Sasha's car was a heap of crap. Gregor had no idea how she'd got it through its MoT, but somehow the old banger had been certified as fit to drive by the powers to be and it was this rusting pile of junk that took them through the west coast's winding country lanes now.

As top vampire agents, the car let the side down. They should be driving something sleek and black, with a 3L V6 engine at the very least. Look at the cars the vampires in Twilight drove for crying out loud. And he should be the one driving.

Sasha drove like a 90-year-old too, hunched over the steering wheel and peering suspiciously out at the roads in front of her, scared perhaps that a vampire might leap out in front of them. Which was a reasonable worry to have. Still, he couldn't help feeling that he'd have been quicker cycling there. Or even running.

"Where are we going?" he asked again. She'd told him, but the name escaped him. One of those weird Celtic-type names you got in this part of the world.

"Langridnowe—it's the other side of the county. And about forty minutes away. If you're bored, reimagine what you did to that cop. I'm sure that'll pass the time."

Ouch. Her not-so-subtle way to telling she knew fine how he'd distracted Sergeant Ryan from asking too many questions. She'd pacified the Inspector, she said, without needing to go down on her knees.

Inspector Grayson and Sergeant Russell did not settle for the usual vampire agent explanation—everything is under control, it won't happen again. How could they be sure of this, they said, when those two blood-sucking leeches were still out there? And how could they protect the people in the west coast if the Firm refused to share anything with them.

At that, Sasha produced a file—typed up notes documenting what the witnesses had seen and a Firm e-fit of the vampire who'd shocked them all. She killed three men and she ate cake, the last said with bated breath. No, no-one had ever known vampires with a penchant for patisserie before.

Everyone knew you couldn't take photos of vampires, but if you had the right software and people's memories of a distinctive event, you could mock up a decent e-fit. To his horror, the first emotion Gregor felt when he saw the picture was... Whatever it was, that feeling could go away. He couldn't help himself, though, the image transfixing itself in his head.

Eve looked like no other vampire. They tended towards the thin. A diet of blood and lack of sunlight did that to a body. This one, though, she burst off the page—flesh that spilled over a too-tight corset, hair that rippled down her back and eyes, nose, mouth all too big and greedy. Dark eyes and coffee skin shimmered. Trained from an early age to hate vampires, Gregor pushed the photo away.

It was all too easy to imagine an encounter with this one and Gregor's mind did what it always did when faced with someone he found attractive. It fast-forwarded to a situation where both of them were naked and endless possibilities presented themselves. Oh to be buried in that flesh, to sink into a body underneath him that opened and welcomed...

"We've got their address," Sasha's voice sounded far off, but he tuned back in to what she was telling the police. "Where we think they are, and we'll check the place out. Obviously if we find them there, we'll carry out the necessary clear-up operation."

In other words, kill. His immediate reaction, no, not her, and he stifled it. Vampire, remember. Killer. Generations of his family spun in their graves, appalled at this weakness where one of their own hesitated at the idea of eliminating a vampire.

The next morning—and a night of disturbed dreams where dark-eyed women in corsets taunted him, beckoning him to their beds and then disappearing—he was resolute.

"Let's go to this house, Sasha."

She protested. "No, we need back-up. We can't take on two of them by ourselves."

He tipped his head to the side at that. He and Sasha shared joint prize at the Firm Academy's graduation ceremony five years ago. If anyone specialised in the underhand tricks humans needed to fight and defeat vampires, he and Sasha excelled.

"Yes, we can. You're doing that female no-confidence-in-your abilities thing."

"And you're doing that male thing. Far too confident in your abilities thing."

In the end, he persuaded her, promising that ridding the west coast of these vampires would get them a bonus payment at the very least, and promotion at best. Sasha could move wherever she wanted—London, Paris, New York.

He went for the cheeky grin now in response to her comment about the cop, turning sideways so he could look at her. "Sorry, Sasha, you know that I—

"Shut up, Gregor. I know precisely what you are. A can't keep it in his—"

"STOP!" He grabbed the steering wheel and yanked it round so that the car spun to the left. Give that MoT centre its due, as the car responded instantly, the turn a smooth 180 degrees and the emergency stop Sasha pulled halting it in record time.

He was out of the car before she had time to demand what the hell was going on. The roads here were single lane traffic and the area so quiet they hadn't seen another vehicle for miles. Just as well as a body-shaped lump lay on the left verge.

The Firm hammered into you that you always approached a body cautiously. Recent vampire victims might have been converted and if they woke up, newly alive to the blood lust that now ran in their veins—well, the next bit wasn't pretty.

And the odd vampire liked to leave a body lying around. Your unsuspecting member of the public saw it, felt obliged to do his or her citizenly duty and BAM. Victim number two.

The guy was definitely dead, but the body still felt warm. Gregor recognised the expression—he'd seen it hundreds of times before. The shock of someone who realises vampires are real and they're about to suck the life out of you. Bluey-green eyes round in astonished horror, and the face milk-white. Young too. Gregor put him in his early 20s.

And, like previous victims, he was naked too. He turned the body over.

"Jesus!" Sasha's hand went to her mouth. The usual bite wound to the neck was there, but the guy was missing his cock, his groin a bloody mess.

"They've left that house, don't you reckon?"

She nodded. "Mm-hmm. This must have been a snack for the journey. We should go anyway."

She started when he stood up, the dead body in his arms.

"What the hell?"

"We can't leave it here. One of the farmers will stumble across it. You've got plastic bags in the car boot, haven't you?"

Any vampire agent always kept rolls of black plastic in their car. Handy for wrapping up the desiccated remains of zapped vampires and stopping the leakage of any nasty fluids. Sasha popped the boot and took out the roll. Between them, they wrapped the man's body up as quickly as they could, and Gregor bundled it into the back of the car.

The plastic clung to the man's face, outlining it clearly. They'd better hope no-one stopped the car between here and getting g rid of it. He rolled down his window. Recently dead or not, that body was going to smell at some point.

Five minutes later, Sasha muttering all the while about how this sort of shit was what always happened whenever she paired up with him, they arrived at a turn-off, so discreet it was easy to miss.

The drive way lasted forever, winding its way along more narrow lanes walled by tall trees that hid all views.

The house, when they got there eventually, made Sasha gasp. "God, look at the size of this place. It's not right that blood suckers live here, is it?"

"No," Gregor was out first. The front door reminded him of those old horror films—wooden, solid and bound to creak when it swung open. It did now, an old woman her white hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head, peered out.

"What do you want?"

"I'm looking for the owner," he said. The flirty smile that sometimes worked with authoritative figures failed. Her expression didn't change—a frown and hard eyes.

"I am she," she said.

Difficult to call out a direct lie, so he didn't bother.

"Can we come in?"

"No." The woman pushed the door shut, Gregor stopping it with his foot. No more Mr Nice Guy. He shoved the door as hard as he could and the woman fell back, sprawling across the floor.

"Sorry," he stepped over her, followed by Sasha who shot the woman an apologetic look.

"The owner likes her privacy, you know," the woman shouted after them. "And she'll come after you when she returns."

"Good!" he yelled back at her, staring at the ceiling and the stairs that extended over four floors. The house was enormous. Where were they going to start?