Angus set her photo down. Her eyes seemed to be following him, calling to him. "We'll catch her. Tonight. Connor, you take the northern half of the park, and I'll take the southern half."
"I'll come." Gregori took a swig from Angus's bottle. "I can spot a good-looking babe a mile off."
"Hey." Angus grabbed his bottle back. He'd been so intent on Miss Wallace's photo, he hadn't seen Gregori nabbing his Blissky. "And what will ye do when a black-belt slayer knocks ye down and whips out her wooden stake?"
"Oh, come on, dude." Gregori straightened his tie. "No woman wants to kill a sharp-dressed man."
"Angus is right." Connor gathered up the profiles and photos and closed the folder. "Ye're no' prepared to fight a slayer. Stay here and tell Roman what we decided to do."
"Damn." Gregori tugged at his shirt cuff. "Not fair."
Angus removed a pewter flask from his sporran and filled it with Blissky. "'Twill be a long night. This will keep me warm."
"I'll fetch my claymore, and we can go." Connor headed for the door.
"Wait." Gregori's mouth twitched. "You two guys are going to Central Park in the middle of the night, wearing skirts?" He laughed. "No one's gonna believe you're looking for a woman."
Angus glanced down at his kilt. "I dinna bring any trousers."
Gregori snorted. "You mean you own some?"
"Doona worry." Connor rested a hand on the doorknob. "Today was St. Paddy's Day. The city is full of men in kilts. No one will think twice about it."
"What will you do if you find her?" Gregori asked.
"Have a wee chat," Connor replied as he left the room.
Angus recalled Emma Wallace's whisky-colored eyes and intoxicating mouth. He'd be sorely tempted to do more than talk. He smiled as he screwed the top on his flask. Let the hunt begin. He slung his claymore onto his back and strode toward the door.
"Okay, if you insist, I'll stay here." Gregori picked up the bottle Angus had left on the desk. "I'll just guard this for you till you get back."
Emma Wallace stomped her feet silently in the grass. The chilly air felt good as long as she was walking, but whenever she crouched behind a tree for very long, her legs grew stiff.
This part of Central Park was dead, even too dead for the Undead. Time to move on. She slung her canvas tote bag over her shoulder and enjoyed the comforting sound of wooden stakes clattering against one another. She slipped out of her hiding place and skidded down the sharp incline to the brick path below. Her movement startled some birds from a nearby tree. They cawed, beating the air with a fluttering of wings as they flew into the darkness.
Emma waited, blending easily into a tree's shadow with her black pants and jacket. All was quiet once more. Hard to believe that a short walk south would deliver her to noisy avenues where postparade celebrations still raged.
Maybe that was why the park was so quiet. The vampires could be hunting in the streets. After a long day of green beer and whisky, the revelers would never remember what bit them.
Suddenly the brick path beside her was clearer. Brighter. She could make out individual trees and bushes. She moved quietly onto the pathway and looked at the nearly full moon. The clouds had moved away, leaving the orb bright and glowing.
A slight movement caught her attention, and her gaze lowered. To the south, a lone figure stood on top of a huge crag of granite. His back was to her. Wisps of clouds floated past him, stirring his kilt. Moonlight gleamed off his dark red hair.
Mist swirled around him, making him look ethereal. Like the ghost of a Highland warrior. Emma sighed. That's what the world needed more of today¡ªbrave warriors, willing to fight evil.
Sometimes she felt vastly outnumbered by the creatures of the night. As far as she knew, she was the only vampire slayer in existence. Not that she blamed anyone for that. Most people didn't know about vampires. But she did blame her weak and ineffectual boss. Sean Whelan was afraid to pit their small team of four against a group of vampires in battle, so he had assigned them to merely watch and investigate.
Watching wasn't enough for Emma. Not since that horrid night six years ago. She refused to dwell on it. She'd found a much better remedy than grieving. The trick to killing vampires was to find one alone in the act of feeding, then take him by surprise with one swift stake through the heart. With every vampire she turned to dust, she was one step closer to finding peace.
She patted her bag of stakes. With a permanent marker, she'd written Dad on half of them and Mum on the other half. The stakes were working great, and the death count was up to four. It could never be high enough.
She glanced again at the kilted man standing on the boulder of granite. Where had all the brave men gone? Fierce warriors who could stand alone in the face of danger.
The mist drifted away, leaving the man's form outlined in silvery moonlight. Her breath hitched. He was stunning. His broad shoulders filled the dark sweater he wore. His kilt fluttered slightly in the breeze, revealing strong, muscular thighs. Good heavens. He would make a great warrior. Strong and relentless in battle.
Suddenly he leaned over, grabbed the hem of his kilt, and peeked underneath. Then he dropped the kilt and fumbled at something below his waist. Emma winced. Was he playing with himself? He lifted something to his mouth and drank. Moonlight glinted off the metal. A flask. Super. He was a pervert and a drunk. With a sigh, she turned north and walked away.
What a silly waste of her time, fantasizing about a brave Highland warrior. She should have known he was just one of the thousands of kilted, liquor-guzzling men roaming the city after the parade. Besides, in her line of business, she couldn't afford to get sentimental. The enemy was ruthless.