Kaine stood on the water tower, watching the Shadow Guard finish their preparations below. The old textile factory squatted in the wasteland like a diseased tooth, its broken windows staring back at him with malevolent emptiness. But his Death Sight painted a different picture entirely.
Twelve signatures moved through the building's interior. Four of them were weak—sixth and seventh generation bloodsuckers barely stronger than angry teenagers with sharp teeth. The kind that got turned last week and still thought being a vampire made them special.
Five more burned slightly brighter. Fourth generation, maybe some fifths mixed in. Old enough to know how to fight, strong enough to rip a human apart, but not experienced enough to avoid making stupid mistakes under pressure.
