She hadn’t seen the fangs when he bit her, thankfully. Now they were out, gleaming bright ivory under the garage’s buzzing fluorescent fixtures. Yes, it was just as research said and her own neck agreed—two pairs on the top arch, bigger to the outside and slightly smaller inward, one pair on the lower to provide leverage. A distinctive pattern, though there was a lot of squabbling on dark web forums and demimonde-research message boards about whether they grew in constantly like shark teeth.
Nothing was so outlandish people wouldn’t argue about it on the internet, even serious-as-hell vampire hunters.
Layla’s hip hit the Volvo’s passenger-side taillight, and she was faintly aware the impact hurt.Another bruise, she thought, pointlessly, as the vampire stared down the row of cars.
A soft brushing sound slid past, then a figure appeared at the end of the aisle, just under the sign proclaimingMORE PARKING - TURN RIGHT. The Volvo, taking no notice, hummed happily to itself.
Layla shuddered. The new arrival was man-shaped, a blue-eyed crewcut redhead wearing what she realized was an athletic-fit black tactical shirt as well as heavy workman’s trousers just like Vampire Max’s. Its hands hung loosely; its boots were very much like the first vampire’s as well, but… spit-shine?
That was weird, but even worse were the fangs. Not to mention two crimson pinpricks glowed in its pupils as well, clearly visible even at this distance.
“Get in the car.” Vampire Max’s teeth were back to normal, probably so he could enunciate. He stared at the figure like a gunslinger seeing the villain in a dusty old Western, and the thought that a tumbleweed might bumble across concrete between rows of Audis, Acuras, BMWs, and the odd Toyota or Honda was evenmoredarkly hilarious.
I’m going to go completely insane. It was a wonderful thought, very liberating.
“It’s unlocked.” The vampire’s hand blurred out, touched her shoulder, and gave the gentlest of encouraging pushes. “Go, now, andget in the car.”
Sure, boss. Whatever you say.Layla staggered to obey just as the redheaded newcomer winked out of sight…
…and reappeared, crashing into Vampire Max with a sound like massive billiard balls colliding on the world’s biggest felt-top.
They tumbled down the aisle, blurring-quick, and after the collision a rumble filled the air, echoes overlapping andbouncing off concrete. The vibration was faintly familiar—both vampires were growling, a hideous deep grinding noise, and Layla was reminded of Saturday morning cartoons. Meemaw Cathy had loved the Tasmanian Devil, laughing helplessly at the dumb, whirling animated menace every time.
This, however, was bizarro-bonkers real life, and deadly serious as well. The sound alone convinced Layla to get going even before Vampire Max flung the newcomer across the aisle and through a parked SUV, which rocked violently as it crumpled like tissue paper. The momentum tossed Redhead Vampire into concrete wall beyond, causing a puff of dust to glitter under the fluorescents; Layla swore at her legs, trying to force them into working.
Car’s right there. Get moving. MOVE!
More crashing and crunching echoed as she staggered along the Volvo’s flank, and it wasn’t until she had blindly pawed the forward-most door open, staring over the roof at the dark tumbling smears of fighting vampires pinballing through parked cars and making an almighty racket, that she realized she was on the passenger side.
Oh, goddammit. Never rained but it poured, as Dan was fond of remarking when shit went sideways.
All-leather interior full of new car smell, the stew of chemicals making her even dizzier; Layla scrambled for the driver’s seat, the dress catching under her knees, one of which she nearly impaled on the dial masquerading as a gear shift. Thankfully, the Volvo wasn’t a brand-spanking new touchscreen model, it only took a few moments of staring at the console before she figured out what the hell.
It didn’t help that her heart was hammering fit to snap her ribs, breath ratcheting in dust-dry throat, every bruise on her was tuned up singing doo-wop, and despite being in a sealedmetal box she could still hear the growlingandthe crash-thudding as the two biters went at it.
Lots of cars, so if there’s a gas leak this problem might-could solve itself. Come on, Layla. Get this show on the road.
There was a bad second getting into reverse, the car revving but refusing to move when she hit the accelerator pedal, but that was taken care of by getting the parking brake sorted out. The car swung drunkenly from of its spot, nearly corner-clipping the SUV on its passenger side, and the vampire-battle roaring went up a notch. She caught a confused blur of motion in the rearview, decided it was now or never, got the Volvo into drive with more wild-ass jabbing luck than anything else, and outright stamped the pedal to the floor.
Adrenaline filled her mouth with thin, runny copper. Layla wrenched at the steering wheel, tires chirping through the turn, and she had no idea which way she was going.
The mystery was solved when redWRONG WAYsigns bloomed on either side like mushrooms after a hard rain, and Christ she hoped nobody was coming head-on. “I’m sorry!” she yelped, as the front fender plowed over a line of floppy plastic posts meant to corral traffic in the right direction; she shot onto another parking level, one up from where the Vampire Heavyweight Match of the Century was for all she knew still going on, and saw an exit.
TO 5TH STREET, the sign above it said. There were two problems—she was in the wrong lane, incoming instead of leaving, and to top everything off there was a striped bar across each opening, so the law-abiding citizens were reminded to stop, take a ticket, or pay their parking fees upon leaving.
Oh, hell. Layla realized she was still chanting horrified, meaningless apologies as the car veered through the plastic poles into the ‘leaving’ lane, and she had a bare screamingsecond to hope there were no pedestrians strolling alongside the hotel.
Crunch. The bar went flying, the Volvo’s windshield blooming with spiderweb cracks, and Layla yanked at the wheel again, tires smoking as the car responded with all its might. Slewing into a wild left turn, she was—amen and hallelujah—finally in what could be considered the correct lane, but there was no time for congratulations or even to take a breath, because now she was steering a stolen car through a downtown, and not only would any nearby cops be interested in wild joyriders but if she hit a poor civilian she’d never forgive herself.
Gripping the cushioned wheel, still screeching “I’m sorry I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she saw the turn onto Briscoe Boulevard looming. Sharp red-hot relief burst like a firework inside her ribcage.
Briscoe was on a planned escape route for the Griskov job. And really, there was only one place she could go.
A half-hour later she knew what time it was thanks to the dashboard clock, but her face hurt like hell. So did the rest of her; adding an unplanned car crash to all the other bullshit she’d been through lately was not even really worth complaining about.
Though hitting the steering wheel nearly hard enough to break her nose qualified for a bit of grumbling, she told herself.
Just a little. As a treat.
