The question is, how is this thing talking at all? Vampires are little more than wild animals!
But San Francisco vampires are special…
I let my hands drop from the keyway, turn, and stand up. I force my legs not to tremble.
“So, uh, are you really Rafa’s father?”
It’s a stupid question. And my voice literally squeaks at the end. But I need to stall, and I have no idea what else to say.
His smirk sharpens. He begins to circle the space, running an index finger casually, possessively, over the iron cages in front of the kids on one side of the room. His fingertip flicks with a dull snap from bar to bar, creating a dull metallic ring. He’s in no rush. He knows he has me.
The kids recoil back against the far walls of their cells, whimpering, as he comes near.
“I am. And I do my best to keep informed about all my son’s acquaintances. You, I don’t know.” Small half-shrug. “But you look about his flavor, if a little young.” His voice becomes hard and commanding. “Tell me who you are.”
I don’t think there’s any power in his words, and something about the way he speaks feels affected, like he’s putting on airs—but that doesn’t stop a small, cowering part of me from wanting to tell him any little thing he wants, just so I can go somewhere and hide. (Probably in a puddle of my own urine.)
“I’m just… you know… some guy…” I sound weak. I sound like prey.
“Just some guy who tagged along with a Monster Hunter on what I can only assume is a daring and foolish rescue, hm?” He’s almost finished his tour of the side cells. He takes in the locksmith tools in my hand. “Since Rafa is no longer welcome with his clan here, it would make sense he’d have to go bargain shopping when it comes to professional assistance. You’re some kind of cracksman, I assume?”
Bargain shopping? I’m pretty sure I’ve just been insulted. (By yet another random, pompous bad guy!) And I have no idea what a “cracksman” is. (Sounds a little dirty, to be honest.) But if mocking me keeps him talking…
“Rafa never told me he was no longer welcome with his clan. At least not in so many words. So, uh, how exactly didthathappen?” I try to look shocked. It’s not hard.
The vampire stops at the corner of the room. He’s only ten paces away. He chuckles, amused at my distress. “I suppose weallhave our secrets, don’t we?” His eyes narrow. “Some are, of course, deadlier than others.”
And if that doesn’t sound like a perfect setup right before you swoop in and bite some terrified dude’s neck, I don’t know what is.
But luckily, Collin seems to have finally gotten what he needed from the mothership, because he blurts out: “Right, right, right! The Molotov cocktails! Even just a little bit of your magic can ignite the wick, and vampires are vulnerable to fire! Alvin, don’t think! Just bend down, grab a bottle cork-side from Rafa’s pack, channel the fire inyour stomach like you did in the car, and throw it directly at his torso! Right now!”
Uh-huh. This is the part where I would typically have a full-on mental freak-out about how all of that is impossible for me, and that I’m clueless about what I actually did the last time I created a spark, and that it was all probably just a fluke, and that vampires are crazy fast, and it’ll be on me before I even lay a finger on one of those bottles.
But Collin just told me to not think, and when it comes to not thinking and doing something crazy, it’s practically become my go-to move with him, so I quickly duck down, grab a bottle, picture fire in my belly, and chuck the damn thing (along with the hook pick!) as hard as I can dead at the vampire’s chest.
And the bottle hits! Right on target, even!
It even shatters spectacularly!BLAM!
And absolutely nothing happens, except for me getting a huge splotch of gasoline all over this monster’s obscenely expensive jacket.
He looks down at the spill, eyebrow cocked. “Seriously?” His eyes flick up to me and he appears more disappointed than pissed, the high-class air dropped. “You realize that’s not how those work, right?”
“Alvin! What the hell was that?!” Collin steps in front of me, face red and incredulous. He thrusts out his hands toward my chest. “For feck’s sake, do it again! And this time, actuallypictureraging fire inside you and send it to your fingertips! I mean, c’mon! This vampire is going to kill you! Get angry!”
I don’t really know if anger is the most appropriate emotion for someone being attacked by the undead. Fear, horror,despair—any of those seem much more of a natural response. But the fact that Collin is acting surprised that I couldn’t do his stupidly impossible magic trick is, indeed, a bit annoying. And when I reach back down this time, I’m not going to lie, it’s mostly just to prove how positively ridiculous he’s being, right before I get torn apart by a storm of claws and fangs.
Of course, there’s only so much damage that Mr. Suave-and-Malevolent is willing to let his suit endure, so the second I go for another bottle, he’s rushing me. By the time I’m back up—cork and wick half-slipping through my fingers—he’s only a few feet away. And I don’t know if it’s really anger or just blind terror that fills my insides as I picture a bright flare racing from my guts to my fingertips, but whatever it is, this time my nerves jangle with hot, explosive energy. So, when my hand smashes the bottle into his oncoming stomach, there’s a quick flash of light?—
—and then the vampire’s entire upper body explodes into a blaze of raging orange and yellow.
My eyes dazzle from the glare, and for a second I’m sure that I’ve been caught up in the conflagration, too, but then he leaps away from me with a soul-rending, ear-splitting shriek and is back rolling on the bare concrete floor, desperately trying to put himself out.
“Yes!” Collin exclaims, now apparently back to thinking I’m the bee’s knees. “That was class, Alvin!”
The hook tool tumbled onto the ground just a few feet away. I immediately move to grab it, but Collin grips my bicep, stopping me.
“There’s no time! We have to go.Now.”
