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)
Yet another table erupts. “Stop,” hisses Mance.
“Want to spend a day in my shoes? You’d shit yourself raw. All you had to do was fucking listen to me, Mance, trust your best friend, and none of this would have happened.”
Mance grabs hold of Markadian’s shirt, curling the material in his greyish, deathly fingers. “It is your ass who’ll burn at the fuckin’ stake. Not my ass. Yours.”
Suddenly, the room glows blue.
White-blue, the color blooming like a winter sunrise.
Snow starts to fall.
Tiny flecks of ice gather upon Mance’s hand, his arm, his face. Mance’s grip on Markadian’s shirt softens as he peers all around him, taking in the sight.
“Let us discuss things how we used to,” says Markadian, his voice calm. “My cottage in the north. The pine trees, layered in glittering snow. The fireplace, lit by natural means. Not a soul or worry in sight, except for the elk and the occasional moment the grey clouds spread to show the sun.”
The fury slowly drains from Mance’s eyes as he watches the snowfall. The edges of the room even look like pine trees in the shadows, glowing blue with winter’s kiss.
“Put out your fires,” says Markadian, “and let’s both of us go somewhere decent to discuss this. No blood involved. None of my council. Only us. We can—”
“I remember that winter.” Mance is still taking in the sight, the snow falling everywhere, onto the tables, catching in the fancy hairdos of the guests around them. The flames from the tables have calmed as well, turning duller.
Markadian studies Mance’s reaction closely. “I do, too.”
“It was the last winter I spent with my wife … and beautiful girls … alive …” Mance closes his eyes. “The last winter …”
“Come on, old friend. Let us end this.”
Mance appears to relish in the memory, savoring it. He lets out a sigh that almost sounds happy.
Then, just as gently, he says, “My dear, thirsty vampires of the Devil’s Mouth, I cordially invite y’all to the buffet of Lord Markadian’s closest friends. Each of you may take one of his guests, whichever you wish to drain entirely of their blood.”
“Mance,” snaps Markadian.
At once, three more tables burst into flames. Mance’s eyes are still closed, as if still lingering in the dream. “Unlike your useless power of illusion,” he carries on just as calmly, “the fire in this room is very real, and … very … hungry.”
Kyle watches as the vampires close in from the edges of the room, now scattering throughout the tables, each taking their time choosing the perfect guest. One brushes past Kyle. He can’t even flinch, still frozen in place.
“You’re such a yapper,” says Mance. “Always been obsessed with your own voice.” He releases his grip on Markadian’s shirt and steps back, chuckling. “I wonder how many others in this crowded room will be relieved when you burn before their eyes. They won’t even miss you. Sure as fuck not your speeches.”
A vampire comes to a stop in front of Kyle.
Skintight dark raspberry catsuit, stained with blood in places. Long sword at his side, curved blade, shiny.
The vampire bends over, brings his face in front of Kyle’s.
La-La.
Kyle’s heart turns to ice.
“No, no, this is much too quiet,” Mance decides. Then he hops onto a table, kicks away the centerpiece, spreads his arms. “I’ll give all your guests another gift: the freedom to scream.”
At once, everyone’s heads are released, and the effect is instant. Shouts of outrage. Shrieking. A man reciting prayers in another language, out of breath. Tables around them burn like braziers, flames raging and growing. Someone’s cries of distress indicate they may be sitting too close to one of the tables.
Kyle addresses La-La at once. “I have no ill will with you. I’m friends with Drake. You know I mean your family no harm. This Mance guy, he’s just using you. And once he’s done with whatever this is, he’ll be just as happy to watch you guys burn, too. Don’t attack me. Attack Mance. Free yourself from him.”
La-La isn’t smiling. He just stares deeply into Kyle’s eyes, as if looking for an answer, working out a puzzle, his raspberry eyes teetering on the fridges of sanity.
It’s not a reassuring sight.
Kyle glances back at the stage. His brother is still clinging to the bars, but he hangs much lower. Kyle can sense his heavy despair, his exhaustion. A terrible and unsettling calm has taken hold of his brother’s heart. What is that calm? Is he giving up? Is he making his peace before letting go?
“P-Please,” begs Kyle, turning back to La-La with growing desperation. “Attack Mance. He’s not your friend.”
La-La squints, the first sign of a response to Kyle’s pleas.
“He’s going to kill you, too,” Kyle goes on, encouraged. “He just described how easy it’d be to end you … to end all of you, your whole family.”