Holidays are Hell(69)

She did not have to. Chenglei was in the corner, backed against the wall. The young man stood in front of him, hands outstretched, lips moving in a low rambling chant that made the hairs rise on the back of Six's neck—as did the sight of Chenglei. Only minutes before he had reminded her of a greased wrinkled pig—but the fat was gone, sucked dry, clothes hanging from his frame like rags tied to a line, flapping, flapping, stiff and cold. All bone now, sinew, less even—only a hint of his eyes remained, only a taste of a mouth, only a grinning skull, hissing like the sizzling lines of fireworks burning so effortlessly on the street.

Six forced herself to step close. The young man did not stop chanting. She glanced at him, wary, and had to bite down hard on her tongue. Despite the warming air of the room, his breath still puffed white. Six stared. She did not rub her eyes. She did not call herself crazy. She knew her mind, her training. Her lack of imagination.

The young man looked at her, and though his chanting did not falter, she heard his voice inside her head, clear and strong.

Go, he said. Please.

She almost did. Instinct, primal. But she stayed still, swallowing hard, and touched her blouse to feel the wire running beneath. One connection. Lifeline. She wondered how much the others had heard, what they made of it. She wondered why she did not call them in.

She looked again at the man beside her. She could see his eyes past the white ghost mask. Black eyes, with a hint of red, like his hair, standing stark and hot. An intense gaze, rocking down to her heart.

Too much. Six turned her focus on Chenglei. Looked hard, deep, and found nothing human. Nothing comparable, not even to an animal. There was too much hunger in that face. Too much violence.

"Tell me," she whispered to the man at her side. He ignored her, still chanting. She touched his arm. Flinched as her fingers burned with electric shock. Little lightning—in her head, as well. She saw a memory. Not her own. A pit of bones and flesh.

The man's voice faltered. Chenglei lunged. Six knocked the young man out of the way and took the blow, dropping and rolling backward, kicking up. She caught Chenglei in the chest, but not before his head snapped close, his gaping, cracking mouth sucking the air around her face. Terror cut, as did disgust; she felt a tug inside her mind, a violent yank like her soul had strings, and then Chenglei was kicked off, slammed into the wall. Not before his hands flung out, though. His nails were long. They scraped her cheek. Six snarled and rolled on her stomach, grabbing the gun she had taken from him. She fired.

It was a good shot. She caught him in the forehead. He went down. But only on one knee. Six fired again. Struck what was left of his right eye. The bullet passed through his head into the wall. She heard screaming outside the room; apparently, she was not the only girl in the massage parlor who still had her hearing.

Chenglei hissed. She glimpsed a tongue inside his mouth. A hand touched her shoulders and she rolled again, bringing up the gun. It was the other man, eyes dark, face white.

He crouched over her. One hand was outstretched against Chenglei. The other hovered above her face. She saw writing on his palm, a circle.

"Back away," Six rasped.

"No," he murmured. "It's too late for that."

He touched her. She tried to shoot him in the shoulder but her finger refused to pull the trigger, and she could not kick him off before his hand grazed her hand. The effect of his touch was immediate, terrifying. Her body stopped working. As did her voice. Muscles locked, trapped. Buried alive in her own body. All she could do was stare into the man's eyes, fighting with all her heart, all her mind.

You are dead, she told herself. Everything, for nothing.

"Not yet," whispered the man, leaning close enough to kiss. And then he did kiss her, softly, on the lips.

His mouth was unfamiliar, but hot, like raw ginger. Six found she could close her eyes. She did not want to, but she could not keep them open. She could not see at all. She could not hear.

And when, some time later, her body was lifted and carried by two strong arms, all she could do was wait, and imagine, and plan.

You are dead, she told herself again. But until then, fight.

Fight to kill. Fight to win.



* * *





Chapter 2





Joseph Besud was a quiet man of middling youth—barely out of his twenties, hardly worth being called thirty—and while he had been educated in some of the finest schools in Europe and America, the most enlightening aspects of his life had come from moments such as the one, quite literally, at hand. There was nothing, after all, like carrying the dead weight of an elite counter-terrorist officer to make one appreciate the finer things in life. Like having a car.

He was rather less appreciative of the vampires hunting him, but he knew better than to complain about those parts of his life that could not be changed. And really, given that it was the holidays, he thought he could muster a little good cheer. He was still alive, after all. Whether he lasted long enough to make it home to his family's Spring Festival dinner was another matter entirely.