Page 75 of Princess Broken

I can’t have her. I know that. But I feel sick at the idea of her being with someone else.

Who in Freetown did she pick? It had better not be that Psycho asshole we reluctantly admitted, when Ebony vouched for both him and Gracen. From what I’ve heard, that guy’s cock would tear her apart.

Shuddering, I close my eyes. Flame wouldn’t let that happen. He’d burn Psycho alive if he tried to force his reputedly massive cock inside Ana’s small body.

“Hey.” Crusher slaps my arm. “What’s wrong?”

Opening my eyes, I shrug as I tuck the lock of hair deeper into my pocket and then fold my arms over my chest.

“Ana’s fine,” Crusher says as if reading my mind. “Flame’s taking care of her.”

Great. Now my head’s filled with an image of Flame fucking Ana. But he wouldn’t. Flame would never break our code.

Phil tips back his chair, going too far, but then jumps off onto his feet before the chair crashes down to the sawdust-covered floor.

“How long till sunset now?” he asks, ignoring the fallen chair behind him.

Our server, a human named Margo, picks up Phil’s chair and then quickly rushes away after she rights it.

Crusher sighs. “Let’s just fucking go.” His chair’s legs scrape the floor as he stands. “If the sun’s not set when we reach the barn, we can hang out there before heading to Philly.”

“About fucking time.” Phil slaps the table.

Slowly, I rise to follow Phil and Crusher. The crowd in the bar parts to let us pass, most too frightened to make eye contact with any of us—especially Phil. But my big, redheaded bro is no danger to anyone right now, in spite of his earlier shouting and chair tipping.

The time to worry about Phil is when he goes quiet. A silent, still, motionless Phil is one whose fuse is set to explode.

We reach the barn, and wait until the sun dips below the horizon.

The second it does, we race over ground toward Philadelphia, passing at least three entrances to underground routes. They’d just slow us down. Especially now that some tunnels collapsed when they blew up that illegal prison.

Rumor has it that DEFTA’s planning to convert that dungeon into a public space for vamps, adding to the existing network of tunnels. But the most effective way to get to Philadelphia at the moment, is racing down the shoulders of the I-95 freeway, running faster than humans can detect.

Reaching the city, we slow our pace, just in case a stake-wielding cop is set up with a radar detector. At this time of the evening, the city streets are too crowded to run smoothly without plowing down pedestrians. And if we have to make sudden stops, appearing out of nowhere, we’d also risk detection. Not that we couldn’t disarm a few cops or stray humans wielding stakes, but who needs the hassle. We attract enough attention even if no one guesses we’re vamps.

Case in point: a woman coming toward us and pushing a stroller, jaywalks across the busy street to avoid sharing the sidewalk. Crusher tenses, preparing himself to run after her and stop traffic if need be.

“Holy shit that was close,” he says, as the woman bumps the stroller onto the opposite sidewalk just before a car passes, the sound of its horn filling the night air.

We walk several more miles in near silence, all of us itching to move more quickly, and then, finally, Independence Hall is close. The Club’s entrance is hidden at the side of one of the monuments in the park, and with any luck we’ll get a moment to enter without attracting human attention. But this early, there are way too many humans on the streets.

A man with a kid on his shoulders stops when he sees us, eyes narrowing and his hands firming their grip on the kid’s legs.

“Are you superheroes?” the little boy asks as we pass them, his eyes round as saucers.

Crusher shakes his head, Phil acts as if he didn’t hear the kid, but I raise my finger in front of my lips, and making eye contact with the kid, I wink.

A huge grin spreads on the boy’s face and it fills me with joy. No harm in that five-year-old thinking he’s spotted some comic book heroes, especially since one of them, me, has a similar deep brown skin tone to the kid and his dad.

Arriving in the park, we discover our worst-case scenario. Not only are there dozens of humans hanging around, there’s a group of police—most with a dozen visible stakes strapped to their bodies. Some are standing not far from The Club’s entrance. Have they discovered it?

One cop even has a Vamp Task Force logo on the back of his jacket. Might as well wear a label reading, ‘Murderer’.

“Too risky.” Crusher says. “Plan B.”

We immediately run, throwing caution to the wind and taking the streets instead of the sidewalks—it’s easier to dodge cars than people—and arrive at DEFTA’s office building in less than a minute.

Nodding to the security guards in the lobby, we head to the doors that the syndicate uses to access the popular Philadelphia vampire club. It’s been years since one of us caused any real shit in this club, and the bouncer lets us pass without question.

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