THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

fortunately temporary. Indeed, it was clearly fading as they’d spoken.
    Too bad he couldn’t quell his own reaction quite so easily.
    He shook the thought away and focused on the task. To his annoyance, he found he’d overshot his target. Cursing under his breath, he retraced his steps and turned down the correct boulevard. Two more turns and he stood before Edward Webber’s lair. Of course, he’d staked the place out three weeks ago, so finding it again tonight was no difficult feat.
    Delano found the place unlocked. Carelessness or arrogance?
    Arrogance, he decided. Webber was a mere 50 years old, 21 of those years natural ones. He was a veritable infant among his kind. Short on guile and long on brutality, was our Eddie.
    Eddie was also on death’s door. Delano found him prostrate on the Oriental rug in the living room.
    Closing himself to the smell of fear and impending death, Delano carefully set up his blood centrifuge on the marble-topped table near the spot where Webber had collapsed. Then he knelt beside the vampire to examine him.
    Respiratory distress was patently obvious. The nasal flaring was a dead giveaway, but it was the way Webber’s chest, abdominal and neck muscles labored for each breath that spoke to the depth of his distress. Delano pressed two fingers to Webber’s carotid artery and was not surprised to find the pulse far, far too rapid.
    It did not look good for young Edward.
    Delano opened his medical bag, retrieved the materials he needed, and quickly drew blood for his tests.
    “Bowen…?”
    “Ah, he wakes.” Finished, Delano removed the tourniquet and lifted his gaze to meet Webber’s. Eyes fevered and glassy. Another symptom for his mounting list.
    “Have you … come … to finish me … off?”
    Yes, Webber was not long for this world. No wind at all to get his words out. “No.”
    “Good. Gotta say… feel like shit. Be a sitting duck.”
    “Small wonder you feel bad.”
    Delano stood and crossed to the table, where he slipped a tube of blood into the centrifuge and turned the machine on. Then he returned to Webber’s side.
    A tremor shivered through Webber’s frame. “What’s wrong with me?”
    Delano dragged a blanket from the unmade bed and draped it over the dying vampire. No, correction: dying man. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll tell you for sure.”
    “What do you think is wrong with me?”
    Webber had to pause after every word or two. Bowen was tempted to tell him to save his breath, but there was little point. He wasn’t getting out of this room alive.
    “What do I think? I think you ate something that didn’t agree with you.”
    A harsh growl. “Fuck you, Bowen.”
    “Indeed.”
    The centrifuge stopped, and Bowen went over to retrieve the tube of blood.
    “What is it?” Webber called. “What … are you doing?”
    Delano lifted his eyes from the tube of blood he’d extracted. It was all he could do to contain the exultation that rose in his chest. None of it showed in his voice as he held up the tube.
    “I just fractionated your blood, so we can get a clear look at your plasma, your white blood cells and your red blood cells. See that severely red-tinged layer on the top? That’s your plasma, the liquid portion of your blood.”
    “What about it?”
    “It’s supposed to be yellow.”
    “Jesus,” Webber croaked. “What are you … saying? Goddammit, Bowen … what have you … done to me?”
    Delano bared his teeth in a smile. “It’s not what I’ve done, Edward. It’s what you’ve done.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You picked the wrong woman to make a meal of.”
    “Wrong woman?”
    Webber lifted his head. He looked like he was having trouble focusing. He’d be dizzy, no doubt. Probably nauseous, too.
    “Which one?”
    Delano sucked his breath in through his teeth. “You fed again? After I drove you away from the woman?”
    “Had to. Felt weak…”
    Dammit. This clouded the matter. “Did you kill that one, Webber? Hmmm? Did you drain her and leave her to die in some alley?”
    He shook his head. “Got away. Too weak to—”
    A mighty spasm wracked the vampire’s body, dragging an agonized groan from deep in his chest.
    Delano watched, crushing the emotions that rose in his own breast. This rogue didn’t deserve pity. He’d slain hundreds — no, thousands — of humans. He’d left a trail of corpses from Halifax to Miami, from Vancouver to Mexico City, and points in between, for nearly 30 years. He was an