"The bastard's taking the bridge! He's mine!" Tohrment waited for an answering whistle, and when it came, he tore off after the lesser, his shitkickers slamming into puddles, his legs going piston, his hands fisting hard. He passed Dumpsters and parked POSs, scattered rats and homeless people, jumped over a barricade, vaulted over a motorcycle. Three a.m. in downtown Caldwell, New York, gave you just enough obstacles to keep shit amusing. Unfortunately, the little gnat of a slayer up ahead was taking him in a direction he didn't want to go in. As they hit the entrance ramp to the westbound bridge, Tohr wanted to kill the fool - natch. Unlike the blocks of privacy you could find in the maze of alleys around the clubs, you were guaranteed traffic over the Hudson, even this late. Okay, sure, the Herbert G. Falcheck suspension special wasn't going to be choked with cars, but there were going to be a few - and God knew every human behind the wheel had a goddamn iPhone these days. There was one rule in the war between the vampires and the Lessening Society: Stay the fuck away from humans. That race of nosy, upright orangutans was a complication waiting to happen, and the last thing anyone needed was widespread confirmation that Dracula wasn't a product of fiction, and the walking dead weren't just a TV show that didn't suck. Nobody wanted to frontline on the network news, the