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)
“Fuck me, you guys sure make ‘em young.” Mance glances around him. “Seriously? How old is this twat? Twelve? Y’all are a bunch of sicker sons a’ bitches than I thought. Hey, why were you runnin’ off just now?” he asks the boy, turning back to him. “Were you scared of the big bad wolf? Here, I’ll let go of your mouth so you can talk.”
The second the boy’s mouth is freed, he spits at Mance’s face, then starts to say: “Fool, I am Director Peter, and I am old enough to be your great grandfather, you arrogant piece of—”
At once the boy’s mouth shuts again, silenced. “Alright, got the gist,” decides Mance, nonchalantly wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “You’re throwing a toddler tantrum because you don’t wanna be at this lame-o party. Mommy and Daddy dragged you here because they wanted lobster bisque and wine, and all you wanna do is go home and play with your Star Wars Legos, huh?” Mance turns, eyes the others near him. “Anyone else I missed? Don’t I got hold of all of you fuckers?”
Kyle’s body can’t budge, but his Reach needs no movement to operate, as it picks up fear and confusion from everyone around him. But there is one person within his view whose emotion is sharper and more defined than the others—a person stricken with dread, recognition, and deeply-buried remorse.
It isn’t so much the emotion itself that surprises Kyle, but rather who it comes from.
Markadian.
And it’s then that Mance finally appears to discover him. A mischievous grin spreads his face apart. “Ah, the head of the snake, poppin’ up right on cue.” Still several tables away, he continues grinning like a cat over the eerie sight of the silent, motionless heads. “Hello there, fuck face. Miss me? Hey, it’s rude to stay seated when a grown-up’s talkin’ to you.”
The next instant, Markadian is forced out of his chair by the same mysterious power no one sees, like a marionette doll lifted upon its strings by experienced hands. For a brief flash, Markadian’s eyes turn glassy with terror when he stands, then darken with anger as he fixes his stare upon Mance, apparently being allowed to control his face.
Mance slowly circles through the chairs and tables toward Markadian, taking his sweet time. “Bet you thought you’d never see my handsome mug again, huh? Blast from the undead past, huh? You can put on that brave front with all these ass-kissers and fool ‘em, but I can see you shittin’ your pants from here.”
Markadian buries his ice-cold fear, even inside, covering it with a mask of indifference. Underneath the indifference is a loathsome humiliation, too, being degraded so easily in front of all his peers and colleagues.
Mance stops. “What is it, buddy? Too afraid to ask me how the wife and kids are doin’? Oh, shit, right, forgot. They’re dead.” He tilts his head, narrows his eyes. “You let them die … then sentenced me to die along with ‘em.”
“Sentenced you to live,” says Markadian.
“Behold, he speaks …!” exclaims Mance with overdramatic flair, then shrugs. “Sentenced to live … sentenced to die. Same thing when all your loved ones are dead n’ gone and you got nothin’ left to live or die for.”
“And despite my mercy,” Markadian goes on, “you set my court on fire with your twisted fucking demonic flames, ending two immortal lives.”
Mance smirks. “Can you really still call them ‘immortal’ if they died so easily?”
“Your fire is not normal fire.”
“Are we flirtin’ with each other, or are you sayin’ all this for the benefit of your clueless guests?” Mance takes a few steps closer, stops next to the chair where Ashara is seated, eyes still on Markadian. “Do any of them know what really happened? Do any of them even know who the fuck I am?”
“One of the immortals you took to their final death was a dear friend of Lord Xiang of the east region,” Markadian goes on, lifting his chin. “You are a wanted man from one corner of this country to the other.”
“Who the fuck’s Lord Xiang?”
For a brief moment, Markadian’s face reveals every effort he makes in trying to budge any part of his body, but nothing gives at all, like his arms and legs are bound in every possible direction by invisible rope, as tight as a second skin. “Enough with the theatrics. Tell me what it is you want.”
Mance’s grin returns. He says nothing.
That’s when the shadows around the edges of the banquet hall begin to move. Taking shape. Tall shapes. Heads. Capes. Swishing robes. Long hair and arms.
Vampires.
Some hop upon the tables. Others stand among the chairs.
Vampires and more vampires, filling the room.
Did they follow Mance here? Is Lazarus among them, if he even survived being shot by a silver bullet? Salazo? La-La and the other nightmares from the Devil’s Mouth?