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Leaving one life behind for another. The continuous line of Flynns was proof of the viability of the ritual. The offspring of that kind of liaison became what he was. A living vampire.
    Not one of the undead, per se. Some special quirk in Flynn blood, long tended, allowed the vampires in his family to live and breathe and age as mortals did, with beating hearts in their chests. A unique side effect in the invisible manuals of vampirism.
    He wasn’t immortal. Unearthly strong and powerful, certainly, but susceptible to a stake or a silver bullet that might only slow the true undead down. After Flynns were killed, if they weren’t immediately beheaded or cremated they became monsters, undead vampires, like the rest of the fang-bearing breed. For this reason, his family had always taken precautions against an unwanted afterlife.

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    It was likely a Slayer from County Clare would know all about that, too. A Connor was certain to comprehend the nuances of a Flynn’s existence. As the last Connor Slayer standing, this one would have been raised on the propaganda, fed it on a daily basis, along with her porridge.
    Probably she had been hoping to throw him off balance with her silky, sultry aura. If that had been her agenda, she had reached her goal.
    Hayden licked his lip. Catching a slight trace of the Slayer’s sweetness, he pulled a face. This Connor was a forbidden delight. No one had mentioned this might be the case, or that he would be so attracted to the very being set upon this earth to destroy him.
    He wanted to touch her, all right. Needed to touch her. For all the wrong reasons. Never would he have considered that a Flynn might want to take a Slayer to bed, instead of putting her under the ground. His fangs ached with a dull persistence. Not for the thrill of a bite, but being near to her again. The enemy. Like it or not, Hayden Flynn had been sidelined by a Slayer, and he was going to have to do something about that.
    "Come and get it, then, Connor," he said, knowing she would hear him, wherever she was.
    Hayden’s body gave him a swift heads-up. His awareness filled in the rest. The Slayer had left the club. The night carried her presence: a whiff of blood in the air, sweet as nectar.
    She had left the lights and the crowd to enter the realm of the beast. Who but a Slayer would dare Linda Thomas-Sundstrom
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    confront the darkness?
    He was feverish with anticipation. If she sought him, knew him, had a bead on him, the outcome seemed bleak. One of them might die.
    He focused on the sidewalk, saw her. She kept close to others on the street, her footfalls tentative, the gems on her sandals throwing off random glints of colored light as she passed beneath a streetlight. She looked wary, agitated and…inspired. If she was anything like her ancestors, this woman was Death in a pretty capsule, her outward appearance designed for a reason.
    He waited by the side of a building, near the sand, observing from the shadows.
    Can you feel me, Connor?
    She paused midstep and turned to look straight at him. Hayden’s blood boiled in his veins. His thirst beckoned. The Slayer’s green eyes, though unfocused, held an unsettling, haunted quality that was alarmingly innocent. Almost vulnerable.
    The unusual thunder started up again in Hayden’s chest. Anticipation? Withheld aggression? Misplaced lust for an old enemy? He was still hard. His fangs were sharp against his lower lip.
    Theirs was to be a unique duet, it seemed: a mortal woman with special strengths and a vampire with a plan that didn’t include draining all her blood. Both sets of parents would roll over in their graves at this last thought.
    Yes, here. He sent the message to her, anxious for closeness and at the same time dreading it, if she meant to fight.

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    Clearly sensing him, she crossed the pavement, heading his way, hesitating twice as if to think things over. Determination crept over her features as she continued on. Her