“Demons might be exhibitionists,” he’d often smirk. “But vampires are the kinky sharp-toothed voyeurs hiding in the closet.”
Mac snorted, finished his scotch and mentally corrected his absent friend. He was no voyeur, and the goal of his kind had never been to stay in the dark—but to hide in plain sight, saturating the media with fiction and embracing the clichés. That was the one true way to ensure any “witnesses” would be treated with skepticism. It was why he’d been upset, but hadn’t taken drastic action when Thomas had decided to come out. Why he’d believed helping the shifter get his girl wouldn’t cause any lasting harm. Hell, at the time, he’d had several vampires begging him to be on “the show”, so he’d assumed he was making the right call.
Deception and misdirection had always been key to the vampires’ survival, and even as Mac scorned that aspect of what he was, he knew he’d practiced both. That was how he’d continued to remain in his home, to retain his wealth…to survive. The only creatures vampires were meant to be utterly forthcoming with were their own kind.
If someone had ever asked him to compare the vampire community to a human group? It would be the mob. If you were a “made man”—in the more literal interpretation of the word, of course—you were in. And once you were in, you followed the rules or faced the consequences. Bullshit excuses, even if they were true, were pointless.
The latest rumor he’d heard on the vamp grapevine was that they were no longer amused by Shifting Reality. They wanted explanations. They wanted his head on a platter along with the death of everyone involved in the online revelation that they hadn’t sanctioned. The one they couldn’t blame on large studios with exquisite special effects and Hollywood stars.
“Good fucking luck with that.” He tilted his glass in salute, knowing there was no way they could get their wish without creating a worse public relations nightmare. This genie couldn’t be shoved, beaten or drained back into its bottle. At least, not until the spotlight had turned away from them and onto another shiny toy.
Meanwhile, if anyone tried to touch his friends or the women they had finally found happiness with…there would be consequences. Mac knew as long as he was on the move, their attention would be focused entirely on him, which was the point. He was the more appetizing bait. The real traitor.
Two of their hunters had already failed and wouldn’t be trying again any time soon. Fucking demons for hire—a classless and desperate move in Mac’s opinion. If “they” wanted him, they could get up off their dusty arses and come for him themselves instead of hiring soulless thugs.
He swore softly. What was he doing? It would be easier to get it over with, to go to them and receive their judgment. But damn it, he didn’t want to. Not yet. He wanted to be left alone for a while. To find some peace before he faced his fate.
He’d had enough of watching Thomas and Saint live out their bliss with their significant others—he didn’t want to sign any autographs and he damn sure didn’t feel the need to kiss the cold, dead ass of some old-world, sissified vampires to be forgiven for his conduct or allowed a quick end.
Hell, he was in a dark mood.
Mac pounded his glass on the bar once to let the bartender know it needed to be refilled. He hadn’t been this maudlin since the decade after he was made.
High-pitched feedback from a microphone on the small stage made him flinch and grit his teeth. He was too old for this shit. He would go out into the desert at dawn and be done with the whole bloody thing, but that was a coward’s path. Mac was many things, but he had never been called a coward. He was just…what had Thomas called him?
Grumpy.
Hunkering down at the bar and attempting to appear as forbidding as possible, he tried to ignore the chipper, female twang that now echoed through the bar. The speaker smelled of canned peaches and Ivory soap. A perky scent for a perky voice.
“Welcome to the first annual Belly Up Jam,” she started, before whooping and causing the microphone to screech again. “Yippee! Oops. Sorry everybody.”
No one responded, enthusiastically or otherwise, and after a moment he could hear the shuffling of papers as she continued, “I can see a lot of people got last minute jitters and decided not to come in spite of all the flyers and hard work everyone put it. Well, shame on them. But the show must go on, right? Besides, I just have a really good feeling that they’ll be pouring in to enter before the contest is over. Maybe after the diner closes down for the night. This is an opportunity to represent our town, after all. And to win money for our school, which everybody knows could sure use some fixing up after that fire.”