project at hand.
A bevy of prehistoric tools sit by her side on a metal tray, laid out with meticulous precision. If she’s anything, she’s neat about how she runs this slaughterhouse.
“What’s cooking, good lookin?” I peer over her shoulder. “Shit!” I jump back, knocking over the tray of torture mechanisms and two jugs of purple liquid sitting beside them.
A pair of familiar looking corpses lie prone in the tub. The eye from one is missing. The lip on the other is torn up the side as if a fishhook ripped right through it. Their fingers are reduced to nubs, both their throats are shredded open with the skin hanging loose in strips, the muscles protruding as if they had been through a cheese grater, and then it all comes together. They were clawing at their throats, their eyes, their mouths.
“What the hell happened?” I whisper.
“Didn’t work.”
“What didn’t work?”
Ezrina’s been bottling up Counts for the better part of a century. I would have sworn she had this down to a morbid science.
“Antidote.” She shakes her head as if she has somehow harnessed the ability to care about these poor souls.
“Crap.” I pat her gently on the back. “I suggest you stick with the original recipe. You know what they say—if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” I look around at the facility of long dead, forgotten Counts and wonder how many of these souls are just as sweet and innocent as Laken. “I think I’m going to step out and say hi to Richard and Kara for a minute. When I come back I want you to fill me in on the progress you’re making with the—” I freeze. Everything in me turns brittle as glass. “Antidote…” I lock onto her bloodshot, swollen eyes that look as if she hasn’t slept in ten thousand years. “Ezrina, no.” I shake my head.
“Yes,” she says it low. Her voice carries like a funeral hymn throughout the facility. She looks down at the two sleeping babes, drowning in lavender solution. “Say hello to Richard and Kara.”
Fuck.
Wesley
On Sunday, Laken rides shotgun as Jen, Blaine, and Fletch ride out with us to her mother’s birthday party. The Anderson estate is an architectural marvel. A limestone structure of the highest quality with its ornate, dual wrought iron stairwells, enough marble and granite to make any mausoleum proud. Of course, the only corpse taking up residency in this place is Jones, and I’ve got one serious fucking bone to pick with him.
Laken gets settled in the family room with Jen and Fletch while Joy, the housekeeper slash chef, finishes up with a big Sunday brunch.
“I think I’m going to see what’s holding Jones up.” I give a gentle kiss to Laken’s cheek as I head out of the room.
It’s her mother’s forty-fifth birthday, and we’ve descended like flies to help her celebrate when I’m pretty sure Jones is well aware of the fact she isn’t the real deal as far human incubators are concerned, not in any way, shape, or form.
I listen to the thump of my own footsteps as I head over to his office and, just as I figured, he’s staring at his laptop, deep in thought, as a voice emanates from the speakers.
Jones looks over in my direction and raises a brow. “I’d better go,” he says, shutting his laptop in haste.
“I wish I could say I was sorry to interrupt your meeting.” I let myself in and shut the door. For a moment I contemplate beating the shit out of him just for the hell of it, but the truth is, I’m exhausted after the drive, so I slump into the cold leather chair and glare at him while channeling all of the hatred I can muster. “Why’d you do it?” I rub my palm into my eye until it feels as if I’m about to launch it into my skull.
He rocks back in his seat with his hard-boiled stare, his thick lips pursed with disapproval. “Traditionally, family members come together to commemorate the day of their birth. It’s called a birthday . Most people are just happy to be invited—eat some
A bevy of prehistoric tools sit by her side on a metal tray, laid out with meticulous precision. If she’s anything, she’s neat about how she runs this slaughterhouse.
“What’s cooking, good lookin?” I peer over her shoulder. “Shit!” I jump back, knocking over the tray of torture mechanisms and two jugs of purple liquid sitting beside them.
A pair of familiar looking corpses lie prone in the tub. The eye from one is missing. The lip on the other is torn up the side as if a fishhook ripped right through it. Their fingers are reduced to nubs, both their throats are shredded open with the skin hanging loose in strips, the muscles protruding as if they had been through a cheese grater, and then it all comes together. They were clawing at their throats, their eyes, their mouths.
“What the hell happened?” I whisper.
“Didn’t work.”
“What didn’t work?”
Ezrina’s been bottling up Counts for the better part of a century. I would have sworn she had this down to a morbid science.
“Antidote.” She shakes her head as if she has somehow harnessed the ability to care about these poor souls.
“Crap.” I pat her gently on the back. “I suggest you stick with the original recipe. You know what they say—if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” I look around at the facility of long dead, forgotten Counts and wonder how many of these souls are just as sweet and innocent as Laken. “I think I’m going to step out and say hi to Richard and Kara for a minute. When I come back I want you to fill me in on the progress you’re making with the—” I freeze. Everything in me turns brittle as glass. “Antidote…” I lock onto her bloodshot, swollen eyes that look as if she hasn’t slept in ten thousand years. “Ezrina, no.” I shake my head.
“Yes,” she says it low. Her voice carries like a funeral hymn throughout the facility. She looks down at the two sleeping babes, drowning in lavender solution. “Say hello to Richard and Kara.”
Fuck.
Wesley
On Sunday, Laken rides shotgun as Jen, Blaine, and Fletch ride out with us to her mother’s birthday party. The Anderson estate is an architectural marvel. A limestone structure of the highest quality with its ornate, dual wrought iron stairwells, enough marble and granite to make any mausoleum proud. Of course, the only corpse taking up residency in this place is Jones, and I’ve got one serious fucking bone to pick with him.
Laken gets settled in the family room with Jen and Fletch while Joy, the housekeeper slash chef, finishes up with a big Sunday brunch.
“I think I’m going to see what’s holding Jones up.” I give a gentle kiss to Laken’s cheek as I head out of the room.
It’s her mother’s forty-fifth birthday, and we’ve descended like flies to help her celebrate when I’m pretty sure Jones is well aware of the fact she isn’t the real deal as far human incubators are concerned, not in any way, shape, or form.
I listen to the thump of my own footsteps as I head over to his office and, just as I figured, he’s staring at his laptop, deep in thought, as a voice emanates from the speakers.
Jones looks over in my direction and raises a brow. “I’d better go,” he says, shutting his laptop in haste.
“I wish I could say I was sorry to interrupt your meeting.” I let myself in and shut the door. For a moment I contemplate beating the shit out of him just for the hell of it, but the truth is, I’m exhausted after the drive, so I slump into the cold leather chair and glare at him while channeling all of the hatred I can muster. “Why’d you do it?” I rub my palm into my eye until it feels as if I’m about to launch it into my skull.
He rocks back in his seat with his hard-boiled stare, his thick lips pursed with disapproval. “Traditionally, family members come together to commemorate the day of their birth. It’s called a birthday . Most people are just happy to be invited—eat some
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