One pointed an accusing finger. Another hissed and spit with rage. Their eyes, sunken deep in the sockets, weren't eyes at all, but more like glowing pools of hatred wrapped in red blood.

«You are like us. You belong with us. Join our ranks,» one called.

«Think you're better. Look at us. You killed again and again. Like a machine, with no thought for what you left behind.»

«So sure of yourself. All the while you were killing your own brethren.»

For a moment Manolito's heart pounded so hard in his chest he was afraid it might burst through his skin. Sorrow weighed him down. Guilt ate at him. He had killed. He hadn't felt when he did so, hunting each vampire one by one and fighting with superior intellect and ability. Hunting and killing were necessary. What his thoughts on the subject were didn't matter in the least. It had to be done.

He pulled himself up to his full height, forced his body to stand straight when his gut clenched and knotted. His body felt different, more leaden, clumsy even. As he shifted onto the balls of his feet, he felt the tremors start.

«You chose your fate, dead one. I was merely the instrument of justice.»

The heads were thrown back on the long, thin stick necks, and howls rent the air. Above them, birds lifted from the canopy, taking flight at the horrible cacophony of shrieks rising in volume. The sound jarred his body, making his insides turn to gel. A vampire trick, he was certain. He knew in his heart his life was over –there were too many to kill-but he would take as many with him as possible to rid the world of such dangerous and immoral creatures.

The mage must have found a way to resurrect the dead. He whispered the information in his head, needing Riordan to tell their oldest brother. Zacarias would send a warning to the prince that armies of the dead

would be once again rising against them.