Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 138274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
He was cautious as he stepped out. There were a couple of doors, one of which was open to reveal a closet with a splatter stain on the back wall and another showing a slice of a bedroom that had a dirty mattress on the floor and tapestries hanging in shreds from the ceiling.
Someone was in there.
He knew this not because he heard them moving around, but because there was a radar ping to the recognition, a like-to-like registry that was akin to seeing a reflection in a mirror: Oh, it’s me.
There was no following up on whoever it was.
Evan’s body turned to one of the doors and marched him over to it. As his hand reached out, he had a thought that he needed to close the tunnel entrance—but a quick glance back showed that it had shut and relocked itself, and talk about camouflage. There was a pretend crappy door tacked onto the front of the portal so it looked like it was just another part of what clearly was a stage set.
Turning his attention back to the knob he was gripping—
“Come on, we’re late.”
A woman strode out of the bedroom with all the command of a military sergeant. Short and built like a powerlifter, she had braids tight to her head, no earrings in spite of having holes that went up both lobes, and a switchblade in her hand. There were other munitions on her body, strapped and holstered on, but as she drew on a black duster coat, they were fully covered.
She stopped. “Where are your weapons and your clothes?”
He looked down at himself—and realized that all he had on were jeans and boots. Why hadn’t he been cold? And as for weapons, Mickey’d never let him have any.
Before he could answer out loud, she cursed in Spanish. “You fucking new recruits are never ready.”
With her coat in place, she strutted over and shoved him out of the way. “I’m not giving you none of mine. After the meeting, we get you the weapons.”
Evan opened his mouth to—
His body just started forward after the woman, falling in line and heading up a flight of rickety stairs. After he went through another door that only appeared to be flimsy—but which shut with a clang like it was made of steel—he found himself out on the street. Glancing around, he wasn’t sure of his precise location. Did he really need it, though? This was some avenue in the teens, about ten blocks to the south of the Financial District.
“Come on. We late and I ain’t a tour guide.”
The woman had strides like she was in the NBA despite her short stature. He kept up easily, however, his body resuming that strange state of physical performance that didn’t seem to require—
Hold on. Why wasn’t he hungry? He hadn’t eaten in an entire day. He wasn’t thirsty, either—
His hand shot out and grabbed the woman’s arm, going anchor on their forward motion. “What is going on here. You need to tell me.”
As she wheeled around, she looked like she was going to slap him, and the fact that her disdain reminded him of Mickey made him hurt for so many reasons. But then he wasn’t thinking about everything he’d lost and how disappointed in his family he’d always been.
There was something wrong with her eyes. Her pupils were black, but the irises were nearly white, only a little ring delineating where the line of color was. And then there was her hair. Though it was dark, the new growth was icy white, like she colored it often.
“Please,” he said. “Help me.”
There was a cascade of Spanish. Then she tilted her head. “You really don’t know.”
Evan shook his head. “Last night, I… met this personal trainer in a basement, and…” He shuddered and covered his mouth. “After something terrible happened, I thought maybe he’d come back and explain it all—but then this other man showed up. He called me a lesser and said he was going to kill me. I somehow found the tunnel and—”
“That man,” she cut in. “What he look like.”
Evan put his hand out at a level above his own head. “Very tall. Dressed—well, like you, actually. He had a scar—”
“Like here.” She drew on her own face from the nose to the side of her mouth. Then she waved a black-gloved hand over her skull. “And the hair is no.”
“That’s him,” Evan breathed. “He blew open the door, and—”
“Shut up.” She pointed her finger into his face. “That’s no man. That’s our enemy. That is vampire.”
At that last word, Evan’s hearing took a total timeout—so when her mouth started moving again, there was a delay with her words registering. But the meanings filtered through: Ancient war. Vampires. Lessers. Lessening Society…
Undead.
“What.” He pushed a hand into his thinning hair as his panic returned. “Undead—”