Page 45 of Redeemed
Ducking low, I ease open the Range Rover’s door. Listen. Nothing. No sound, no movement. All this drama might be making me unusually jumpy, but I know what I saw. Common sense would have me put the car in gear and get the hell away. Instead, I slide to the ground and crouch low, leaving the door ajar.
There’s a blur of motion to my left. An undead fucker stands motionless under the light. She’s petite, her hair worn long and loose and her skin surprisingly tan.
A short, piercing whistle sounds from my right. There must be two of them. I hide in the SUV’s shadow for another moment, then stand. There’s three of them, not two, and none of them look familiar. That should be reassuring—at least Jacques hasn’t sent his other children after me—but their vibe is pretty damned far from friendly.
“Is there a problem?” I ask, although their collective frowns make the answer evident.
“Yeah,” the young one on my right says. He’s dressed the way this generation thinks punk rockers did in the ’80s, right down to the mohawk and safety pins in his ears. “You’re trespassing.”
Christ. I should have driven away. They’re closing in, one step at a time. “I suppose it’s too late for me to apologize.”
“Yup,” the girl says. She darts in and zaps me with a Taser before I can react.
Fuck me running, as David would say. That hurts. My knees give way and both arms flail. My only consolation is that I swat her good on the way down.
“What the fuck was that for?”
No one answers me, the bastards. The girl with the taser’s sitting on her butt in the dirt so I’m safe from that for now, but the punk’s coming at me with a zip tie in his hand.
Instead of waiting to see what they’ll do next, I scramble to my feet. Guess when you’ve been a vampire as long as I have, a taser shot is like a bee sting, more annoying than anything else.
From the way his eyes pop, I wasn’t supposed to be able to stand up so soon. Surprise stops his forward progress, anyway, which gives me time to argue some more.
“Look, kids, I’m sorry I drank your blood bank hand-out. I’ll be going now, and we can stay friends.”
The three baby vamps exchange glances, but it’s the punk who speaks up. “As if.”
As if?I shrug. “So we’re not friends. I’m still leaving.”
“You don’t look like the kind of guy who has many friends.” The third Musketeer laughs loud enough to make me wonder if he’s playing with the same deck as the rest of us.
They can’t bethatisolated. Surely they’ve run across vamps who are older than they are. For all their overconfidence, none of them look like they can take me in a fight and I’m about out of patience. “Go back to your nursery school before one of you gets hurt.”
“Fuck you,” the punk says, giving me his best Billy Idol sneer.
“Seriously?” I cover the ground separating us faster than he can think. “I’ve got tee shirts older than you are, dumbass.” I get a firm grip on one shoulder and spin him around so his back is to me. He starts thrashing so I pin his arms and lift him off the ground. He manages to tag my shin with the heel of his shitkicker boots and I slam him into the pavement. He bounces up, ready to come at me but I catch his gaze and hold it.
It’s rude to mess with another vampire’s mind. In fact, unless they’re real young it’s pretty much impossible. “Sit down, please.” He does, the veins on his neck standing out from trying to fight me.
Maybe this’ll teach him a lesson in manners.
I ease back a step, aiming in the direction of my SUV. The thud of footsteps draws my glance. The girl with the taser is coming in at a run so I take a quick step out of her way.
She runs past, and whatever she’s hollering sure sounds angry.
“What about you?” I glance at the crazy one. “You want to give me a try?”
He just laughs, so he’s not completely crazy.
Miss Taser’s coming at me full speed again. I side-step her again and she shouts an obscenity, something to do with my parentage.
Before I can protest, she pivots and comes running, but this time I stop her with an outstretched hand. “You are wasting my time.” I grip her upper arm and give her a shake. She’s squirming and hollering and she pulls out a fancy little snub-nose pistol and puts a bullet in my biceps.
“Son of a bitch.” I fling her into her punk rock friend. The bullet’s not silver—these kids must bereallyyoung—but it still burns.
“On the count of three,” the punk rocker says, but I don’t wait around to see whatever foolishness they’ve come up with. I jump high enough to land on the roof of the Range Rover, coming to rest just in time for something to explode in the place I’d been standing.
Connor and David are going to crack the fuck up when I tell them this story. I’m laughing already, although my laughter might have a hysterical edge. I mean, how am I supposed to summon the strength to destroy my maker if three baby vamps can chase me onto the roof of my car?
