Cain Kilman contemplated flying in through an open second-floor window. Instead, on a whim, he picked a fashionable Weiser front-door lock. He stood, his eyes closed, on the foyer of the home for a minute, soaking in the ambience.

The only sound came from a ticking antique wall clock. He smelled grilled meat. Dinner, he guessed. The smell of food made Cain hungry for blood, but he reminded himself that a drink would have to wait.

The on-the-job no-drinking policy made certain that the men and women he killed for a fee didn't live as the undead.

The air conditioning had been left running, a sign that the target planned to return soon. Good. He sauntered into the living room. He would wait there.

Now he spotted a framed portrait hanging on a wall. He froze for several seconds.

Then he reached into a flap pocket of his overcoat. His hands shook as he speed-dialed Lilith on a cell phone.

With gritted teeth, he spoke to his agent. "He's a priest."

Lilith's voice sounded urgent. "Get out of there."

He hung up, took one final look at the picture of the target clad in a white surplice, and raced back as fast as a jet. All right, faster than any airplane this one time to his ranch home, seventy miles from Houston.

Cain headed straight for the gunroom. He needed to calm his frazzled nerves. He looked around at the collection of swords, machetes, cutlasses, daggers, poison-darts, and guns, all neatly labeled, some hanging on the walls, others stacked inside glass cases -– memories of five-hundred-and-forty-one years of professional life. He walked over to an uncluttered work-desk in the far corner and returned to restore a 16th century wheel-lock pistol.

He pointed the gun toward the wall and pulled the trigger, but the wheel failed to spin. The locking sear was jammed, but now a tinkling cell phone interrupted him.

"Cain, he's an ex-priest. He works for a company that specializes in buying troubled businesses." It was Lilith.

"Still. Would a criminal kill an ex-cop?"

"The client says he'll double the pay. Can't speak for you, but that'll see me through till next winter. A vampire's got to pay the rent, you know." Cain bit his lower lip. "All these years, Lilith, we've had one success after another."

Her voice returned to normal in his ear. "It makes one cocky, doesn't it?"

He threw back his head and laughed without humor. "And complacent. Remember the last time we failed?"

"Two hundred and seven years ago..." Her voice trailed off.

He shivered. It had been another priest sought by a peer in a deadly power struggle. That corrupt cunning clergyman had forced them to change names. And continents.

Her tone turned matter-of-fact. She could never handle digressions from business for too long. "So what do you want to do?"

"I'll go back tonight."

"You don't have to."

"I'll call you as usual after."

This time he took a silenced Sterling L34A1 submachine gun. He didn't want to get too close. He would spray bullets from afar.

The house was quiet when he got there after midnight. Flickering light shone from an upstairs window – he figured the bedroom. The television played. From his prior visit, he knew there were no pets.

The window was open.

He zoomed up. He crouched on the sill. Light from the television cast strange shadows, for the room had no other lights. He discerned a form on the bed. He raised his gun. This would be easy.

A rectangular wash of light appeared to his left.

It was a bathroom door opening. Cain recognized the figure silhouetted on the doorway from a description, short heavyset man with a baldhead. He wore only boxers. Cain pointed the Sterling. His eyes spotted a shiny object on the target's bare chest.

Suddenly he felt sick. His mouth felt dry. The gun nearly slipped out of his hands.

The man flipped on the lights.

The quarry's eyes widened. His hand tore off the locket around his neck and he held up the cross. Mumbling words that weakened Cain even more, the ex-priest walked toward him.

Cain fell headfirst out of the window.

As he dropped downward, he revived himself enough to soften the fall.

Only when he reached his gunroom haven did he call Lilith.

"He got away." Cain reported.

"How you feelin'?"

"He hurt me. I hate him for that. I want to kill him." Cain hadn't realized the intensity of his own feelings.

Lilith's voice was quiet. "Failure makes you bitter." Then after a short silence, she said, "What’re you going to do?"

"Watch him and wait. The time will come. It always does."

Several weeks went by. Every night Cain hovered outside the ex-priest's office or home. And followed him around.

It was a hot summer Friday evening and Cain picked up the trail of the target and a woman friend. The quarry had worked late evenings all weeklong.

Cain was starting to wonder if he should try to force something.

He noticed the car take a different turn and head toward highway 59. Two hours later, they were in the Village of Surfside, a cozy little island created by the Gulf of Mexico and the Intracoastal Waterway.

When the couple stopped for food at an all-night diner, Cain waited outside the hideous purple building. From there he followed them to a rental beachfront home.

At close to midnight, the target, in swimming trunks and hand-in-hand with the woman, waded into the dark warm Gulf waters. His neck was bare.

Cain followed them in.

On Saturday morning, from the shaded confines of the gunroom, Cain called Lilith.

As the phone rang, he raised the pistol he had been working on and pressed the trigger. The wheel spun. Perfect. Now he could test fire with a bullet.

He smiled happily and spoke. "The job's done."

She said, "Strange, but I don't feel cocky at all. Only relief."

He nodded. "And I feel benevolent to one and all. It's the success, isn't it?"