Killing Time (10 page)

Sitting on-camera, across from a human female reporter, was the creature whose death was pivotal to my plan’s success.

My channel hopping had apparently caught the talk show program just as it started. Intro music played as a voice-over said, “From WVVJ-TV’s studios, this is
Good Day from Chicago
, in high-definition.”

The camera went to a closeup of the beaming reporter. “Good morning from the Windy City. I’m Anna Tillotson. We have a fascinating show for you this morning.” The angle changed to another camera and the woman smoothly turned to face the new direction. “Lots of people are fascinated by the paranormal. And certainly the wild popularity of vampires and werewolves in books, movies and television bear this out. But with Halloween just a month away, you’ll be interested to know that our guest today, well…why don’t I let him tell you himself?” With glittering eyes behind her professional mask, she turned to the other person present.

The person I longed to kill.

Sitting in the seat across from her as if he lounged on a gilt throne, the handsome brunet gave her a half-smile. His words bore the trace of a French accent, giving them a silken, sensual weight. “Certainly, Anna. My name is Philippe de Lénclos and I have been a vampire for nearly two hundred years.”

The camera cut to a closeup of the woman’s politely dubious expression. “When you call yourself a vampire, Mr. de Lénclos, are we to understand you mean it literally?”

“
Absolument.
” At Anna’s blank expression, Philippe leaned forward conspiratorially. “Not big on French, my sweet? Ah, no matter. In answer to your question, yes, absolutely. Fangs, blood and all.”

A predatory gleam lit the interviewer’s eyes and her lip curled in a barely-there sneer. “Do you sleep in a coffin, then? Avoid crosses, garlic and holy water? Burn to a crisp when exposed to the sun?”

Philippe pealed laughter. “You mustn’t believe the Roman Church’s dreadful propaganda. They so blatantly break their own Ninth Commandment!”

“Ninth?” The reporter looked off-camera, confused.

“Not much of a church-goer, hmm?” Philippe cooed. “‘Thou shalt not lie.’”

Trying to regain the upper hand, Anna glared icy daggers at the vampire. “What, precisely, do you allege Rome lied about?”

He held his hands out. “Everything related to my kind.”

“Your
alleged
kind,” she gritted.

He gave a Gallic shrug. “If you wish to comfort yourself by pretending,
oui.
”

Her nostrils flared. “And sunlight? Garlic? Holy water? Crosses?”

The angrier she became, the more it amused Philippe. “Have no effect whatsoever.”

She leaned back in her chair and made an obvious attempt to calm herself. “You’re serious? You genuinely believe you’re a vampire?”

Philippe’s demeanor changed between breaths, but it was so subtle, only another supernatural whose nature it was to read posture, eye contact and the muscle tension that comes before an attack would’ve seen it. The hair at my nape stood up, but the human reporter, and no doubt her studio crew, remained oblivious. If they’d had a clue, they would’ve run screaming out of the building. Hell, out of the county. Not that it would’ve made a difference—once a vampire’s locked onto you, it’s already too late.

Philippe’s gaze fixated on Anna’s throat. “Deadly serious.”

She threw a hand up in exasperation. “You are asking people to believe that you drink blood?”

“Drink blood? No,” he demurred. Gooseflesh covered my skin with his next growled words. “
I gorge on it.
”

The woman stared at him in total shock. “Are you for real?” Looking off-camera again, she asked someone unseen, “Is this psycho for real?”

Philippe languidly knelt by her side, ignoring the way she recoiled from his proximity. “Anna, Anna, Anna. You mortals pay your precious money to watch actors portray my kind on the big and little screens. You are entertained by the safe thrill of it, yes? The erotic allure of the vampire. The blood. The sexual danger. Yet, here you are, faced with the real thing. Suddenly, it’s not so much fun anymore.” He ran a hand along her thigh, but there was nothing sensual about the caress—rather, it reminded me of the way a lion would lick a gazelle’s throat just before he tore it out.

Straightening her jacket’s lapels, the woman edged away from Philippe. Grinning, he allowed it.

A pro to the last—and, judging by the vampire’s intense focus on her, her end was fast approaching—the reporter squared her shoulders. “You’ve made some pretty outrageous statements, Mr. de Lénclos. When you were invited to appear on this show, you told our coordinator that you represented an underground movement whose members included some of the world’s most powerful leaders, including presidents and dignitaries. You said your group would reveal not only its global influence, but its intent to—quote—
ensure the long-overdue rectification of ridiculous inequality and unnatural evolutionary selection through the declaration of worldwide chaos in the name of war
—end quote.”

Philippe looked thoughtful. “I believe I said
worldwide war in the name of chaos.
”

Anna checked her notes. “No. Your quote was as I stated.”

He gave another expressive shrug. “
Aucune matière.
” Seeing Anna’s consternation, he translated with exaggerated slowness, like he was speaking to a child. “It means
no matter.
It was all a bunch of crap, intended to ensure an invitation to your program.”

The woman went white with rage. She plucked off her microphone and surged to her feet. “Control booth, go to commercial. I’ve had it with this—”

The camera’s view was blocked by the back of Philippe’s jacket as he suddenly appeared in front of Anna. I’d seen vampires do that before—move so fast, it’s like they teleported—and I sympathized with the mortal’s squeak of terror.

There came a fumbling sound and another camera superseded the blocked view, showing Philippe with Anna’s little microphone held close to the front of her blouse. She began hideously screaming, long gulping shrieks of unspeakable agony. Then I caught sight of his other hand and I felt the skin of my face stretch taut over bone. His other hand was…it was…

“
Afonhót dis ylwii!
” I whispered hoarsely. Helpless frustration and horror roaring through me, I watched Philippe, inch by agonizing inch, impale the struggling Anna on his impossibly strong fingertips. He held the mike close to the wound as he slowly pressed deeper, amplifying the grisly sounds of fabric and tissue tearing, of ribs shattering, of flesh forcing its way through flesh. Philippe’s hand surged into the mortal’s chest cavity and the woman’s screams cut off with a gurgle as blood fountained from around the vampire’s hand. I yelled another obscenity and hammered my fist into the heavy mahogany coffee table beside me, splitting it down the center with a crash.

Dimly, I heard the bathroom door bang open and sensed Koda’s sudden presence.

“Sephti? What is it?”

“Look,” was all I managed and it was Koda’s turn to swear.

The on-air murder was so shocking, so horrific, that even the humans present in the studio had apparently stood frozen and disbelieving at their posts. But the gouts of blood broke their reverie, and suddenly a cacophony of shrieks and profanity came across the little microphone Philippe still held, as well as the one he wore. A balding, pot-bellied man raced into the camera’s view, waving a clipboard like it was a battleaxe. Charging the vampire, he bellowed and lifted his puny weapon as if he meant to hit Philippe over the head with it. Before he crossed half the distance, another male appeared and caught the human by the throat. Looking to Philippe for approval, the newcomer bared his fangs in a toothy grin, ignoring his prey’s useless efforts to brain him with the clipboard.

Philippe jerked his hand out of Anna’s chest and held up her heart, turning it this way and that as if he was displaying a fine work of art for the camera’s view. Then he brought the organ to his nose and sniffed, rubbing his stomach with his free hand in a pantomime of macabre hunger.

“He isn’t…” Koda whispered as I chanted, “Don’t do it don’t do it don’t…”

By this point, I’d figured the cameraman had abandoned his station and that his equipment was merely locked in position, still capturing the massacre. But when Philippe sank his fangs into the dripping human heart and greedily sucked it dry, the camera jerked wildly. Mindless shrieking filled the speakers, along with the sound of running feet, then the view tilted as the camera was righted.

“
Merci,
Russell,” Philippe said, tipping the ravaged heart like a toast. He frowned and shook it, but when no more blood came out, he threw the organ over his shoulder like a human would toss an empty water bottle. The heart splatted on the far wall, leaving a thick red trail as it fell to the floor.

“What is he doing?” Koda muttered.

“He’s—” I croaked, my mouth like cotton. Clearing my throat, I tried again. “He’s declaring war.”

Koda’s head swiveled to meet my gaze. Slowly, he nodded. “War on humans, war on the Church and its slayers…hell, even war with his own Ancients. Is he insane?” I gaped at Koda and he barked a sharp laugh. “Yeah. Forget I said that.”

“With this one act, he has betrayed everything the Ancients built over centuries. The vampires’ entire way of life is over.”

“And he did it on national television.”

“You gotta admit after seeing his performance, killing the bastard holds a lot of appeal.”

Koda looked at me, hard. I raised an imperious brow, and grudgingly he nodded. It was all the concession he’d allow.

Philippe stepped closer to the camera and struck a rakish pose, like a swashbuckler in an old 1930s movie. Grinning so his fangs showed, he ran a gory hand through his chin-length hair as if he were primping for the television audience. Spinning and striking another pose, he ordered, “Get a closeup, Russell. Make sure you get my best side.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” came the muffled, off-mike response. The camera shot zoomed in impossibly close on Philippe’s face before pulling too far back. A murderous look filled his eyes and he disappeared for a few seconds before reappearing on camera with fresh blood coating his white cashmere sweater.

Shooting his cuffs with dripping hands, he said, “Airk, since Russell is no longer with us, I trust you can accommodate my orders?”

“Yessir,” a male responded and the TV screen filled with Philippe’s image.

The vampire began to speak, then huffed a put-upon sigh, as if he’d just remembered that one of his minions still held the clipboard-wielding human.

“Must I do everything?” Philippe hissed. I blinked once through the blur of his impossibly fast movement and then he was back in front of the camera, holding the bald man’s head. Judging by the ravaged condition of his neck, Philippe hadn’t used a blade to decapitate him.

From off camera came a crash like a door had been thrown open, followed by the heavy drum of many booted feet running into the studio. The percussive roar of guns blasted from the TV’s speakers as holes appeared in Philippe’s sweater and jacket and his hair puffed up as if tiny wayward breezes were plucking at him.

Looking down at the condition of his clothing, an expression of such pure rage crossed his face, I instinctually took a step back from the screen.

“This is going to be bad,” Koda whispered.

My mouth felt like cotton as I nodded. I’d been in horrific situations, but I’d never seen the kind of carnage that churned through the small television studio than as the cameras continued to roll.

Pieces of uniformed bodies flew through the air to smack wetly on the chairs and the white walls, painting everything red. Guns fired in a cacophony of explosive noise, joining shrill screams in overloading the audio system. Multiple blurs sped past the camera’s stationary view and I was able to make out enough detail to realize Philippe had at least six other vampires in the studio with him. One by one, the shooting slowed and stopped, but not the sounds of agony and terror—these carried on an unbearably long time to a chorus of thick tearing sounds and the sharp
crack
of bone not just breaking, but being splintered and then splintered again.

The slaughter seemed to go on and on. Considering the innumerable bits and pieces, there was no way to tell how many uniformed humans were being killed and I found myself not wanting to know. Except when we were ruled by the frenzy, even bitterns at our most feral fought only for a reason—to protect food, to compete to couple, to rise in rank, or to maintain dominance. It was ironic that creatures as animalistic as my kind were bred and conditioned to be, that even we had a limited code of honor which placed supernatural civilians, noncombatants and all mortals outside our notice and mostly at no risk of attracting our lethal attention. It wasn’t that we looked down on them. We gauged the world on a predatorial scale—if you weren’t a threat or a potential opponent, our internal radar took no notice.

Philippe and his men didn’t possess even these limited situational ethics—from what we witnessed of the studio massacre, it was open season on anything with a pulse. Despite my drive for vengeance and burning need to free my people, the glimpses I caught of Philippe and his men tearing at vampire speed through the humans froze the blood in my veins.

As if reading my thoughts, Koda muttered, “Pain and destruction are their only joys. They are an abomination.”

I let out a shaken laugh, purely a release of extreme stress. “All this time, I thought fae were bad.”

He ran his hand soothingly down my back.

From the TV’s speakers came a final crash and then silence descended in the studio. Philippe reappeared…at least, I think it was Philippe. It looked like he’d immersed himself in gallons of red paint, plastering his hair to his skull and streaming from every line of his body.

In a pleasant voice, he said, “Now then. Where was I?” He cocked his head and looked into the camera. “Ah, yes. My
raison d’etre.
”

At the lowest register of my hearing, I caught a hoarse whisper at the same time Philippe did, judging by the leashed rage simmering in his eyes. A single human still drew breath, somewhere in the slaughter house. Her words came out guttural and wet-sounding, like she was trying to forms words from a mangled throat. “You’ll…go to hell. All of you…Devils. Demons…you’ll burn…in hell, you’ll…burn…”