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He should have known. The vampire had lost a lot of blood the night before. He would have needed to restock, and a predator like Paul wouldn’t be satisfied with a stop by the hospital and a few bags from the blood bank. No, he’d like his food fresh.

And fighting.

Dammit.

If he hadn’t been so worried about Miranda, Cain might have been able to think straight. To realize that Paul was like any wounded animal—a shitload more dangerous when he was hurt.

“We’re on our way,” Cain responded, then ended the call. Miranda sat beside him in the car, now clad in a pair of jeans and a loose button-up shirt. She was still too pale, and the bruises on her throat were too dark. He should stop by the sheriff’s station, let her out, and continue this hunt without her.

But I don’t want to leave her side.

“He killed another woman, didn’t he?”

He jerked his head in agreement and heard the soft sigh that passed her lips.

“Did he hurt her very much? Before he killed her, I mean? Did she suffer?”

Probably. The bastard sure seemed to enjoy hurting women. “Santiago says he drained her nearly dry. Then cut her throat.” Vamps usually did that, to throw the humans off track.

“I-I thought he hunted women over the Internet, picked out his prey.”

His fingers tightened around the steering. wheel. “He was desperate last night. He’d lost too much blood. Had gotten too weak.”

“So he fed on the first poor woman he found.” He could hear the painful sound of her swallow.

He reached over and caught her hand in his. His fingers tightened around hers. “We’re gonna get him.” He didn’t tell her that there were dozens—hundreds—more twisted vampires out there just like Roberts.

She’d figure that out on her own, later.

Right now, he was focused on taking care of the monster who’d made the mistake of stumbling into his backyard and threatening the woman he was coming to need.

Besides, the world would be a damn sight better once Roberts was eliminated from it. Then Cain could always start hunting the next supernatural who crossed the line.

There were always others waiting. He’d learned that lesson early in his FBI career.

And the true monsters, well, they weren’t always Other. Sometimes, they were humans.

Chapter Six

A week later, Miranda sat at the computer in Sam’s temporary office. The sheriff was still fishing, off somewhere in Louisiana now, so Sam continued to run the show in Cherryville. She typed quickly on the machine, vaguely aware of the hum of activity just beyond the door. The stitches were gone now, but every few moments, her arm would ache as she tapped on the keyboard. Other than those mild twinges, she was doing pretty well.

Okay, except for the nightmares she’d been having. Those were a bit of a bitch.

There had been no sign of Paul Roberts for the past seven days or nights. The man had gone underground, perhaps literally. So it was time for her to take some action.

Cain was out with Santiago, interviewing some of the folks who had been at Pete’s the night Christie Hill was murdered. God, that poor woman’s funeral had been hell. Her mother had just stood there, shaking and weeping, while Christie’s younger sister, a kid who’d just graduated and had been one of Miranda’s best students at Cherryville High, had stared at the coffin with dry but desperate eyes.

Yes, definitely time for stage two.

And she wasn’t going to wait for Cain and his FBI buddies to give her permission.

A woman from the FBI had confiscated Miranda’s computer three days ago, and the systems at the school were locked up for the summer, but, luckily, good old Sam never secured his temporary office.

Her fingers tapped faster and faster as she created her profile. No, not her profile. The perfect profile to catch Paul’s interest. Because she knew he was out there, just looking for the right woman.

She’d been that woman once, and she’d be the unlucky one again.

Miranda was back on the website where she’d originally met Paul, but this time, she was a brunette named Angie Phillips. A woman who lived about forty minutes away, right near the beach. A woman who was thirty-three. Divorced. No children. An artist. And a serious lover of antiques.