You know what?” asked Peter.

  “Hmm?”

  “A lot of people go to Vegas hoping to get lucky. But I managed to win the biggest jackpot of all.”

  Epilogue

  ANTE set his mug on the little table and sat down, feeling very much like the lord of the manor even though he was still filthy from the night’s work. He’d shower later, when Peter joined him. For now he’d enjoy inhaling the scents on the morning breeze and watching Peter pull weeds in the little garden he’d started in front of their house. Peter was shirtless, his skin beautiful in the mellow early light, and sometimes he’d pause to wave at Ante. Of course, Ante always waved back.

  In some parts of Croatia, houses were traditionally built with a very deep porch on the second story. Farmers had used that space to dry their corn. Perhaps they still did. Ante and Peter didn’t grow corn, but they both liked the look of those houses, and the porch provided Ante an ideal, sun-safe spot to lounge outdoors during the day. Almost every morning he sat there, sometimes with a cup of microwaved blood. Peter usually joined him for breakfast, and together they would gaze out at Ante’s newly planted grapevines.

  If Ante had entertained fantasies of the perfect life back when he was alive, this scenario would have closely resembled those dreams. A cozy house, a green hillside with neat rows of vines, a community of friends who accepted—even valued—him exactly as he was. And a lover who never ceased to confound and delight him.

  Ante was so deep in these good thoughts that he didn’t notice when Peter left off the weeds, entered the house, and joined him on the porch. Not until Peter crouched next to him with a smile. “You look about a million miles away.”

  Ante caressed Peter’s soft hair, luxuriating in how it captured the sun’s warmth. “No. I am happy right here.”

  “There’s no place like home.” Peter stood and stretched. “But actually, I’m going to temporarily abandon the estate today and make a run into town. You need anything?”

  “No. I especially do not need more shirts.”

  Peter had made good on his promise to fill Ante’s closet. It wasn’t an expensive hobby, because he’d discovered a high-end resale shop a few towns away, and he’d convinced the owner to set aside anything especially nice in Ante’s size—and to give Peter a discount. Ante suspected elfin mind talents were involved, but he didn’t complain because it seemed a relatively benign thing. However, he was running out of closet space.

  Peter beamed angelically. “No shirts today. The first of the spring strawberries are in, and I want to pick up a flat.”

  “That is a lot of berries.”

  “I’m going to try making jam.”

  Ante imagined Peter naked, sweet, and sticky. “I approve of this,” he said with a grin.

  “Hmm. Why do I suspect you’re thinking of wicked things to do with jam?”

  “Because I am a vampire and vampires are wicked.”

  Peter leaned down and kissed the top of Ante’s head. “Exactly wicked enough. Oh, and I’m gonna stop by the bookstore. Konstandin told me yesterday he just got a bunch of cookbooks.”

  That was Peter’s other shopping addiction—books. And that was an enthusiasm Ante shared rather ardently. Since Konstandin was from Iwapkuti, he was willing to trade books for some of Peter’s baked goods. In fact, it was Peter’s baking, along with Ante’s willingness to help with farm chores at night and to quickly heal small cuts and scrapes, that sealed their contributions to their community. Everyone had been happy to help them build their little house, and Ante never went hungry. Within a couple of years, when his vines were mature enough, he hoped to provide even more to his neighbors.

  “Want to get cleaned up?” Peter asked.

  Ante downed the last of the blood and, carrying the mug, followed Peter inside. They both paused at the small table just inside the door. It held the photo of Peter’s mother, nicely reframed, along with Rajiya’s slightly dented oil lamp and some colored crystals. A licitar—one of the ornamental heart-shaped cookies Croatians sometimes gave each other as tokens of affection—also lay on the table. Peter had presented it to Ante several months earlier and refused to divulge where he’d found it. It reminded Ante fondly of his family every time he looked at it. This morning Peter had added a vase of fresh flowers. The table wasn’t so much an altar as a fond souvenir of those who were gone. Looking at it always brought Ante peace.

  Although their house was small, they’d included a large bathroom with a soaking tub and a shower big enough for both of them. It was an extravagance but worth it. Like now, when Ante could rub against Peter’s warm, wet body and lick the droplets of water from his neck, almost as if they were blood.

  After they were clean and Peter was dressed, he tucked Ante into bed with a kiss. “Be back soon. Sweet dreams, sleeping beauty.”

  Ante used his vampire speed to swat Peter’s ass before he could move away.

  WHEN Ante woke up, the scent of strawberries had nearly overwhelmed the house. It grew even stronger when he went downstairs to the kitchen. Ante paused in the doorway to watch Peter, in a red-splattered apron, stirring an enormous pot on the stove. He had a tiny dot of strawberry at the corner of his mouth. Delicious.

  Apparently sensing Ante’s presence, he turned and smiled. “You’re finally up.”

  “You have had no sleep at all.”

  “I’ll grab a couple of hours after I’m done here.”

  Ante eyed the long rows of jars lining the countertop. “You are making enough jam for the entire village.”

  “Nah. You know my sweet tooth. This’ll barely be enough for me.”

  After a detour to the stove to nuzzle Peter’s neck—and lick away that spot of jam—Ante sat at the table. A stack of books tottered in the middle, and he sorted through them. He smiled when he saw a biography of Jane Addams, whom he’d once seen give a speech.

  Next to the stack of books was an envelope addressed to him in care of the Guerneville post office, with a Las Vegas return address. He recognized the handwriting. “Another letter from Dorothy?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I read it. She says they’re going to open a male strip show at one of her casinos—totally classy, she claims. And if we ever want a job, she’ll be happy to take us on there.”

  “I bet she would,” Ante said, laughing. In the year and a half since the Battle of Iwapkuti—as Peter insisted on calling it—Dorothy had become something like a cousin or sister. She wrote every now and then, oddly newsy little missives about her latest business ventures, and sometimes she phoned for Ante’s advice on handling the Shadows without violence. As far as he could tell, she was doing a stellar job.

  “Hey, Ante?” Peter’s voice caught Ante’s attention because it was unusually hesitant.

  Ante stood. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing. God, you’re always such a pessimist.” Peter strode over, wooden spoon in hand, and gently pushed Ante back onto the chair. Then he walked back to his pot and resumed stirring. “So I was talking to Konstandin today.”