Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
The power in a name. The moment it’s uttered.
How like a spell it is, casting a curse upon all who hear it.
Kyle not only feels his own heart cover in ice. He also feels Elias’s. Both of them are back at Vegasyn, mentally, spiritually, emotionally. Both of them, transported to the most terrifying and traumatizing night of their lives by that name.
The hard heels of his shiny shoes clack slowly, patiently on the pavement, as the gaunt, deathly pale face of George comes into the light. Lopsided parting of hair. Pencil mustache. Half-lidded, heartless eyes. Dressed in a too-skinny black-and-white pinstripe suit.
George stops suddenly, lifts his chin. “Oh … I do not wish to come any closer, I have just decided. This will do.”
Mance smirks, rolls his eyes. “Please yourself. Wanna do the honors?” he offers with a gesture at a wide-eyed, paralyzed Kyle.
George is a perfectly still, lifeless mannequin as he speaks. It seems unnatural, too stiff. “You’re invited as Tristan’s special guest to an important event tonight at the House of Vegasyn.”
It takes Kyle entirely too long to piece the words of that sentence together. And all he responds with is: “T-Tristan …?”
“I will be escorting you there myself,” states George.
Kyle can’t believe what he’s hearing. “I’m not going to any event with you. What the fuck? Markadian wants—”
“Lord Markadian,” George dutifully cuts him off.
“—nothing to do with me,” Kyle carries on, ignoring the correction, “and wouldn’t dare welcome me into that fucked-up place again, and I sure as hell wouldn’t find myself back there no matter the occasion. You think I’m gonna fall for that?”
“Our esteemed and proud Lord Markadian even suggested your presence,” insists George. “He is a man of honor, as you learned by his sparing your life, the Protected Blood’s life, and every human’s life here in this town. You have the word of the Lord of Vegasyn that, as Tristan’s honored guest, you will attend the event, no harm shall come to you, and at the event’s conclusion, you will be escorted safely back here, alive and well. Lord Markadian never breaks his word.”
Kyle only now realizes he’s leaning on Elias, as if he can’t keep himself standing. His lungs have become so heavy. Special guest? Tristan? Lord Markadian’s suggestion?
None of this seems right.
“My pet,” says Salazo in a voice of great grieving, his tiny eyes welling up with yearning as he stares at the window from which Mikey is aiming his rifle. “My dear golden boy. I want it back. I want it back home. It is … It is mine …”
“No, he is not,” says George simply.
Salazo frowns. It’s an odd and unsightly expression. “I do not know who you are, nor do I wish to. You have interrupted an imperative quest of ours. We are rescuing my pet. I shall at any cost have my pet restored to my loving care.”
“No, you shall not,” says George.
“This is none of your business! Just take Kyle and go!” spits back Salazo. “You are in our way! I will have my pet—!”
There is a flash of red as Salazo’s robe goes flying. One sudden screech that rips the air apart. And then George is ten feet closer to Kyle somehow, yet standing atop a collapsed Salazo, who is flattened to the ground, becoming George’s red carpet. Salazo stares up from the pavement with bewilderment in his ugly eyes.
“You can take the man out of the Ferals,” says George, locking his hands behind his back like a butler assuming a pose, “but you shall never take the Feral out of the man.”
Salazo glares from the ground. “You dare call us feral? Like an animal? We are not animals! We are vampire!”
George lifts his dull eyes to Kyle. “As I have said, I will not force you. This is not an abduction. This is a formal invitation to a formal event.” After a brief pause, he bristles and lifts his chin even higher. “Honestly, you ought to be deeply honored you are receiving an invitation at all. It is rather quite … cool.”
That last word struggles its way out of George, completely out of place.
Elias takes hold of Kyle’s hands. “I bet it isn’t even Tristan inviting you. This is some cruel trick of Markadian’s. I don’t care what this Mance idiot says. He’s bluffing. Cade and Layna are on to something big. They just need more time.”
Kyle glances back at the church, at the chief and his son, each with a rifle poking out of a different window. Mikey, who has gained confidence with a silver-bullet-loaded rifle in hand, but whose insides still shiver with overabundant terror, like he truly believes this is still the last night of his mortal life. Beyond him, deeper in the church, a mother and daughter recite words Kyle can’t understand, whispering, wishing, praying to spirits and winds and forgotten deities.