Nothing to do but wait for the end...

  ...any second now.

  ...

  ...aaaaany second now.

  "WAIT!" he heard Renfield say, over the phone.

  Caleb was in agony. Physical, of course, because -- hello! -- giant maple stake shoved in his chest. Mental because... was Scott going to actually wait? Or was he going to go through with the pn?

  "Bit te to call off the bet after I already put my stake in," said Scott.

  Oh god. Scott was punning.

  That was it. That was the final indignity. Not the pain, not the existential horror of death, not even the fact that Renfield was clearly panicking now -- moments after it became too te -- no, it was the fact that his st moments were going to be quippy.

  Like he was some WB vampire, dying while the hunter delivers a snarky one-liner with a twinkle in their eye.

  He deserved better. He deserved gravitas. Maybe a nice bze of glory. He deserved at least one, you know, devastating and appropriately gothic monologue or something, before the lights went out.

  Caleb wasn't suicidal. He didn't actually want to die.

  But he really, really didn't want to die like a chump.

  ---

  So, the pn was, if Renfield didn't show up, to actually go through with killing Caleb. So far, so... well, not good, but at least according to pn.

  "WAIT!" Renfield cried out, through the phone.

  "Bit te to call off the bet after I already put my stake in," said Scott, pulling out his dagger.

  Heh. Always did want to pull off a one-liner, Scott thought, like all those vampire hunters on the WB.

  Then, in the corner of his eye-- movement. A dark blur, streaking toward him faster than humanly possible.

  WHAM.

  The impact stole the air from his lungs. A freight-train force smashed into his ribs, and then he was airborne-- his stomach lurching as he flew back, hard. The ground hit like a truck, scraping his skin raw as he skidded across the pavement of Fremont Street, crashing through kiosks, upending tables, splintering wood and scattering trinkets into the air.

  His head bounced off something hard -- fuck, that was gonna leave a mark. His ears rang, high-pitched and shrill.

  "Strigoii s?-?i ar--" he started, but then--

  A fist drove into his gut like a sledgehammer, folding him in half. The words died in his throat. He wheezed, struggling for air, but his diaphragm had locked up, muscles spasming uselessly.

  He needed to move, to counter, to--

  Another hit, this time across the jaw. His teeth clicked together so hard he swore he tasted enamel. Then another, smashing into his ribs. Something cracked. A deep, sick pain bloomed in his side, raw and jagged.

  He’d probably be dead already if it wasn’t for Father Galgher’s donated rosary, tucked beneath his shirt, pressing against his chest like a lifeline. It forced Renfield to be careful, to aim his punches instead of just tearing Scott apart like a rabid wolverine.

  Not that it helped much.

  Right. Vampire fight. He’d done this before. Focus. All he needed was a clear opening.

  Except-- there wasn’t one. Renfield was too fast, his movements a relentless blur. The blows rained down like a storm, like they weren’t even meant to kill him quickly. Renfield wasn’t trying to win -- he was making this hurt.

  Scott’s vision started to smear at the edges, a nauseating fog creeping in. His own blood filled his mouth, warm, metallic, thick. His limbs felt heavy. Sluggish. Like his own body was giving up on him before his mind had the chance to.

  Of course, he thought dizzily. Renfield wasn’t going to kill him efficiently. That wasn’t his M.O. His M.O. was pain and suffering.

  He was being beaten to death with Renfield’s bare hands.

  ---

  Caleb's eyes opened.

  Which was impossible. He couldn’t so much as twitch. Couldn’t move anything. Totally locked in. But somehow, his eyes were open, staring up at the shifting kaleidoscope of LED lights on the Fremont Street Experience. The colors blurred together, too bright, too sharp, flickering in ways that made his brain feel like a buffering video.

  Someone was opening his eyes for him.

  And then, that someone moved into his field of vision.

  Cardi.

  Little. Tiny. Stealthy Cardi.

  What was Cardi doing here? This wasn't part of the pn.

  She met his gaze, then pressed a finger to her lips. Shhh.

  Then, without hesitation, she pulled.

  Caleb had thought the stake going in was the worst pain he’d ever felt. He was wrong.

  It was like being split open all over again, like every nerve ending in his body had been waiting for this, holding back an entire storm of agony until this exact moment. The stake wrenched free with a sick, wet sound, and a fresh wave of fire tore through his chest. His vision exploded with white-hot sparks, and his whole body seized in protest. He doubled over, shuddering, teeth cmped down so hard he thought his jaw might crack, because he couldn’t make a sound.

  His fingers twitched. His legs. The hole in his chest was already closing, the torn flesh knitting back together at an unnatural speed.

  Move, damn it. Move.

  Scott.

  Scott was in serious trouble.

  He turned back to Cardi, just to mouth a quick thank you, but-- she was already gone. Vanished like she was never there.

  Good.

  He just needed a few more moments to recover. Just a little longer. He prayed Scott could hold out that long.

  ---

  It was killing Angie to watch Caleb and Scott suffer on the monitors. But Caleb was right. She was the only one that could do this.

  One thing years of pying poker had taught her was how to keep her emotions in check and to follow through with the pn.

  Twice, she had to remind Pantessa that she needed stay at the Pza entrance to the Fremont St. Experience, and not rush in to help Scott and Caleb.

  They knew the risks. They knew -- especially Caleb -- that they were expendable.

  But Renfield must not be allowed to leave Fremont St. alive.

  And that meant keeping Tessa and her shotgun pying zone defense.

  Over at the other end of Fremont St. was Tom. Which "Tom" decided to show up tonight, she didn't know, but she was hoping it was a bit of both. "Mad Tom" would have run straight into the battle, and "Thomas" probably would have ran off in fatalistic fear by now.

  She looked at the monitors to check on everyone else. The glittergang was getting into position, Stelian leading them from behind the sign advertising the buffet at Four Queens.

  Trey, Jack, and Diane were running behind schedule on their pn, which meant Caleb and Scott needed to buy more time -- more time than it seemed they had. Cardi was nowhere to be seen, but... yeah, that was pretty normal for Cardi.

  "C'mon... C'mon."

  ---

  Stelian was in position. He was no Cardi, but the "Johnny Cash" bck trenchcoat and hat was a lot more stealthy at night than it was during the day. But Scott was dying. Caleb was wounded. And Renfield was winning. He had to come up with a distraction. Something that didn't reveal his presence.

  God, how do you come up with a distraction in Vegas? The whole goddamn city was a distraction.

  He took a deep breath. He had one shot.

  Literally. He had one shot -- Scott had lent Stelian his fre gun. "Only in an emergency," he was told.

  Well, fuck, this definitely qualified.

  It felt oddly nostalgic. Like when he pyed Fallout: New Vegas and took the Mysterious Stranger perk, that random badass who'd show up and help you out when things got dicey. Only this time, he was the mysterious stranger in the trenchcoat.

  But no time to dwell on nostalgia. He couldn’t risk a direct shot -- if he missed Renfield, he’d hit Scott. Instead, he aimed up at the LED canopy that stretched over Fremont St. Right above Renfield. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  The fre shot out with a sharp crack, a comet of light slicing through the night. It smmed into the canopy above with a sickening crackle and a fsh so bright, everyone -- Stelian, Caleb, Scott, and Renfield -- had to shield their eyes.

  The sky erupted. A bst of heat surged in an instant, followed by the sharp, crackling sound of the canopy breaking. Sparks rained down like fireworks as if the entire street was about to ignite. The tourists weren’t around to witness it, but it was a spectacle, and one that Renfield couldn't ignore.

  As the fire spread across the surface of the canopy, the LED lights flickered, warped, then cracked into massive shards of gss. One of the rger chunks plummeted, crashing into Renfield’s back.

  Renfield howled in pain, quickly removing the shard from his flesh. It didn’t slow him much, but it didn’t need to.

  Scott’s moment had arrived.

  Dizzy and breathless, Scott swung a punch at Renfield, nding the sucker punch he needed before scrambling back to his feet, just in time to avoid Renfield’s retaliatory snarl.

  ---

  Lucky shot. Lucky, lucky, lucky, thought Scott, as he staggered to his feet.

  Fremont Street spun like he’d been strapped to the Psyclone ride at Canada’s Wondernd after one too many drinks. The neon lights above pulsed in sickly hues, each flicker a fresh jab to his skull. He needed to find his dagger -- had to find something -- but his limbs weren’t cooperating. Instead, he focused on the Renfields.

  Both of them.

  Or maybe there was just one, and his brain was being an asshole.

  He coughed, sharp pain ncing through his ribs. When he looked down, a fine mist of blood speckled his palm.

  Yeah. That wasn't good.

  He needed a miracle.

  And then, with a sound like a cannonball hitting wet sand--

  KTHUMP!

  Something massive smmed into Renfield’s skull, snapping his head to the side.

  Scott squinted, trying to make sense of it. Some kind of stake? No, too big. A chunk of debris? Didn’t seem right. Someone had thrown something, but who--

  He braced himself against a wall, blinking hard, trying to force his vision into compliance. He needed to steady himself, get a grip, because there was no way -- no way -- he was seeing this right.

  Renfield wasn’t just getting hit. He was getting pummeled. Again and again, the thing battered into him with violent, vengeful force, sending him staggering, arms filing.

  Scott wiped the blood from his mouth and squinted harder.

  No.

  It couldn’t be.

  “…A magical…” (pant) “…flying…” (cough) “…baseball bat?”

  None of the old tomes of vampire lore had prepared him for that.

  ---

  Caleb was surprised at how cathartic it was to be a flying piece of white ash beating his family's generational tormentor into a misshapen pulp.

  Oh. He needed this.

  Hey, Renfield. Hey batta batta batta, swing batta batta batta!

  The only downside? Being wood meant he couldn’t do a proper maniacal ugh.

  Renfield, fast as a striking snake, finally caught the bat mid-swing, grinning like he’d just won the grand prize. His victory sted half a second before the bat exploded back into Dracu’s denim-cd descendant -- who now had Renfield by the arm.

  Caleb yanked him skyward and smmed him into the concrete hard enough to leave cracks.

  Oh, that felt good.

  Boo-yah, motherf—

  That thought cut off when Renfield sneered, grabbed Caleb by the face, and threw him through a window like a sack of garbage.

  Gss shattered, metal screeched, and then Caleb collided with a row of progressive slots inside Binion’s. He ricocheted off them like a ragdoll, hitting the ground hard. A few machines sparked from the impact, and when Caleb lifted his head, he saw it—three vampire-shaped dents stretching across them.

  Then the pain caught up.

  Oh. Oh, that’s gonna suck tomorrow.

  If there was a tomorrow.

  Renfield stepped through the shattered window, eyes glowing like hellfire. And that’s when it really hit Caleb.

  This wasn’t just a vampire.

  This was an elder. A true predator honed by centuries of blood and cruelty. A walking nightmare.

  And right now, all that terror and rage was focused entirely on him.

  And Renfield let out a blood-curdling maniacal ugh.

  "Fuuuuuck me," said Caleb.

  Renfield advanced on him, ready to deliver another can of elder-strength whoopass.

  And then suddenly, a bright light appeared, seemingly from out of nowhere, catching Renfield right in the middle of it. The nightmare creature hissed, trying to shield himself from it.

  The glittergang, thought Caleb. The glittergang had his back. He didn't know who -- they all kind of blended together in his mind, and they were kind of insur. Really, Stelian was the only one of the glitterboys who even bothered to speak much with the others -- so he didn't know if it was Draven, Ransley, Creighton, Ywain, Feronia, or Vesper who was manning this particur work-mp. But he was eternally grateful that they knew how to aim the projection through the styrofoam cutout so that Renfield would be caught right in media cruces -- right in the middle of the holy cross.

  He had hoped the projection might sear Renfield’s flesh like holy fire, but at least it was hurting him.

  A funny thought hit Caleb.

  “The elder brother has failed. The younger brother becomes prince. Both grandchildren of the dragon. The father returns. And the destruction begins.”

  That’s what Jack said he found in the Bible code stuff. Though Jack had mentioned Hebrew was tricky, and that it could also transte as: “And the projection begins.”

  Caleb couldn’t make heads or tails of the rest of it. Was he the elder brother? Or Joshua? Was he the grandchild of the dragon? Pantessa and Angelina? Was the “father” Dracu or his actual father?

  All Caleb knew was that there was something oddly comforting about knowing this—whatever it was—was meant to happen. Maybe fate was on his side.

  Fate... or just a bunch of cryptic nonsense, setting off an even bigger mess. And of course, it turned out to be of absolutely no help in this, the critical moment.

  That's the problem with relying on fate in Vegas. It is famously fickle.

  But friends. That you can rely on to save your ass in a crisis.

  Renfield slid back from the cross projection until he was no longer in it, a small tactical retreat, giving Caleb time to get back to his feet.

  Another set of crosses from across the street at Four Queens, another bit of rapid maneuvering, and all of a sudden, it seemed like Caleb wasn't the focus of Renfield's rage anymore. In fact -- for the first time, Renfield seemed like he wasn't acting out of spite, or cruelty. He seemed almost pensive.

  Oh no. Renfield was thinking.

  Part of the pn was to keep Renfield so focused on hurting people that he'd completely ignore that he was in a trap. Hell, he even admitted he knew he was walking into a trap, and Caleb had made it clear that the bait was so good--

  Oh shit.

  The bait.

  The Eye of Strigoi. Right now it was dangling around Scott's neck, and Scott was barely able to stand on his own right now. Renfield could snatch the Eye, and if he could make his way out of the Fremont St. Near-Death Experience that they had so carefully and meticulously set up for him, he would have won.

  After all, he didn't have to kill Caleb and Scott tonight. Not if he had the Eye. Then he would have all the time in the world. And could breed an army of Stalkers.

  Oh god. If Renfield just realized what Caleb did...

  Renfield looked straight at Caleb. And Caleb realized why Renfield chose Elvis as his costume.

  Because behind dark gsses, there was no difference between a lip curl, and a sneer.

  Scott tried to fight back -- woozy, wounded, dizzy, and damaged -- but despite the earlier pummeling, Renfield was in far better shape. With a swift move, he grabbed the Eye, snapping the silver chain from Scott’s neck.

  It was over before Scott could even attempt to throw a punch. Fast as a blur, he started heading down Freemont St., past Caleb. The glittergang, and their projections, couldn't even keep up. He tried making a turn onto a side street, but Scott and Caleb had thought of that, projecting unmanned crosses strategically pced to block those side streets. For Renfield, there were only two exits -- Main Street, by the Pza and Circa, and Third Street, by the D.

  Renfield was booking it to Third Street, the eye firmly clutched in his cws.

  Caleb was fast on foot, and faster in flight, but there was no way he could catch up. Renfield was older -- faster, stronger, and quicker.

  One st line of defense. That was it. If Renfield got past it, it was over.

  He didn't dare even hope until he heard the sound of cannon fire.

  ---

  The figure came barreling toward Tom like a soul the devil himself had let slip the leash, with fire in his eyes and malice hotter than a red dawn on the horizon.

  Well, sailor. Time to take warning.

  He aimed the cannon, and with a deep, rumbling roar, let loose a volley of chain-shot.

  How I got a cannon from Treasure Isnd to Fremont? That's a tale for the taverns, if I live to tell it, thought Tom, grinning like a madman.

  A hit! A direct hit-- throwing Renfield backward a full block before crashing into the LED canopy, before he plummeted back to the street like a bloomin' sack of potatoes! Ha! No one expects to be shot by a cannon in the modern age. Score one for naval tradition!

  Surely, no man could survive such a blow.

  Surely. But Renfield was no man.

  He was bloodied but unbroken, already back on his feet, his body -- blood, bones, and all --mending with a sickening crunch, like a ship creaking in the midst of a storm. Tom felt a cold sweat run down his spine.

  "Right, Tom," he muttered to himself, eyeing the rotting bastard with fire in his gut. "Best make this quick."

  Tom leapt from bolrd to signpost, each movement as sure as a sailor walking the deck in the dead of night. No time for thoughts, only actions. He had to reach Renfield before the pgue of a man could stitch himself back together.

  Tom drew his cutss with a sharp ring. In the fshing neon of Fremont, the bde seemed to gleam with a life of its own -- silver, shining bright like the moonlit sea.

  Shining sterling silver, electropted, sharpened, shined and polished.

  He sshed at Renfield’s chest. The old bastard dodged, but not in time to avoid a gncing blow. A scratch, but enough to make Renfield pause. The bastard looked down. He was bleeding.

  For a moment, Renfield hesitated -- his eyes fshing with a quick, rare panic, a crack in his monstrous exterior

  Tom let out a bark of ughter. "Aye, d, been so long ye forgot how to bleed, eh? Don’t ye worry, I’ll help ye remember."

  Tom struck again, this time at Renfield's wrist, sinking the silver deep enough to make the bastard scream in pain and drop the Eye.

  Mad Tom felt a surge of confidence. Until Renfield’s eyes turned back to him, seething. With a sickening snarl, he grabbed Tom by the beard, swung him around like a ragdoll, and tossed him headlong into Las Vegas Jewelry and Gifts.

  Tom crashed into piles of glittering baubles -- gold and silver trinkets, all the treasure of a pirate’s fever dream. He y there, a tangle of limbs and trinkets, feeling like a fool who’d been robbed of his own plunder.

  But Renfield, damn him, wasn’t focused on Tom anymore. No, he was searching.

  The Eye. Where the hell was the Eye?

  Every second stretched like an eternity as he pawed through the glimmering wreckage-- gold chains tangling, trinkets slipping through his fingers like sand -- desperate to feel the Eye.

  By now, Caleb had arrived, charging in like a sailor desperate to save his ship from the storm. He unched himself at Renfield, trying to tackle the fiend to the ground. It was clear Caleb was no match for Renfield’s monstrous strength, but every second Caleb kept the creature busy was a second Tom could use to search.

  Finally, Tom spotted it. The Eye, resting beneath a T-shirt kiosk. He reached for it with his sword and grabbed it, feeling its cold, ominous weight.

  With the Eye in hand, Tom made for the fray, but it was a battle already lost. Caleb was in Renfield’s grip, his neck caught like a rat in a trap, and Renfield’s hand was squeezing what remained of life out of him.

  Mad Tom lunged, sword raised, aiming for Renfield’s heart. By now, the bastard had learned the hard way what a silver cutss could do. Painfully. Vampires could heal, sure, but silver? Silver stopped them cold.

  Something no one knew -- not even Scott -- until the fiery ss came up with the idea to give her handsome d a haircut!

  Renfield jerked back, dropping Caleb, and eyed Tom’s weapon with a wariness that felt like a death sentence.

  Tom passed the Eye to Caleb, shouting, "Fly, ye fool! I'll hold this bastard as long as I can!"

  He squared off, ready for round two.

  Renfield was ready too. He kicked Tom square in the belly, sending him crashing into an anti-car bolrd. The sword went flying from his hand, cttering to the ground. Tom wasn’t sure how badly he was hurt, but he was sure about one thing.

  Legs weren’t supposed to bend like that.

  Renfield stalked over him, stepping past like Tom was just another obstacle to be discarded, as he chased Caleb, leading him deeper into Fremont.

  "Tom! Are you alright?" came the voice in his earpiece.

  "I've been better, love, better by far, I'll admit. Did we buy enough time?"

  "The counts are still working on it," said Angie. "We need to keep him there. I know it hurts but if he comes back your way..."

  Angie didn't need to complete the thought. Tom reached down, his jaw clenching as he wrenched his shattered leg back into pce with a sickening snap. It hurt like hell, but if he had a few moments to recover, it might hold for now.

  Tom grinned, his teeth a fsh of white in the dark. "If I survive this, Angie, I swear I’m getting a proper peg leg. Hell, I might need an entire peg body."

  ---

  Caleb had never been on the football team in high school or college, but he knew one thing: when you have the ball, fucking run with it.

  He made it past the Golden Nugget, back to Binions and Four Queens... back to the middle of Fremont St. He eyed Stelian, still hidden in his location, as he passed him. It was almost time for his role.

  He hoped it was almost time.

  A tug at his leg, and he knew the next moment was going to hurt.

  Sure enough, once Renfield had a firm grip on Caleb, he swung him around, to be clotheslined by the braided steel cable of the Slotzil Zip Line.

  He hit the ground hard. Renfield loomed over him.

  "You... have been a nuisance, little boy."

  Caleb held tight to the eye, only to have Renfield stamp down painfully on his wrist. He cried out.

  Pain ripped through his wrist, but he clenched his fingers tighter. If he let go, it was over.

  That just encouraged Renfield to rub his heel into his wrist even harder.

  He screamed. It was an ugly scream, full of pain, and fear, and rage, and despair.

  "Give me the Eye, Caleb!"

  His vision was starting to get red around the edges. But-- out of the corner of his eye, Scott... sneaking up behind Renfield with a stake. If he could just keep holding out a bit longer...

  Just as Scott was about to strike, Renfield reached behind him, grabbing Scott's arm, and pulling Scott in front of him. Scott dropped the stake and was held up in Renfield's outstretched arm, right in the air over Caleb's head.

  "Let go, Caleb," said Renfield, so calmly as to be unsettling.

  "Don't let him have the eye," yelled Scott.

  "I'll kill him, Caleb."

  "He's going to do that anyway," Scott said, feet dangling in the air.

  "I'll kill him ugly, Caleb."

  The pain was just too much. Caleb could already feel his fingers slipping open.

  "I'll turn him, Caleb."

  That was it. That's was what broke his resolve. Someone like Scott? Could never adjust. Could never learn to live with himself as a vampire.

  Caleb had recently learned to accept who he was. To enjoy it, even. He even had a day as a human and realized if given the choice, he would never go back. Despite all the problems. Despite all the inconveniences and the difficulties, the moral dilemmas and the moments of sheer panic and terror -- he loved being a vampire.

  And he knew how much Scott would hate it.

  It was just too much.

  He let go.

  Renfield tossed Scott aside like an empty box of Timbits, reached down, and cwed the eye out of Caleb's hand.

  He looked down at Caleb, leaning down, dangling his prize in front of Caleb's eyes. Taunting him. Laughing.

  And then...

  BOOM!

  Renfield’s hand erupted in a pink mist. His shriek split the night—something primal, something wrong.

  CHK-CHK.

  Renfield looked to where the noise came from.

  "Hey," said Tessa. "Remember me?"

  BOOM.

  ---

  Technically, she wasn’t supposed to be here. But Caleb and Scott were blowing it. So, despite Angie's objections, she called an audible, ran down Fremont St. to where the action was, and took her shot.

  Rosary-bead shot, to be exact. It was a pain in the ass to reload the shells, but it seemed to work. The stump at the end of Renfield's arm was a tangled, seared mess.

  She chambered the next shell.

  "Hey," she said. "Remember me?"

  Don't think about how stupid this is, she thought. Just act.

  BOOM.

  Dead center of mass.

  Renfield staggered back, smoke curling off his chest, the stink of burned meat filling the air.

  She reloaded another shell.

  CHK-CHK.

  Clunk.

  No, no, no -- fuck!

  The shotgun jammed.

  "You should have stayed dead, little girl."

  Renfield took slow, deliberate steps toward her. It wasn't just terrifying. It was horribly familiar.

  And then it hit her where that familiarity was from.

  Renfield was stalking her. It wasn't enough to kill her. He had to exhibit power. He had to make her feel fear.

  Well, at least that part was working like a fucking charm.

  And then, a wet thumpk!

  Renfield let out a scream of surprised pain, and turned around. Something had stabbed him.

  And out of his back, Pantessa could see what it was.

  A pair of silver scissors.

  The silver scissors she got for Stelian. That she gave to Stelian as a gift. Her first gift for her boyfriend.

  If it wasn't stomach-curdling terrifying, she might have thought it was sweet.

  Renfield growled.

  "ENOUGH!"

  He advanced on Stelian, as well as Scott and Caleb, who by now made it to their feet.

  Fremont St. seemed to crackle with electricity. Some sparks, and discharges all along the neon lights.

  The Counts were ready.

  But Tessa wasn't supposed to be here.

  Stelian mouthed to her a single word. "Run!"

  She took off as fast as she could.

  "Where do all these vampires keep coming from?" snarled Renfield. "Where did you find them all, Calvin? Did you fucking rob a graveyard? Have you cloned yourself in a big vat? God. Fuck the eye. First, I'm going to kill all of you here. And then I'm going to scourge Vegas. Why the fuck does this city have a shit-ton of vampires in it?"

  An electrostatic crackle and a BZZZAAARP as the air started to ionize. Arcs of electricity shot up and down Fremont St. as if it was the world's biggest Jacob's dder.

  It was happening. All according to pn.

  Except for Tessa. She was just too close. She wasn't going to clear Fremont St. She wasn't going to make it in time.

  A massive electrical surge at just the right frequency, and the mercury-vapor based lighting the older casinos used burned hot enough to slough off the phosphorous coating that converted the UV light they generated into visible light.

  Now that they no longer covered the bulbs, there was nothing stopping the emission of direct UV light.

  About 60,000 lux worth for every square meter.

  And the glittergang was in pce, acting as mirrors and diffractors. There was no pce to hide.

  Renfield didn't know it yet, but he was already dead.

  The problem was... so was Pantessa.

  They had an escape pn for Caleb. That was what Stelian was supposed to wait for. He was supposed to swoop in, Caleb would turn into a baseball bat, he'd stick Caleb in his trench coat, and he'd use his Castlevania teleportation trick to get them both the hell out of there.

  But there was simply no time to save them both. And no way to save Tessa regardless.

  "Do it!" said Scott.

  Caleb transformed and flew into Stelian's coat. Stelian held the coat closed and, mentally thinking: 'Up, down, down right, right, attack!' he disappeared in a fsh of light, ducking and rolling behind the reception desk at the Golden Nugget, shielding Caleb as best he could.

  But Tessa. Tessa knew she was doomed.

  Time seemed to slow.

  She didn't want to die.

  She was only twenty-four.

  Only one possibility.

  Caleb could fly.

  Maybe she could, too.

  So at the st second, she took leap of faith.

  She waited for the feeling of weightlessness.

  It never came.

  She was falling.

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

  She screamed.

  She screamed like an animal.

  Like something wild.

  Her muscles spasmed and twitched. Her vision widened -- like a dolly zoom in a horror movie.

  This was it, she thought.

  This is what it felt like when your soul left your body.

  But before she could brace herself for death, she felt... unrestrained.

  Flying. Like a bird.

  A bird of prey.

  And without even thinking -- too terrified for any thought other than: Danger! Flee!...

  ...a jet-bck hawk shot out of the Pza entrance of Fremont Street, diving straight into a garbage can.

  ---

  And in that moment, all of Fremont Street lit up with dazzling UV light. Scott had to shield his eyes, as the street lit up and the light refracted off the glittering bodies of the Glittergang, turning all of Fremont St. into a giant disco-ball of death.

  Caleb and Scott, with the help of the Counts and the Glittergang, had turned four city blocks of Las Vegas into a giant vampire microwave.

  And Renfield... Renfield still wasn't dead.

  He wasn't moving, though. His skin fking and peeling off, revealing raw muscle, something akin to third degree burns all over his body.

  He fell backwards, down onto the ground, in immense pain.

  Scott reached over, grabbed one of the stashed maple stakes, and jammed it into Renfield's chest.

  And the st thing that Renfield heard before Scott chopped off his head, was Scott quipping:

  "Fang you. Fang you very much."

  Ladies and gentlemen: Elvis has left the building.