Page 14 of Evil Hearts

Someone is killing us. Someone is out there firing crossbow bolts, and I’m trapped inside this toilet stall with nowhere to run or hide.

There’s only one group I know of that carries crossbows. Only one group that can take out a vampire nest so methodically like this. The Helsings. A sick and twisted organization funded by Sugardove City’s government to eradicate all vampire activity in the city.

If only they knew how many monsters actually lived in their precious city, maybe they’d reconsider their tactics. Or maybe they’d up the ante and try to take us all out until only their sweet little humans were left. Who knows? Humans these days are impossible to predict. They’re volatile, emotional, and they’d never admit it … but I swear they’re more bloodthirsty than us vamps are.

“Check all the stalls,” a man barks.

I can’t stop trembling. Eventually, the screams die, along with everyone inside the toilets. My stomach drops once I realize I’m probably the only vampire still in here.

One of the Helsings kicks the stall door at the end of the row, and it flies open. Then he goes to the next, and that one also slams open with a bang that makes me flinch.

They’re three stalls away from mine. I’m toast. No, I’m worse than toast. I’m ashes.

When a vampire is staked, we turn to ash immediately. There’s no time to scream, cry, or beg for our unlives. It’s just—poof,you’re gone. Like you never even existed. Maybe when I was alive I should have donated more to charity, or volunteered at the soup kitchen or something. Maybe I should have listened to my mother for two seconds and tried to get my high school diploma instead of dropping out.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. So many regrets.

All my life decisions from birth until now have led me to this damn toilet stall where I am about to die a sad, pitiful, final death.

When the Helsing moves in front of my stall, my throat tightens. This is it. End of the line. I force myself to sit up straight on the toilet. Look, if I’m going to meet my true end, I’m going to at least stare it straight in the face, not cower like some bitch on the porcelain throne. Hell, no.

But when the Helsing is about to kick my stall, the door to the toilets slams open again.

“All units topside,” a man’s guttural voice barks.

“We haven’t cleared this room yet,” the man outside my stall protests. A shiver runs down my spine.There you go, Scotty. Finally, in the right place at the right time! If you’re going to shit yourself, you’re already on the toilet! I am such a dumbass.

“Doesn’t matter. Commander wants us topside. Now.” The other man’s voice comes out like a steel blade, sharp and lethal. I’m ready for this nightmare to be over, so if they want to leave … then cool, cool.

The heavy plodding of footsteps tells me they’re heading out, and the door swings open, then shut again. I give it a few more minutes before I hop off the toilet and unlock my stall. Part of me expects to find a soldier standing outside, a crossbow aimed at my chest, but it seems Lady Luck isn’t quite done with my sorry ass yet. All I find in front of the sinks is ash. Tons of it.

Oh, you poor fuckers.

A pang of guilt echoes in my chest. Maybe I could’ve saved one or two vamps if I had opened the door. Nah, probably not. I’m way too much of a fuck up to play hero. I step carefully over the piles of ashes, head for the door, and look left, then right, to make sure I’m not about to walk straight into a trap.

I head out the back entrance of the nest as fast as my feet can carry me and end up in the club’s alleyway, right beside the dumpster. This is one of those moments when I’m glad I can’t smell anything anymore. Once you’re turned, the only thing you can taste is blood. All your other senses die along with the rest of you. Vamps can sense blood from miles away, like sharks, but it’s not as though I cansmell itsmell it. Can’t even remember what anything smells like, which is a tragedy because my mom used to bake really epic chocolate chip cookies when I was, like, five.

A few rats scurry past like they’re late to an appointment, and I recoil in disgust as one runs over my sneakers. Ugh. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve lived in the city. I will never get used to the rats. We all have our things, I guess.

I let out a strangled moan of disgust and bite down on my fist, too drunk and yet not drunk enough for any of this.

“Hey, did you hear something?” I hear a man’s voice ask from down the alley.

My entire body stiffens. The Helsings are out here. And I probably gave away my position because of that stupid rat.

“Go check it out,” a woman says.

I crouch behind the dumpster and, just like that, I’m hiding from the Helsings again. Only this time … this time, they’re definitely going to find me here. There’s no other place for me to hide. I’m exposed. The footsteps grow louder as they draw nearer. I swallow thickly.

I don’t even notice the scratching sound behind me until it’s too late. A hushed feminine voice calls out to me. “Rapediment!”

I blink, run a sweaty palm down my gaunt face, and look around. Did someone just hiss French at me?

“Rapediment!” the voice whisper-yells again. When I look to my left, I finally notice the sewer grate under the street curb. A pair of blood-red eyes blinks at me.

“Est-ce que tu comprends?” the voice asks.

I shake my head groggily. “No. No, I don’t comprends. The fuck is—”

---