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Stones crunching under his polished leather loafers, he walked over the gravel to the covered porch steps leading to the farmhouse’s back door. It was locked, for all that it mattered. He willed the bolt open and strode inside the blue-and-white gingham-trimmed eyesore of a kitchen. As the door creaked closed behind him, a middle-aged human male holding a shotgun came in from the hallway.

“Master,” he gasped, setting the rifle down on the countertop. “Forgive me. I wasn’t aware that you, ah… that you w-were coming.” The Minion stammered, anxious, and evidently wise enough to know that this was no social call. “H-how may I serve you?”

“Where is the Hunter?”

“The cellar, sire.”

“Take me to him.”

“Of course.” The Minion scrambled past and opened the back door, holding it wide. When his master had exited, he dashed around to lead the way to the coffinlike entrance of the cellar along the side of the house. “I don’t know what could have gone wrong with him, Master. He’s never failed to carry out an assignment before.”

True enough, although that only made the current failure of such a perfect specimen all the more inexcusable. “I’m not interested in the past.”

“No, no. Of course not, sire. My apologies.”

There was a clumsy struggle with the key and lock, the latter having been installed in order to keep the curious out, rather than as a measure to keep the cellar’s deadly occupant inside. Locks were unnecessary when there was another, more effective method in place to ensure that he wasn’t tempted to stray.

“This way,” said the Minion, opening the steel doors to reveal a lightless pit that opened into the earth below the old house.

A flight of wooden stairs descended into the dank, musty darkness. The Minion moved ahead, tugging a string attached to a bare bulb to help light the way. The vampire behind him saw well enough without it, as did the one housed down here in the empty, windowless space.

The cellar contained no furniture. No diversions. No personal effects. By deliberate design, it contained no comforts whatsoever. It was filled with precisely nothing—a reminder to its occupant that he too was nothing beyond that which he was summoned from here to do. His very existence was merely to serve, to follow orders.

To act without mercy or mistake.

To give no quarter, nor expect any in return.

As they walked into the center of the cellar, the huge Breed male seated quietly on the bare earth floor looked up. He was naked, elbows resting on his updrawn knees, his head shaved bald. He had no name, no identity at all except the one that was given to him when he was born: Hunter. The fitted black electronic collar around his neck had also been with him all his life.

In truth, it was his life, for if he should ever resist instruction, or tamper with the monitoring device in any way, a digital sensor would trip and the UV weapon contained within the collar would detonate.

The big male stood up as his Minion handler gestured for him to rise. He was impressive, a Gen One standing six and a half feet, all lean muscle and formidable strength. His body was covered in a web of dermaglyphs from neck to ankle, skin markings inherited through blood, passed down from father to son within the Breed.

That he and this vampire shared similar patterns was to be expected; after all, they were born of the same Ancient paternal line. Both of them had the blood of the same alien warrior swimming in their veins—one of the original fathers of the vampire race on earth. They were kin, although only one of them knew that. The one who had been patiently biding his time, living behind countless masks and deceptions while carefully arranging his pieces on a massive and complex board. Manipulating fate until the time was right for him to finally, rightfully, rise to his place of power over both Breed and humankind alike.

That time was coming.

Coming soon, he could feel it in his bones.

And he would abide no missteps in the ascent to his throne.

Eyes as golden as a falcon’s met and