The sound of approaching footfalls echoed throughout the place. Apparently, Andre did not arrive alone. There were at least five people with him. Me against nine opponents, four of whom were blood drinkers. I liked those odds somewhat less, but I'd come this far, so there was no going back.

I looked closely at the faces of the three in front of me. Yes, the look on the face of each told me that this Andre was the boss. Of that there was no doubt. I racked my memory, trying to recall whether I ever had met a blood drinker by that name whose roots were in Russia and came up empty. We soon would see.

Moments later, a large set of double doors on the opposite side of the room from where I entered burst open, and a group of men entered. At their front, was a rough and rugged looking fellow who strode forward in the short but determined stride of someone strong but whose knees were not once what they were. The fellow was bald, with a series of scars on his face and head, as one who had lived a rough and violent life might have. He was big, hard, and tough—but one thing he was not was a blood drinker.

I glanced at the men with him, mostly young and dressed like one would imagine young mobsters would. No blood drinkers there. I craned my neck over what was now a somewhat crowded room, looking to see if anyone else would emerge from the door. It appeared no one else was coming.

The man by then had taken his seat at the desk.

"Petr," he said in English to the man I originally had thought was the boss, "who is this person on my desk, and why have I been called in at this ungodly hour?"

Petr, the big fellow, hesitated.

Andre turned to me. "Take off your mask in my presence," he demanded. This was a man accustomed to being obeyed.

I ignored him. Instead, I looked at the three blood drinkers in front of me, my face no doubt twisted in disgust. "You work for one of them? Really? You cow tow to a normal human? Do you have no dignity at all?"

"Petr," said Andre in a tone that would brook no protest, "remember little Minka."

And there it was.

Young blood drinkers, the very young, often tried to maintain connections with their living kin. It sometimes happened that older blood drinkers would use that affection to manipulate a youngster, dangling the safety of wives, children, and other kin as a threat to keep the youngster in line. I'd never in my life seen normal humans even attempt such a thing. What absolute brass.

To be a flunky to a normal human. How pathetic, so pathetic in fact that I weighed killing everyone in the room on general principles alone. I'm seldom judgmental, but this situation was positively revolting.

"Yes, remember little Minka," I drawled. I did not try to hide the contempt in my voice. "Does she know that her dear father is such a practicing craven? Better she lies dead on the floor than to learn that."

There was something in the eyes of each of the blood drinkers that was a mix of fury and shame, fury at my words and shame that they were true.

"Get this person out of my sight," Andre said to no one in particular. "Now, why are we here?"

"Kill him, and I'll let the three of you live," I said, motioning to Andre. "It's for you to decide."

Andre spat something in Russian I didn't catch to one of the men who came in with him. For the first time, it must have dawned on him what I was. The old fellow's voice now contained a hint of doubt and worry.

A pistol appeared in the hand of one of Andre's goons, and I launched myself at the man like a lightning bolt. I'd had enough of being shot.

But Petr made his decision. The man intercepted me, his hands going for my neck, and the two of us went spinning across the room to the left of Andre's desk.

I landed on my feet, as I was wont to do, but Petr ended up in a squat pile next to some filing cabinets. I took the opportunity to snatch my sledge from behind my belt and tapped the fellow twice on the side of the skull. Such gentle treatment wouldn't keep him down for long, so I turned to the others.

The flunky with the gun by that time had moved close, his weapon held high and sideways like he was some sort of Hollywood gangster. I grabbed the gun, broke his wrist, and shoved the hammer under his jaw, half decapitating the idiot with the blow.

By that time, the Colombian had shifted between me and Andre, and Elise had moved between me and the door. No problem. I doubt my blood drinking opponents knew how to fight, let alone how to fight as a team, but all the flunkeys appeared to be armed, and one of them getting off a lucky shot was more risk than I cared to tolerate.

I hurled myself at the closest Renfield, struck him hard with the back of my hand, and then spun and struck the next one with the hammer across the torso. Both of them went down, but I didn't wait to check my handywork. Two more remained standing, and I caught a bullet to the stomach that only enraged me.

Before I could do anything about it, someone was on top of me. I didn't lose my footing, but neither could I do anything while someone was trying to bite my neck, so I bent my knees and launched the two of us into the concrete ceiling 15 feet above. It was just enough to shake off my passenger, Elise by the look of it, but, before I could do anything, another body struck me, again sending me across the floor. I landed on my feet again, but my back was hard against the wall, and a moment later Petr threw his entire weight against me, his hands again shooting for my throat as he pinned me to the wall.

I raised my hammer to strike the man, but from nowhere Elise was on top of me, securing my raised arm to the wall, and the last of them, the Colombian, threw himself against me.

There we stood, the three of them pinning me to the wall, and me cursing myself for not having dealt with the blood drinkers before killing Andre's goons. No problem. It wasn't my first fight. It sure as hell wasn't going to be my last.

The Colombian delivered a series of punches to my torso as hard as he was able, which was considerable, and Elise had her full strength against my arm, now trying to pry the hammer free of my grasp. Petr, who was some inches taller than me, chose that minute to be foolish, and he lifted his head to look down at me, perhaps to gloat.

I head stroked the idiot in the nose with all of my might, not once, but a dozen times in rapid succession. Those blows caused him to stumble back, and when he did, I pulled free my left hand from where he'd pinned it to my side and struck Elise hard in the neck twice. Those little taps softened her up enough that I brought the hammer free and dropped the thing as hard as I was able on the top of the Colombian's head, sending him to his knees.

That was by no means the end of things. All that while, Andre had been screaming in the background that his blood drinking flunkies needed to get it over with and kill me. The man wasn't quite hysterical, but he did a very good impersonation of it. The fool screamed so loud that another group of guards responded, and I now had more adversaries with which to deal.

Stop pissing around, I told myself.

With the hammer gripped in both hands, I laid the heavy thing as hard as I was able against the side of Elise's head and then struck the Colombian several lightning blows on the base of the neck.

I then went at Petr hammer and tongs. He was the biggest of them and the strongest. The two blows I already had struck his head should have rendered him insensate for at least a few minutes, but he'd shaken those off within seconds. I now threw my every fiber at him.

My first attack was again to his head, but he managed to dodge my flurry of blows and then feint before going low and coming up with me in a bear hug. That was fine. I took a short grip on the hilt and hammered up and down on his head until he released me.

A pair of hands grasped me from the rear when I was free, but it was only one of the guards that Andre had summoned. A backhanded fist to the head sent him flying.

In truth, there was no time to deal with the other flunkies who were there. My blood drinking foes soon would be up and at me. But the guards were all armed, and I didn't want to give any of them a chance to shoot. So, I waded into them.

My timing was close but enough. By the time the last of the goons dropped under my hammer, Petr and the Colombian were coming to their feet. A quick glance told me that Elise still was down, but Andre was not to be seen. That fucker needed to die, if for no other reason than the fact my mask now was off. He'd seen my face.

Everybody needed to die.

Petr again was first up, and I struck at him with all my speed, again aiming for his head but changing course mid blow and sending all of my might into a strike at his leading knee. As I'd hoped, the fool's leg buckled, sending him to the ground.

Without hesitation, I turned my fury on the Colombian, leaping on him before he could even come fully to his feet. The man somehow managed to get a hand around my ankle but it wasn't before I delivered a dozen hard blows to the back of his head.

Before I could turn my strength against Elise, Petr again threw himself against me, knocking me over the Colombian, who still had a grip on my ankle.

Well, dammit.

I kicked the Colombian three times in the face with my free foot, released my hammer, tossed Petr into a headlock, and then dropped into a back roll and hurled him across the room as far as I was able.

I needed to whittle the odds down, and when I rolled back to my feet, I snatched up the hammer and leapt to where Elise was still rocking on the ground in pain. I struck her head as many times as I could as hard as I could before Petr recovered himself and again rushed in my direction.

It was enough. On my final blow to the woman's skull, I heard something crack. If she wasn't dead, she'd at least give me no more trouble that night.

Petr was in a froth of fury, and he threw himself at me in every way he could. The fellow wasn't a good fighter, but like all our kind he was quick and incredibly strong.

I hadn't had the foresight to carry a knife or a piano wire garrot with me, the weapons that I'd found most useful in dispatching one of our kind. The hammer was good in a pinch, but I'd beaned the man several times already, with little effect.

Elise was down, but I still was not out of the woods. If Petr kept me busy long enough—which he appeared to be doing—it would allow the Colombian time to get back into the fight, and the two might yet finish me off.

I lunged again at Petr, but this time when he blocked my hammer blow, I punched him in the throat with my free hand. It wasn't a killing blow, or even close, but it caused him to fall back and drop to one knee. His guard was still up, but it didn't matter.

I turned, leapt to where the Colombian again was rising, and thrashed the man as hard as I was able. The fool had enough wits about him to try and shelter his head with his arms, but several of my blows sneaked past his defense, and soon he again was supine on the office floor.

I had a minute, at the most, and again I turned my attention to Petr. There was a cold fury in his eyes, and we met in an open space before Andre's desk.

This time, I dispensed with the hammer. After feinting at his head and knee, I dropped the thing and threw both arms around his waist, lifted him, and drove his head into the concrete floor like a pile driver. The move didn't even come close to killing him, but it put me on top of him with his face against the ground, and I wrapped my arms and legs around my bigger opponent like a python.

I'd done lots of this kind of grappling and brawling, most of it during the day when I needed to apply my skill. It didn't appear Petr had done any boxing or wrestling at all. I managed to squirm my way into a rear chokehold, not unlike the lock that I'd placed on poor dead Keebler. But this time, my sole intention wasn't to choke the man—I was not sure I could choke a blood drinker unconscious—but to render him defenseless.

I locked in the choke and squeezed. It took all of my strength, all of my pulling and tugging, all of my twisting and straining, but after a minute, I heard a mighty pop, and Petr ceased his struggles.

There was no time to waste. A broken neck was not fatal for a blood drinker. I rolled him off of me, grabbed up my hammer, and went at the Colombian with all my might until he moved no more. I then returned to Petr. After several brutal minutes of pounding, all of my opponents were dead, their skulls crushed to bone chips and puddy.

Now I just needed to find Andre.