The Blood Order (Fanghunters Book Two) (42 page)

Trixie huffed. "I said..." She raced forward, stopped then hurtled back into the wall once more. "Get off me!" she screamed as she went. The vamp almost obliterated under the impact like a squashed melon. More bones cracked, an ugly groan of pain escaping him. Finally, his grip released and he slid down the wall into a heap.

Trixie barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief when another vamp rushed her. He swiped his claws across the air, catching her midriff. She recoiled in pain, her eyes falling down on her dart gun on the floor nearby. The vamp saw her eyeing it; he raced over for it, waddling from side-to-side like an evil leprechaun.

"No
,
you don't!" Trixie said as she dived across the carpet. She threw out an arm, managing to get to the dart gun before the vamp. She grabbed it, threw it up in his face and fired. The vamp grabbed his eye where the dart hit. He reeled away, screaming in pain. He bumped into a chair and tripped before spasming on the floor. Without hesitation, she spun back and began shooting the vamps that had been pinning her down, making sure to finish them off.

A noise made her turn. The final vamp was trying to run away. She watched his pitiful attempt with contempt as he tried to bundle past a desk. "Where you going?" she asked between pants. The vamp gave her a worried look before spinning away. Trixie showed him no mercy. She raised her dart gun and tagged him in the back. He fell to the ground in a twitchy heap, joining the other convulsing bodies all around her; it was like the whole room had been electrified and she was immune. She looked around her in disgust, her heart hammering.

Then, in an instant, everything went deathly silent. And still. She dropped her dart gun, her body soon joining it to a bent over position, her hands splayed out on the carpet ahead of her. Her chest heaved, her mind whirled. She glared up at the ceiling with wet eyes. "Think you could've survived that one, Dad?" she asked. She then rubbed her eyes. "That's gotta be like, some kind of world record."

She looked around her at the bodies lying all over the floor and began a quick headcount. "...five, six... ten... twelve... Oh
,
whatever." She wiped her eyes. "One thing's for sure, there's no way I'm collecting all their fangs."

She groaned, fell on her back, and lay there, an intense feeling of sorrow overwhelming her.
God, what a shitty world I live in.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

T
he elevator pinged behind Trixie, snapping her out of her malaise. She twitched back into life; bodies of old vamps were sprawled all around her, bathed in the light emanating from the projector screen. Outside the auditorium, the elevator doors opened; Blacklake filed out like ants, their guns locked and loaded. The overhead lights flicked on. By the time her pupils adjusted, she'd sprung to her feet. She turned and dashed through the remainder of the auditorium toward the exit.

"There!" a gruff voice behind her growled.

Her heart jumped into her throat. The auditorium erupted with gunfire. She screamed in terror as she dived over the body of an Order vamp. She hit the carpet beyond, skidding along it for a second; it burned along her cheek and knees. Ignoring the abrasive pain, she flipped up to her feet again and sprinted as hard as she could, aiming for the auditorium exit, her heart banging like a drum. In no time she was there; she shoulder barged the glass door, rifling through it to the corridor beyond, the stairwell door in sight. She set off, that door her new goal.

Make it, Trixie,
she urged herself.
Make it!

Another burst of gunfire made her duck. The glass wall of the auditorium exploded into tiny fragments; they rained on her back like confetti. She yelped and shook it all off, the sensation of tiny pinpricks on the back of her neck like bug bites. She stood upright and whipped her head around; three Blacklake were storming her way. The lead raised his gun in her direction. She gasped; he had a clear aim on her and she was rooted. Her head whipped back. The floor between her and the stairwell door as covered in broken glass. She stared at her hands; then the floor. Her hands, the floor. All of a sudden the floor appeared like a crocodile infested river. And she had to negotiate it. Fast.

She sucked in a huge breath, then leaped into a summersault; she was then an instant blur. The gun behind her spat. Her hands landed right on the broken glass; a torrent of pain ripped up her arms as if she'd just fallen into a bed of thorns. Her severed finger shrieked.

Fight it! Fight it! Keep going! Make it!

She gritted her teeth and held on, absorbing the pain. She managed to return to her feet despite the agony and went into another summersault, moving like the wind. Her hands crunched into those glass fragments once more and fresh pain tore through her. She screamed. But it was a scream only half of pain; the rest was gritty determination. She had to make it. Had to. She threw every ounce of strength she had into her flips, ensuring she made it over and back onto her feet without stumbling. Any slips and she'd be a sitting duck. She could virtually see the bullets following her, unable to catch up.

She smashed her boots down on the shards of glass; they popped and cracked beneath her. She went right into the next summersault. Her hands smashed down into more jagged fragments of glass; she let out a tortured groan. The sound of the bullets piercing the far wall as they chased her along was getting closer. She gave it one final push off her pain-riddled hands; she flipped triumphantly over her head and landed square and true on her boots, glass crunching beneath them. She threw out a hand, just as the bullets ceased firing. She got hold of the door handle and threw it open. She jumped beyond into the whitewash stairwell once more; she didn't hesitate in racing up the steps. As she stormed up them, she took a moment to check her throbbing hands; they were drenched with blood, tiny fragments of glass embedded in her palms glinting under the fluorescents. They were juddering with pain. She had to ignore it; she needed to keep going. She wiped the tears streaming down her cheeks with the backs of her lacerated hands and carried on racing up the stairs. She cleared seventy-three and seventy-four.

A door slammed somewhere down below; gruff voices and boots on vinyl flooring ensued. She put her head down and cleared more steps, her wet eyes darting up and down, left and right.

She made it up to seventy-five--the three-quarter point--and dived into the floor, hoping to head them off. Once more she found herself surrounded by darkened office furnishings. She shot through the office floor, ducked into a cubicle and pressed herself up against the wall. She held her breath and waited it out, listening with keen ears for the sound of the stairwell door opening and thugs storming in looking for her. But it never came. After what seemed like an eternity, her chest released and she began to breathe once more. The adrenaline rush subsided and the hot, throbbing pain in her palms became apparent. Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. She wiped them away, mumbling to herself. "
Why is this happening? Why is this happening? I just want it to end.
"

She gingerly got to her feet and felt her way along to the kitchen area. Once inside, she switched on the light and grabbed the first aid kit from the wall, smearing its green surface red. She snapped it open and fished out a bottle of antiseptic. She didn't bother with a cotton bud swab this time. Instead, she took it over to the sink, threw off the cap, braced herself, then poured it over her palm, setting it on fire. She bit into her forearm, stifling her scream. When the burn eventually calmed, she removed it from her mouth, bite marks now embossed in her skin. She wiped the new tears from her eyes, took the bottle in her other hand and repeated the procedure. This time, her shirtsleeve bore the brunt of her teeth.

She groaned in pain and collapsed over the sink, propping herself up on her forearms, her hands numb and stiff with pain. She turned her palms up to face her; flaps of torn skin hung from deep cuts crisscrossing them. The bandage she'd already wrapped around her damaged finger was soaked red. She watched in despondency as blood began seeping out of the new wounds, staining her palms red once more. She grabbed a roll of kitchen paper and began dabbing her hands down. At first it hurt, but she grew accustomed to the sharp stings every time she touched the cuts, the frayed nerves beginning to cool as the seconds passed by. She grabbed some bandage and tape from the first aid kit and began wrapping her palms nice and thin as to not interfere with her grip; she knew she'd still need to fire her dart gun at some pint. She taped the bandages down and then wrapped any damaged fingers individually.

When done, she held her hands up and stared. "I'm like the Invisible Man," she quipped, glaring at her bandaged hands in wonder. Already, they were beginning to stain red. She checked her forearm. Thin red streaks ran down it from where that disgusting old vamp scraped his claws on her. Her throat hurt from where Nixon throttled her. She was bloodied and bruised, cut and torn. She glanced up at the ceiling and wiped her eyes. "The things I do for you, Daddy," she said with a sigh of lament.

She then bent over the sink, popped open the faucet and stuck her head beneath it. The cold water rained over her clammy face. Right then, it was akin to being under a beautiful waterfall in some exotic location, not stuck in a sun proof skyscraper hunted by mercs and vamps. She drank deep, her dry throat grateful for the lubrication; it slipped down like silk. When satiated, she stood upright, grabbed some more kitchen roll and used it to wipe herself down and smooth her hair down. She scrunched it up, threw it to the side, and then grabbed her dart gun, wanting to test it out. It was tender in her hand, uncomfortable. She tightened her grip and it stung at first, but told herself she'd have to bear it. She removed the magazine, aimed, and pulled the trigger. A shot of pain raced up her arm. She took a steadying breath and pulled the trigger again; this time it wasn't as bad. She'd just have to live with the pain for now.

She counted the darts left in the magazine before replacing the dart gun back in her belt. She then checked the rest of her supplies. She was out of smoke grenades and she used up a lot of holy water on those vamps; she didn't have much left. She had a good amount of tranqs for the mercs, and the sonic booms (which she'd forgotten about till now). "I could've used these on those old bastards back there," she said to herself with a sense of chagrin, staring at the two silver and black devices. She shrugged. "Too late now."

She sighed, replacing them in her belt. She still had to get up twenty-odd floors; she hoped she had enough ammo to see her up there.

She checked the time on her watch. 4:44 am. For a moment, she wondered what was going on in the outside world. So she went and had a look, the light from the kitchen illuminating a path to the windows. She pressed herself up against the tinted glass. She was met by a star-studded night sky and beautiful moon. The Loop sprawled ahead of her, lights burning here and there. Down below a few cars were running along roads that looked like scars. She could make out the sidewalk at the foot of the I-Sore. It was clear. No cops, no mercs, nothing. The Order were keeping things tight inside the building; they didn't want any attention. They just wanted to get the relic back, and then deal with all three of them in whatever way they saw fit. No fuss. No prying eyes.

She let out a languid breath as she stared at the moon. She wished she could just open the window and fly away; far, far away from the madness of this building of death. This tomb. Leave it all behind and just be left alone to live in peace. In harmony. Instead, she was very much a key component in the course of events. She cursed her life and thumped the glass. She didn't have time to waste lamenting the hand she'd been dealt. She needed to play the game with what she had and make sure she came out on top. For Dad. For Dom.

"
All the world's a stage,
" she whispered to the moon. It just stared back at her.

She turned and headed for the opposite stairwell to the one she arrived in, a new determination rising inside her like an ethereal second wind.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

S
ammy stepped out of the elevator into the seventy-second, dread rising inside him. The moment he found out Trixie had been spotted on that particular floor, he feared the worst. She was a vampire hunter just like both her old man and the runt they had tied up on the ninety-seventh. There was no way she was gonna just stroll through without popping off a few rounds of that frickin' stuff they used to slaughter vamps.

He just hoped she hadn't been in the mood for mass murder.

He marched up to the glass doors of the auditorium where they'd herded the old guys once the situation broke out, a few Blacklake following close behind. He craned his neck forward to get a good look inside. His eyes fell on the broken chairs and overturned tables. And then the bodies. They were slumped all over the place, some still twitching.

He whirled away in disgust. "Shit!" he raged, his fears confirmed. He groaned and grabbed his forehead. This was bad. Bad, bad, bad. He turned back to face the carnage once more. "Bitch!" he spat, smashing his fist into his free palm. He turned to the nearest Blacklake. "They all dead?" he asked.

"Affirmative," the merc answered stone-faced.

"
Affirmative...
" Sammy echoed, mocking the merc's voice. "And where is she now?" he asked, his voice now forceful.