Count

Prologue

Malachi Isles was on his way to kill a vampire. This particular target was the head of an organized crime cell, selling meth to kids so that he could lounge in a five-story mansion by the sea. Despicable.

A butler who looked as if he had once been a pro wrestler answered Malachi's knock and ushered him into the parlor. "Wait here," he said and left, shutting the door behind him.

The room was furnished with a desk, bookshelves, and a liquor stand, all in gleaming red wood. To pass the time, Malachi examined the liquor stand and its crystal decanter of golden fluid, lifting the stopper off a bottle and swirling the contents before placing it back in its spot. He was inspecting the bookshelves when his host entered.

"Malachi Isles!" said the vampire. He made no apology for his tardiness. Instead, he crossed to the liquor stand and offered Malachi a drink. "Would you like some? Finest Bourbon on the east coast."

"I'm familiar with your exquisite taste in alcohol," Malachi said, maintaining a relaxed expression. "I'd be a fool to turn you down."

The crystal clinked as the vampire poured them both drinks. Then he reclined in a black leather chair. "Now, to business!"

Malachi sipped his drink. It took all of his willpower not to grimace in distaste at the ill-gotten luxury around him. "May we speak freely here?"

"The walls are completely soundproof, and the room is swept for bugs daily."

"Wonderful," he replied. "Then, I have found you a poison fatal to vampires, as requested. It's called 'sunrise.' It is odorless, tasteless, and nearly undetectable."

"Then the fifty thousand is yours." He slid a briefcase across the desk.

"Interestingly enough," Malachi continued as though he hadn't been interrupted, "the poison is completely harmless to humans." He took another drink.

The vampire tapped his desk and loosened his tie. "Fascinating. Is it hot in here?"

Malachi ignored him. "But in vampires who consume it, it causes dizziness, muscle cramping, and a burning sensation throughout the body."

The vampire shifted in his seat, a bead of sweat running down his face.

"One minute in, and the victim's speech and mobility are inhibited." Malachi smiled, enjoying the sight of the vampire squirming before him. "I want another million for the antidote."

If looks could kill, Malachi would be on his way to vampirism himself. Livid, the vampire unlocked a desk drawer and clumsily extracted stacks of cash.

Malachi took his time counting it. "Three minutes, and the victim can barely stay conscious. Four, and death is inevitable." He laughed. "Should I say death? You're already dead, aren't you? Well, four minutes after consumption, the victim will feel as if the sun is burning the flesh from his body, and by minute five, nothing will be left of him but ash."

Malachi stepped over the convulsing vampire and took the rest of the cash from the drawer—almost two million US dollars—and put it in the briefcase. The vampire crumbled into dust as Malachi stepped out of the parlor. "Your cut, Jeffory," Malachi said, handing the butler a stack of hundreds.

Vampires were like parasites, Malachi thought as he drove away. They preyed on humans with a bloodlust that could never be satiated. The only way to stop them was to kill them all.