A dozen or more Hellhounds chased Ryder along winding mountain roads. Hellhounds—an apt description for actual demons from the Underworld that posed as a legitimate motorcycle club—closed in as Ryder raced along narrow paved lanes.
As daylight clawed its way through the cloak of night, the roar of motors behind him ripped the innate tranquility of the East Tennessee hills to shreds and bled the quiet of the night dry.
Upon this night of the final gathering, he rode a steed not of sinew and muscle but of metal and rubber. Of a far different kind of horsepower than the days of old, the vintage Harley rumbled and raced over narrow paved roads. Thighs tightened astride the seat above the high-powered engine, he leaned into a turn intent on salvaging his quest and outrunning daylight.
Hunched low and the shield of his helmet facing into the wind, he raced at breakneck speed.
If only he headed toward the caves that supposedly held the Sword of Charon. Instead, he barreled around steep curves, headed toward dawn, and away from Greystone Ridge.
— from Vampire’s Quest