It wasn't until I stopped to get a drink from the river that I smelled vampire--and not my vampire.
I stood in the shallows of the river and lapped at the water as if I hadn't sensed a thing.
But it didn't matter because this vampire had no desire to remain unseen.
If I hadn't smelled him, the distinctive sound of a shotgun shell jacked into place was quite an announcement of intentions.
He must have followed me from home.
Or maybe his sense of smell was werewolf good.
At any rate, he knew who I was.
Bernard stood on the bank, the gun held with obvious familiarity with the barrel pointed at yours truly.
Vampire with shotgun--it seemed a little like Jaws with a chain saw, too much of a good thing.
I'd have preferred a chain saw in this case.
I hate shotguns.
I have scars on my butt from a close-range hit, but that wasn't the only time I'd been shot--just the worst.
Montana ranchers don't like coyotes.
Even coyotes who are just passing through and would never attack a lamb or chase a chicken.
No matter how much fun chasing chickens is ...
I wagged my tail at the vampire.
"Marsilia was so certain he'd kill you," Bernard told me.
He always sounded to me like one of the Kennedys, his a's broad and flat.
"But I see that he fooled her.
She's not as smart as she thinks--and that will be her downfall.
I need you to call your Master so I can talk to him." It took me a moment to remember who the Master he was referring to was.
And then I didn't know how to do it.
I had so many new ties, and I didn't know how to use any of them.
What if I tried to call Stefan and ended up with Adam here? I took too long.
Bernard pulled the trigger.
I think he meant to miss me--unless he was a really bad shot.
But several of those stupid pellets hit, and I yipped sharply.
He had the next shell in the gun before I finished complaining.
"Call him," Bernard said.
Fine.