Two
The sentence was death, and he knew it, but he still ran.
At three in the morning on a stormy weekend it was eerily quiet, even in East Austin. The slap of his feet pounding the sidewalk was answered by a distant rumble of thunder and the faint flash of faraway lightning. It had rained all day Saturday, and off and on most of the night, turning a hot August day into a sauna that drove even the most stalwart Sixth Street partiers indoors.
The East Side was the poor side of town, the minority side, and there was nobody around at this hour but whores, dealers, and apostate vampires fleeing from justice.
Wallace raced along Stassney, eastbound, past houses in various states of disrepair. He hated this neighborhood and the people in it. Working families lived here, mostly Mexican immigrants and the sons of immigrants, fat wives who come morning would herd their children and hungover husbands out the door to mass en espa?ol. He passed a corner store with a white-painted trailer outside that boasted pollo al carbon, and indeed the greasy smell of roasted chicken filled his nostrils as he dove off the road and down past the storefront.
The last time he’d fed was on a cute little college girl in town for the second summer session at ACC. He remembered the way she’d slid to the ground, her fierce struggles ceasing, as the last few drops of her blood traveled down his throat. He’d left her corpse faceup in the middle of the street, knowing who would find it and how angry they would be. It was sort of the equivalent of shooting the governor the finger.
Finally he couldn’t run anymore. Pain stabbed through both his sides and his legs started to give out on him. He blundered into a chain-link fence and grabbed it, holding himself up while he wheezed.
None of this would have happened if Auren were still Prime. When Auren had ruled the night over the southern United States, there were no rules—he could kill when he pleased, who he pleased, how he pleased. Auren had been the best kind of Prime: vicious, passionate about the hunt, with a blatant disdain for human life. That was perfect, in Wallace’s mind. Everyone had thought Auren was invincible.
Not quite. Fifteen years ago, a blade had swung, and after that everything went wrong. Now killing humans was a capital offense.
Wallace had no use for such bullshit, and he wasn’t alone. There were others who resented the new order, and the time was fast approaching when the old would be new again. He’d planned to be at the head of the pack, reclaiming his place in the world, but somehow he’d been found and followed.
He listened intently for a moment, expecting footsteps but knowing there would be none. The Prime’s inner circle of warriors, the Elite, were silent hunters with no desire save dispensing the Prime’s particular version of justice.
Half-drunk with fear, he looked around. It was as good a place as any to die. They’d be here any minute, and his blood would spatter all over the concrete.
“Good evening, Wallace,” came a sickeningly familiar voice.
He raised his head, dragged himself to his feet, and smiled.
He was surrounded. Half the Court had turned out to execute him. It was kind of flattering, but then, if you pissed off the Prime you tended to be flattered by the grandeur of your own death.
A woman stepped forward: petite, Asian, with that frail-looking build that was almost convincing until her hands closed around your throat. She fixed her almond-shaped eyes on him, dispassionate.
“Evening, Faith,” he replied hoarsely. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Are you finished running?” she asked. She, like all the rest of the Elite, traveled armed, but the gleaming steel blade at her hip stayed sheathed for the moment. If she wanted him to die quickly, she could have had him shot with a crossbow. If she had wanted him dead already, she could have walked forward and parted his head from his shoulders with her sword. It was the standard form of execution.
She did neither of those things. She stood and waited.
By the time Wallace realized what she was waiting for, the crowd was already parting, and any thought of bribery or clemency vanished. He was well and truly fucked.
“Sire,” Wallace said tiredly. “Glad you could make it.” A man in black emerged from the darkness as if it had birthed him, and the Elite stepped back to a respectful distance.
The ninth Prime of the Southern United States was perhaps the most terrifying creature in the world to have standing over you at the moment of your death. He regarded Wallace through those impossible blue eyes, his expression cold and calculating. He was as always dressed impeccably, in black from head to foot, except for the heavy silver and ruby amulet that hung from his neck. In the darkness the stone glowed menacingly: the Signet, the Prime’s badge of office. Few who saw that stone lived to testify that yes, it really did emit light. The myths about the Signets, and their bearers, went back thousands of years.
The most frightening thing of all was the dense aura of power that churned around the Prime like the storm clouds overhead. A vampire that strong could conceal it completely when he wanted to, and Wallace knew the display was for his benefit . . . and it had the desired effect. Wallace’s heart pounded into overdrive, and he clutched the wires of the fence, desperately looking for an escape, any escape.
“James Theodore Wallace,” the Prime said, his voice low, just loud enough to carry, though the psychic energy that underscored the words could probably be felt in the Panhandle. “You are under an order of execution for the murder of Patricia Kranek.”
“Come on, Sire,” Wallace began, trying to think of anything that could prolong the inevitable. “It was an accident. You know how it is—you get used to killing them, and then all of a sudden you’re not allowed, and it’s hard to know when to stop. Humans are so fragile.”
“The law was established fifteen years ago, Wallace,” came the reply. “You know it as well as every vampire in this territory. Hunt where you will, feed on whom you will—but a life taken, whether theirs or ours, demands a life in return.”
“A fucking human! A cow! They’re nothing to us!”
“Enough.” That single word sent bone-chilling fear into Wallace’s spine, and he pressed himself harder into the fence as if he could melt through it to the other side.
The Prime glanced over at his second in command and nodded once. A wicked smile spread over Faith’s features, and she drew her sword and made a gesture to the others.
Beheading, then . . . but not until the others were done with him . . . assuming there was anything left to behead.
The crowd swarmed past their leader, their collective roar cutting off Wallace’s weak protests. As they descended on him, he caught a glimpse of the Prime, who stood with his eyes closed, unsmiling, as if in pain.