A slight movement caught her attention, and her gaze lowered. To the south, a lone figure stood on top of a huge crag of granite. His back was to her. Wisps of clouds floated past him, stirring his kilt. Moonlight gleamed off his dark red hair.

Mist swirled around him, making him look ethereal. Like the ghost of a Highland warrior. Emma sighed. That's what the world needed more of today—brave warriors, willing to fight evil.

Sometimes she felt vastly outnumbered by the creatures of the night. As far as she knew, she was the only vampire slayer in existence. Not that she blamed anyone for that. Most people didn't know about vampires. But she did blame her weak and ineffectual boss.

Sean Whelan was afraid to pit their small team of four against a group of vampires in battle, so he had assigned them to merely watch and investigate.

Watching wasn't enough for Emma. Not since that horrid night six years ago. She refused to dwell on it. She'd found a much better remedy than grieving. The trick to killing vampires was to find one alone in the act of feeding, then take him by surprise with one swift stake through the heart. With every vampire she turned to dust, she was one step closer to finding peace.

She patted her bag of stakes. With a permanent marker, she'd written Dad on half of them and Mum on the other half. The stakes were working great, and the death count was up to four. It could never be high enough.

She glanced again at the kilted man standing on the boulder of granite. Where had all the brave men gone? Fierce warriors who could stand alone in the face of danger.

The mist drifted away, leaving the man's form outlined in silvery moonlight. Her breath hitched. He was stunning. His broad shoulders filled the dark sweater he wore. His kilt fluttered slightly in the breeze, revealing strong, muscular thighs. Good heavens. He would make a great warrior. Strong and relentless in battle.