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The barkeep seemed amused.

“Well, sir, you needn’t look far, that’s for certain.”

He put down the glass and stuck out his hand. “Tim Douglas. And your name, sir?”

Jack burst out laughing. There had to be some mistake. This inconsequential little man—a man who spent his nights polishing dirty glasses and playing matchmaker to whores and drunks? This was Henry’s vampire? Of course, I had no choice but take his hand, and did so. It was as pink and warm as my own.

“Hanks,” said Abe. “Abe Hanks, and I beg your forgiveness, for I mistook you to say ‘Tom’ Douglas. Yes, Thomas Douglas is the gentleman we’re looking for. Do you know where we might find him?”

“Well, sir, no. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with anyone by that name.”

“Then I thank you for your trouble and bid you a good night.”

Abe hurried out of the tavern, Jack laughing all the while behind him.

I resolved to wait. We had come this far, and Henry had never failed me in the past. At the very least, we would wait for this barkeep to close up and follow him home in the shadows.

After hours spent wandering the courthouse square, Abe (who’d since donned his long coat) and Jack (who hadn’t stopped teasing him since they left the tavern) finally saw the lights go dark and the barkeep make his way into the street.

He walked down Sixth Street toward Adams. We followed discreetly, Jack a good three paces behind; the ax ready in my hands. I darted into the shadows with every twitch of the barkeep’s head—certain he meant to turn back and discover us (Jack could hardly contain his laughter at the sight of my doing so). The little man kept to the center of the street, hands in his pockets. Whistling. Walking as any other man would walk, and making me feel a fool with each step. He rounded Seventh Street, and we followed. He rounded Monroe, and we followed. But on rounding Ninth Street, after letting him escape our sight for the briefest of moments, we saw no trace of him. There was no alley he could have slipped into. No house he could have entered in so short a time. How could it be?

“So… you’re the one.”

The voice came from behind us. I spun around, prepared to strike—but could not. For here was mighty Jack Armstrong, standing on his toes. His back arched. His eyes wide. And here was the little vampire standing behind him, a sharp claw pressed to his throat. Had Jack been able to see those black eyes and shining fangs, his terror would have been twofold. The barkeep suggested that I lay my ax on the ground if I did not wish to see my friend’s blood spilled. I thought his suggestion a good one, and let the weapon fall from my hand.

“You’re the one Henry spoke of. The one with a talent for killing the dead.”

Though Abe was surprised to hear Henry’s name, his face betrayed nothing. He could hear Jack’s panting quicken as the claw pressed harder against his throat.

“I’m curious,” asked the barkeep. “Have you ever wondered why? Why a vampire takes such an interest in ridding the earth of his own kind? Why he sends a man to kill in his stead? Or have you simply done his bidding blindly—the unquestioning, undyingly loyal servant?”

“I serve no man but myself,” said Abe.

The barkeep laughed. “Avowed as only an American could.”

“Help me, Abe,” said Jack.

“We are all servants,” said the barkeep. “However, of the two of us, I have the fortune of knowing which master I serve.”

Jack began to panic. “P-please! Let me go!” He struggled to free himself, but this only dug the barkeep’s claw in deeper. A trickle of blood ran over his Adam’s apple as the vampire gave a reassuring “shhhh….”

Abe used the opportunity to slip a hand into his coat pocket, unnoticed.

I must strike swiftly, lest my thoughts betray my plan.

“Your beloved Henry is no less deserving of that ax than the rest of us,” said the barkeep. “He merely had the good fortune of finding you fir—”

I pulled the martyr from my pocket and struck it against my buckle with all the quickness I possessed.

It lit.

Brighter than the sun—white light and sparks filling the whole of the street. The vampire retreated