Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Brock and Elias turn, discovering the same thing. “Where the hell did it go?” blurts out Brock. “What in the hell kind of Houdini shit is this?”
George stops before the two figures. “Miss May.”
“George,” they recite in unison, mouths unseen behind the curtains of white hair.
“Where’d the elevator go??” cries out Brock, growing even more frantic. “How in the fuck does an elevator disappear??”
“I have brought Mr. Amos forth for Markadian, Lord of Vegasyn,” states George to the two strange figures, Miss May, whichever one that is, if not both of them somehow. “I request to know what precisely he wishes to do with the accompanying humans.”
Brock snaps his gaze forward, lips hanging. “What? Who? No one’s doin’ anything with us.”
“It’s okay,” whispers Kyle as he takes Brock’s hand. “Relax. It’s okay, it’s okay.”
One figure turns her head to the other, indicated only by the slightest movement of hair. The other does the same, as if returning her glance. They remain still for a brief moment. Are they communicating with each other? With someone else?
With this Markadian guy, somewhere unseen?
“Elias, son of Rosemarie Trujillo, is Protected Blood,” the two women recite in unison.
Elias glances at Kyle. “Protected Blood?” He looks forward at them. “What is that?”
George purses his lips. “And the other?”
“Not,” they state.
George nods with grim understanding. “Very well.”
Immediately, Brock’s emotions turn to fire and ice, Kyle feeling each and every bit of it. He lets go of Kyle’s hand and stiffens up. “I-I-I’m protected, too. Is there a list? Check your list again. M-My father. He’s f-friends with Rosemarie Trujillo, with Madame Rose, they call her. We’ve had dinner together. She complimented my hair. Said I got n-n-nice bone structure. Lord help me,” he hisses out, shaking, “Lord, my Lord God. Sir, I don’t belong here, just let me go, let—I-I-I got a wife and child, my beautiful wife Jessica, my son, my dear sweet son, they’re expecting me home, and I—” He turns to Kyle, panic in his eyes. “K-Kyle, what do I do? What do I—?”
In a flash, quicker than even Kyle’s eyes can catch, George spins around, swipes a finger in a perfect arc, one blind slice.
Red spills from Brock’s opened neck.
A bib of blood down his chest.
Brock’s eyes go wide. He slaps both his hands to his neck, as if there’s a chance to stop it, gurgling, sputtering helplessly, drops to his knees.
“BROCK!!” cries out Kyle, falling to his knees along with Brock, pressing hands to his neck. Blood has scattered all over Kyle’s face. He blinks it away as he stares into Brock’s eyes—seeing the child inside them, the child he grew up with, the child who used to laugh, to play, to love. He watches the child disappear as Brock’s eyes turn to glass, fading, then he slumps to the floor.
25.
You Are Your Blood.
—∙—
Arms wrap around Kyle, pulling him away, Elias’s.
Kyle’s cries are traded for silence as he buries his face into Elias’s shoulder.
If he doesn’t look, it didn’t happen.
If he keeps his eyes closed, he is home, safe, far away from here, it didn’t happen.
None of this happened.
But George’s voice takes away even that comfort. “Come.”
“Why’d you do that??” shouts Kyle, muffled slightly within Elias’s shoulder. “Why’d … Why’d you have to … to …?”
“Come,” repeats George. “Markadian, Lord of Vegasyn, is waiting. He has a busy schedule today, and he requires—”
“I don’t care about Mark, Lord of fucking Not-Las-Vegas! You just killed my friend! You just—just—”
Kyle draws silent again, overcome with coldness.
That coldness, a second ago, felt white-hot. It was Brock’s emotion that Kyle was attached to, right until the last moment, right until everything went into a vacuum.
Is that what death is like? Did Kyle just feel death?
“Kyle,” whispers Elias, worried, emotional himself. “Kyle, we’ve got to go.”
Kyle tastes blood. Is that Brock’s blood he tastes? Brock’s blood on his lips?
“Come,” says George.
When Kyle looks up, he’s already walking forward, Elias’s arm around his back. If it weren’t for Elias, he’d still be on the floor with Brock right now, kneeling in a spreading pool of blood in that bleak white room, he’d be unable to move one foot in front of the other, he’d be done.
The tall doors part. George leads the way.
Kyle lifts his eyes to the chamber of Lord Markadian. It is a complete departure from the last. Fiery light spills out from a Victorian-esque office, hexagonal in shape, with dark oak wall paneling, hardwood floors, and decorative moldings. A Persian rug with deep red and emerald green tones sits in its center. From the ceiling, a bronze chandelier hangs with amber shades, pouring a honeyed light over the room. Ahead is an antique hardwood desk, its only contents, a neatly-piled stack of paper, a pen in an ink fountain, and an entirely out-of-place laptop.
At that desk sits a man. Young, late twenties, thirty at the oldest, but no telling what his age really is—fifty, one hundred, a thousand years. Handsome face. Sharp jawline. Dusky brown complexion. Surprisingly bright eyes. Hair buzzed neatly, short, faded up the sides. A tiny hoop earring in each ear.