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life in San Diego, under an assumed name, thinking DPI would never find him again. He owned a bar there, and profits were good.
    And then one day as he’d locked up and headed for his car, he’d been grabbed by two thugs in dark suits, and the next thing he knew he was strapped to a table in White Plains. Talk about déjà vu.
    â€œWe can catch up later,” Roland said, releasing him. “Eric is—”
    â€œEric is here?” Jameson asked, suddenly angry all over again. Damn, when would they learn not to risk their lives every time he got into trouble? “And Tamara?”
    â€œShe’s waiting outside with Rhiannon.”
    Jameson backed away from Roland, stiff with renewed anger. “Dammit, Roland, how could you let Tamara come here? You know what could happen. What they’d do if they ever got their filthy hands on her again!”
    â€œShe wouldn’t stay behind. You know her well enough to know—”
    â€œHurry it up, will you?” Eric appeared at the cell door, a small cut on his forehead trickling scarlet. “One of them got away, and—” He broke off, eyes widening slightly as they skimmed Jameson, head to toe. “Good God, has it been that long? Look at you!”
    Jameson shook his head, wondering how the hell a thirty-year-old adult man could be made to feel fourteen again. He supposed it could only happen when the two who made him feel that way were several centuries older. It would probably never change, no matter how long he lived. Roland grasped his arm, and hurried from the cell, pulling Jameson along with him. They ran into the hall, following Eric, who led the way to the nearest window. He stopped there, pushing it open.
    Jameson planted his feet, and looked from one man to the other. “You guys are kidding, right? We’re on the tenth floor for—”
    The two flanked him, gripped his arms and jumped.

Chapter Two
    â€œT wo guards dead,” DPI supervisor Wes Fuller repeated, though everyone in this staff meeting already knew the body count. “Six others injured. And that bastard Jameson Bryant gone, free as a bird.” He rapped the pipe, bowl down, against the glass ashtray, expelling the spent tobacco.
    â€œDoesn’t matter.” Chief aide Stiles went over the checklist on his clipboard, nodding as he did. “We got everything we needed from him. Our theory was correct. Once they’re transformed, the males are sterile. Beforehand, though, while they’re still human—”
    â€œHuman my ass. They’re only passing. Animals, all of them.”
    â€œYes, well…” Stiles cleared his throat. “At any rate, before that kind is changed over, they’re fertile. The belladonna antigen doesn’t seem to affect the sperm count.”
    â€œThat’s what I was afraid of.” Fuller pushed his chair away from the conference table, the casters squealing in protest of his bulk, and got to his feet. He turned his gaze to Dr. Rose Sversky, who was pushing seventy, and still the sharpest member of DPI’s research team. She had snowy-white hair, cut short, to go with her pixielike frame. She ought to be wearing an apron and rocking grandbabies, not dissecting vampires.
    â€œYou have the data?” Fuller asked. “What’s the breakdown?”
    Rose adjusted her Coke-bottle-thick eyeglasses and cleared her throat. “Of the twelve thousand, five hundred female subjects we’ve tested and/or autopsied in the past two decades,” she said, her voice clinical and cold, “just over three thousand still had viable egg cells in their ovaries. Ninety-eight percent of those had been transformed for less than a year. None of them for more than twenty-three months.” She looked up from her notes, and moved her glasses down a notch to peer at him over the tops of them. “To break it down, Mr. Fuller, yes. It is entirely possible that a newly formed female