Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Mouthy kicked a jug full of what could have been apple juice, but was more likely piss. “What do you want, Muggs. What do you want, Bullz. What do you want, Dollah…”
He went down the line and asked the question, made the demand, whatever. Just like Lash had told him to: When it came to the Lessening Society, there were two rules. Only two. One, the inductees had to choose of their own volition; Lash wasn’t allowed to influence them.
The second rule only came into play when they were in the field. Number two bridged the divide between enemies, uniting the hunter and the prey—no human involvement, and if there was any, you cleaned that up, whether you were a slayer or a vampire.
Nobody wanted humans getting involved in the private business of the war.
“We doin’ okay,” Stump tossed back. “We eat good—”
“Power. Real power.” Mouthy pointed the shotgun at the drug table. “Not this middleman bullshit. I’m talking clout. Like you own Caldwell. Or you wanna be under Big Tony ’til you get your fucking top blown off. This man right here’s your answer.”
All eyes on him. Like Tupac said. And Lash stared back.
“And it’s forever,” Mouthy pressed it. “For fucking ever.”
The tipping of the scales occurred at a different rate for each one of the men, and Lash could tell by their expressions when the click was made, the consent given, the choosing over, the decision set. They didn’t have to respond verbally because their bodies suddenly projected a different energy, yet their lips did clap together in confirmation, their heads nodding as they spoke to Mouthy.
But that slayer’s role in this was over now. Lash had what he needed from them.
“Step aside,” he said softly.
Mouthy shut up, cutting off his own words, whatever they were. And Silent Bob didn’t fuck with it, either. They got out of the way, moving over to the door to bar any escape, good ol’ Bob getting a chair and bracing it under the doorknob.
It was a subtle thing. Cute, really.
“What you doing?” Stump demanded.
“Don’t worry about that,” Lash said as he stepped forward.
There was an unobstructed wall behind where the group had loosely shoulder-to-shouldered themselves, the expanse as stained and marred as everything else was. How convenient.
“What the fuck you looking at us like that—”
Lash swept his hand, and the movement translated to the bodies, slamming them back against the grimy vertical, pinning them in place.
The lineup of punks struggled, trying to pull and kick free of the invisible bands that held them aloft and mounted them as moving sculptures. And as they were of different heights, he made his job easy and evened them up. At throat level.
Then he shifted his eyes to the side and measured the dirty windows. The apartment was stacked on top of more of the same, the ten-story building teetering on a condemned notice—just like the pair of look-alikes on either side of it. The development was on the fringes of downtown, an attempt from the eighties at reinvigorating a declining part of the city. Maybe there had been an initial success with some urban professionals, but that time had passed, and now things were back where they had started.
Economic challenges aside, there were neighbors. Lots of them.
He was not going to deprive himself of this experience, however—so he was just going to take for granted that mind-your-own-business was a universal tenet for the other tenants.
Taking out the hunting knife he’d whittled with back in that basement, he held the stainless steel blade up. The response in the inductees was satisfying, and he inhaled, drawing in the tangy scent of fear sweat as they began to beg.
At which point, he decided he had to silence their commotion. That second rule was pesky, but practical, and this was going to go well beyond usual levels of disturbance in the building.
Pity, really. His favorite sopranos were the ones singing for their very lives.
Walking up to Stump, he enjoyed the flapping mouth, the peeled-wide eyes, the flushing panic and fruitless struggle. And he didn’t read lips, but he could dub in the gist of the speech. Wonder how many f-bombs there were now—although he was rather thinking the one on the far end, with the tattoo of a cross on the front of his neck, was praying.
Twirling the knife in his fingers, Lash gripped the handle so that the blade could stab most effectively, but that wasn’t the motion he was going to use. He crossed the weapon over his pecs, placed it at the correct level, and held on tight for the ride: With a long stride, he walked down the row, the sharp edge doing its work sure as if it were going for a gold star.
A set of second mouths opened freely across each of the necks, a chorus of them, and the blood that ran out of those jugulars was a glossy show, red and vital. When he got to the religious one on the end, he loosened the lockdown a little so that, as he licked the blade clean with his tongue, he could enjoy the show.