by A and E Kirk
“Uh, sure,” Tristan backed away.
“I will have contacted Cristiano and have an update of your team by the time you return.” Sophina waved him off. “As many shots as you can pour in the largest cup you can find.”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, Sophina.”
Dread filled Tristan’s stomach as he slunk down halls awash in blood and bodies. SWAT-like teams dressed in black and armed to the teeth hurried in with precise, military elite efficiency. Emergency medical professionals worked quickly over ravaged, whimpering hunters, medical packs open beside them. Hunters in less terrible shape sat half passed out against the wall. Unfortunately, their numbers were in the minority.
When Tristan reached Sophina’s office, he tapped in the code she had provided onto the touch screen on the wall. The door whooshed open.
The office looked just as the Hex Boys had left it. Ceiling tile missing. Footprints on the desk. Tristan wondered what the odds were that Sophina figured out it was their attempt at escape. Probably high.
The body of the guard Bill and Ted had killed lay where they had dumped it. Blood pooled and blackened around the massacre’s earliest victim. Tristan wrinkled his nose at the sight and smell.
“I’m sorry,” he said with heavy sadness, then quickly turned away.
Glass shelves between two bookcases held awards, liquor, and a fancy coffee machine. All untouched by the chaos.
Tristan pulled out the crumpled instructions from Cristiano, then knelt before the bookcase farthest from the floor-to-ceiling window. He found the screwdriver hidden on the second shelf just where Cristiano had said it would be. The bottom shelf housed a tan set of encyclopedias. Tristan pulled out the X volume and cracked it open. Instead of paper, he saw a keypad hidden inside. He punched in the code Cristiano had provided. The bookcase silently slid sideways, revealing an empty compartment.
An elevator.
Tristan glanced around Sophina’s office, took the screwdriver and scurried in. The bookcase slid closed.
There were no buttons, only a touchpad with the outline of a hand for print scanning. Tristan jammed the screwdriver into the paneling and after a solid thump, the screen popped free. Before it hit the floor, a mess of attached wires jerked the screen to a stop. He reached into the dark hole, felt rubber, and pulled out a pair of gloves. A few sets of wires were already cut and stripped. Screwdriver in mouth, Tristan pulled on the rubber gloves and made quick work rewiring the elevator.
A voice happily chimed something in French. Tristan pulled up the touch screen. The display no longer showed an outline of a hand. Instead there was a list of locations. Tristan tapped on the word GARAGE.
As the elevator descended, Tristan spit the screwdriver into his gloved hands, grimacing on the taste of dust. There was no way Cristiano had just set this up for him. Judging from the wear and tear on the wiring, the Sicarius hunter had been using these methods to gain access to or exit from his mother’s office for a long time.
Tristan slammed the panel back in place just as the elevator doors dinged open. Huge cars with flashing lights dotted the garage. Mandatum SWAT rushed to and fro. Tristan dropped and crawled behind the nearest car. After a few loud beats of his racing heart, he risked a peek.
The back of the Mandatum SUVs opened into a mini-command center. The rear doors opened to computers, TV screens, a small arsenal of weapons, and maps. The soldiers talked quickly, pointing at screens and strapping on ammunition.
This was easily the worst part of the plan. Not even Aurora would have done something so stupid. Tristan quickly retracted that thought. Aurora would definitely do something this stupid.
Staying low, Tristan moved closer to the SWAT teams. They barked orders in French. Seconds felt like years, but Tristan managed to make it to a car parked next to one of the SWAT SUVs. The driver’s side door was open. So was the back. And it was surrounded by a small team.
Cristiano had said protocol dictated that only authorized vehicles would be able to leave the premises. It made sense. So did sending a Hallucinator to steal a car. There was just one little problem.
Tristan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His power came easily. Almost immediately, he could sense the hum of minds around him. Energy.
A vision of spattering blood flashed into Tristan’s mind. Skulls shattering. Jiggling bits of brain flying. The wet hot spray of body fluids and flesh splashing on his skin.
Tristan’s eyes snapped open. He clapped a hand over his mouth and barely strangled the scream. Cold sweat oozed from every pore. The Hex Boy struggled to breathe. His heart pounded. Then he started to hyperventilate, to shake at the vision of the human-looking corpses that he had exploded into a headless, grotesque monstrosity.
Bile rose and burned his throat. A wave of dizziness crashed over him.
He swallowed, then cupped his hands over his mouth and steadied his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Several moments passed. Finally, he calmed.
“You can do this,” he told himself.
Whether or not he believed it was another story.
The ground shuddered. Then violently shook. Lights flickered. Dust and golf ball-sized chunks of concrete fell from the ceiling. Cracks snapped across the garage floor.
The soldiers cried out in surprise, several shouting, “Catacombs!”
“Now or never,” Tristan muttered.
With the chaos to help cover his movement, he sprinted from hiding and slipped into the driver’s seat of the SUV. He reached under the dash to grab wires, planning to muster up whatever he could of Logan’s hotwiring advice, but he saw a key in the ignition.
“Nice,” he said. Things were going his way.
He revved the engine.
Soldiers whirled to face him.
Men and women yelled, “Hey!” and “Stop!” Some ran toward him over the crumbling ground.
Tristan yanked the truck into gear and floored it.
The steering wheel jerked and trembled in his hand as the car careened across the asphalt still cracking from the ground shaking underneath. Chunks of concrete pinged and thunked off the SUV.
Terrified he’d gone the wrong way, he felt a huge relief when he finally spied the exit.
“Yes!” he shouted and raced up the ramp and out into the night, stars twinkling in the dark navy sky.
But his excitement was short-lived. Two parked vans blocked his path. Several French police cars lined the streets beyond. Soldiers and officers lingered outside, alert, speaking into walkie-talkies.
Tristan gulped.
Cristiano assumed a Hallucinator could bypass the remaining force with more ease than Tristan had been expected to use to steal the car. It was not an unreasonable assumption.
Tristan gritted his teeth. His team was counting on him.
A soldier stepped around one of the vans and waved at him to stop.
Tristan slammed his foot on the gas. The SUV lurched with more power than Tristan expected.
Shouts erupted. People dove sideways. The SUV crashed through the barricade of vans. Metal crunched. Sparks flew. The vans spun out and crashed into police vehicles. Gunfire exploded behind him.
Tristan ducked and wrenched the wheel. He swerved around the corner on squealing tires. Sirens wailed to life. Tristan glanced behind and saw flashing lights. When he turned back around, the road in front of him disintegrated, creating a growing hole that would easily swallow the SUV.
With a scream and frantic twist of the wheel, Tristan bounced up onto the curb. The road continued to fall away, the hole expanding with a thunderous rumble across the entire street and eating away the sidewalk.
Tires lost traction. The SUV dipped sideways.
“No, no, no!” Tristan cried in horror.
He shoved the accelerator to the floor. The engine roared.
With a jolt, the truck lurched onto solid ground.
Tires screeched and car horns blared as the police and Mandatum vans stopped before
the gaping chasm in the street, a canyon between them and their prey. Cars revved in reverse and darted out of sight down side streets.
It took Tristan a minute to figure out all the contraptions on the dashboard, but eventually he found what he needed. He pushed the button for the car’s GPS and shouted the address Cristiano had given him. The GPS’s ridiculously calm voice started giving directions. Tristan followed.
Sirens wailed louder, closing in on him, but he wasn’t far from the Hex Boys and with the lead he’d gained, he should have no problem losing the tail.
“Did I just—?” Tristan glanced around in surprise. “I did! I did it! Ha! Yeah!”
Tristan shouted loud whoops of triumph. Even banged the ceiling in his excitement.
“Take that, mighty Mandatum!” His grin split wide. “I escaped all on my own. No backup. Nothing. Yeah! Woo!”
And he was about to be the white knight for his entire team and an indestructible, death-dealing Sicarius hunter. Plus, they’d ousted the traitor. And freaking Sophina Cacciatori thought he was cool!
When he screeched around the corner into the appointed intersection, Tristan was feeling pretty good. So good that even almost running over his team could not bring him down. He slammed on the breaks. His friends, staggering and battle torn, flinched to a stop in the headlights. All six of them. And Cristiano.
And so the weak “defensive” hunter saved all the hot shots. His euphoria riding high, Tristan clicked on the car’s speaker system and yanked the microphone out.
“Don’t move! We’ve got you surrounded!” Tristan clicked it off and chuckled.
The Hex Boys readied their powers. Cristiano whipped out a gun.
Still laughing, Tristan opened the door with an apology on his lips. It probably wasn’t the best time for pranks, but man, he felt so good!
The driver’s door exploded in a hot burst of white light. In a moan of crinkling metal, the door ripped from the hinges and spiraled backwards. Tristan dove back into the car, the tumbling door clipping his leg.
Yeah, most definitely was not the best time for a prank.
“Stand down, stand down! It’s me!” Tristan poked his head out before stepping onto the pavement. “Man, you guys look like crap.” He strode forward. “Does someone else want to drive? Paris traffic sucks.” Sirens blared in the background. “We’d better hurry. Did I mention I’m being chased?”
EXCERPT FROM MIDNIGHT POISON
Please enjoy an excerpt from the book Midnight Poison, also by A&E Kirk
CHAPTER 1 A violent crescendo of screams slashed through the gentle harmonies of Mozart’s haunting melody. Bright crimson sprayed the white ceiling of the massive party tent, the glowing chandeliers swayed upon impact. The scarlet liquid dripped off the thousands of glittering crystals. Leontes stared at the droplets on the back of his hand, rested his cane against the round table, and then licked away the blood.
Silence hushed through the space around him. The large crowd of rich, beautiful, powerful—and soon-to-be-dead—people attending the charity ball looked around with curiosity. Many of those sitting at the tables rose to their feet. Dancers paused their steps.
A rumble from above brought all eyes upward. The center-most chandelier trembled as shadows snaked over the white ceiling. Black vines serrated with sharp thorns ripped through the fabric. Twisting like serpents, the thick vines hissed against the material before they coiled around the chandelier. As the crystals trembled and clinked, deep red flower petals fluttered down over the crowd.
Something hit the table with a wet slap, toppling the floral centerpiece with a crash and speckling moisture onto Leontes’ cheek. The human heart, so recently removed from its owner, gave one final pathetic pump and then lay limp. Black blood oozed like foul-smelling wine over the white tablecloth. The woman sitting beside Leontes gasped and clutched his hand. The others at the table choked on screams of shock.
When a slow laugh wound through the air like wind chimes on an ocean breeze, chills erupted down Leontes’ spine.
“No,” he whispered.
The vines strangling the chandelier burst with blooms of large black flowers.
Several partygoers shrieked in horror. “Oleander!”
A group of men ran, tossing aside tables, chairs, and each other. Anything standing between themselves and escape. More blossoms burst to life. They overflowed around the remaining chandeliers and smothered the glowing bulbs. Light faded into darkness and fueled the rising terror.
Snatching his cane, Leontes rose and took the hand of the woman sitting beside him. The stench of soured blood and eviscerated organs surged through the air. His feet slipped on something wet as he backed toward the exit. He looked down at the dark pool growing larger by the second. The woman screamed and pointed over his shoulder.
Leontes turned. He barely registered the flash of metal before his head fell from his shoulders. It hit the ground with a wet thud. A moment later the cane clattered beside it as the vicious sounds of the massacre echoed to nothing.
CHAPTER 2 For Leontes, everything became startlingly black. No emotion or power in the abyss of nothingness. He could not remember a time death had not ended like this. He took a deep breath and slipped from the void. Faint light called to him. Shapes pushed through and took on substance and color. He rubbed his neck, head still firmly attached.
Always a comfort.
He shook his head and broke free from the vision of the past. With another deep breath, he focused on the world around him. The present.
Police officers and technicians hurried about in a professionally panicked manner through the wreckage. Overturned furniture. Broken china. Scattered food. The remnants of what had been a four-foot-tall swan ice sculpture now lay melted on the ground. White curtains, ripped and bloody, draped in elegant arcs around the open-air tent big enough to house a circus.
Or in this case, a slaughter.
The wood dance floor gleamed slick with smeared blood, like a macabre modern art piece. Strings of miniature lights hung in a broken, haphazard mess. Several spit sparks.
Outside the tent, floodlights illuminated the expansive green lawn rolling up to a stately mansion. Littered with dozens of misshapen forms hidden beneath body sheets, the grass looked like a blizzard had dropped masses of snow in its wake.
Leontes flexed his fingers around the cane in his hand. He could still feel the pull of the memories attached to it. The endless loop of someone else’s pain and fear yearned to yank him in to relive it all, again and again, but his centuries of experience made him more than able to resist. He knelt and set the cane on the blood-soaked sheet that covered what remained of the cane’s owner.
He pulled a pair of black leather gloves from his coat and slipped them on. He had touched enough of the various victims’ items to piece together what had happened here.
A middle-aged, mustached detective in a cheap sports coat and latex gloves entered the tent and gazed around.
“Looks like one hell of a party. Get it? Hell of a party.” He chuckled.
Leontes did not laugh.
He stood tall, lean, and muscular, an imposing figure in a black trench coat over an expertly tailored Italian three-piece suit. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with handsome, aristocratic features finely formed from generations of good breeding. But there was nothing soft about him.
Under high cheekbones, a perpetual five o’clock shadow covered his square jaw and surrounded full lips which were currently tipped into a frown. His cobalt blue eyes held a hard look that demanded respect. Against dark waves of hair that curled softly at the ends, his skin had always been pale, but more so now, which made the thin scar across his neck stand out even in this dim light.
From his vest, he removed a gold pocket watch hanging on a chain and opened it briefly. Dawn was several hours away, but with a mess of this magnitude they would still have to move fast. Leontes scanned the room, rolling his shoulders to shake off the shadows
of the recent past and concentrate on the present.
He spoke with a strong British accent, his noble heritage evident in the tone and cadence. “Have you any relevant information as of yet?”
“Look, kid.” The officer puffed out his chest. “I’m Detective Cage. This is a crime scene. Authorized personnel only. You can’t be here. I’m going to have to ask you to leave immediately.” He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal.
Leontes held up his credentials.
“Holy shit,” the detective muttered.
Not bothering to look at the man, Leontes strode past and spoke in a lecturing tone, “Language, detective. Language.”
Cage’s chest deflated. “Oh, yeah. I mean, uh, yes, sir. Sorry, um, Ambassador Rittenhause, sir. I didn’t mean to…I didn’t recognize you. Sir.”
Leontes looked the man up and down. “I do not recall us having met.”
Detective Cage bobbed his head. “No, sir, we haven’t, but—”
“Then, detective, how would you expect to recognize me?”
The man squirmed. “I guess I wouldn’t. But I know your reputation. Sir. Sorry you have to see this.”
See this? If he only knew. “I am sorry anyone has to see this.”
“Yeah, but sorry about all the blood and bodies and stuff. Messy. I know you don’t like that kind of thing.”
Leontes lifted a brow. “Do you now?”
“Well, uh, that’s the word.” Cage swallowed. “You being a diplomat and all. Like I said, I know your reputa—”
“Indeed. Whoever was in charge previously, go inform them this scene is now mine.”
Leontes lifted the nearest sheet, beneath lay what used to be a torso. Someone had shattered the sternum and hinged the chest open at the spine. Ribs hung with wet strings of flesh. The lungs and ropes of intestines sat inside like the tongue of a clam. The neck was a pulpy stump. With the hips ripped off, there was no confirmation of the gender, but the size of the shoulders tended toward male.
