Page 3 of Bumpy, the Gargoyle Slayer

I nearly offer to scratch it for her, but I’m already too close. A recently abused part of me is rising again to the challenge she presents, so I free her hands from mine.

She grabs inside her sweater and drags out a giant silver cross. In a swift motion, she slams it between my eyes. “Take that, asshole.”

“Ouch.” I can’t help rolling my eyes.

“I... I don’t…”

“You need better training, little girl.” I brush her hand and the cross away from my face, but I must use too much force because she cries out and grabs her fist back to her chest. The cross clatters to the floor.

“Did I hurt you? Here, let me see.” I grab her arms above the elbows as she struggles to get away from me, but I hold her loosely. She’s so delicate, it’s just stupid that she’s interacting with me.

And obviously thinks I’m a vampire. Her tutelary has a lot to answer for.

“Enough,” I order, using the tone of voice that regularly brings pigeons and demons to heel. It seems to work for her, too, because she stills. “Now, did I hurt you?”

Hissing at me like a drowned cat, she lifts her chin. “You can’t hurt me, vampire.” And for good measure, she oscillates her injured hand.

That’s a relief. I wouldn’t want to have injured her during her attempt at slaying me.

I still need to set the record straight. “Your judgment is lamentably poor, little girl. Barging onto the set of a financial roundtable and attempting to slay a participant on live television is an insane action that will have terrible consequences. You…” But my glance takes in three big brutes who are running towards us. Security.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Sure. That’s why her brow is all furrowed.

The desire to send the guards away is strong, but she did just attack me in front of millions. I need to control the situation. Fast. Nothing can disrupt the global funding initiative I hope to institute, a system that will take the place of digital currency while being identification free, thereby outfoxing the current crop of assholes who want to use a digital system to enslave the populace.

“Tell me why you’re here.”

“To kill you. And don’t give me those puppy-dog eyes. I’m not falling for your stupid mind tricks or that handsome face,” she whispers, before licking her lips.

And fine, I’m a little bit complimented. “Your name then?”

“Bunny, if you want the name of the woman who is going to slay you and… wait a second. Are you wearing make-up?”

I am, indeed, the better to hide my naturally gray stone-like skin from humans who don’t know that Kinds live among them. And right now, said makeup is sluicing down my face onto my heavy white silk shirt, further ruining it and my charcoal gray suit that I purchased last year in Paris. My favorites.

“This won’t be easy, Bumpy,” I say, loosening my grip so the guards and I don’t pull her apart like an overcooked wishbone. “Courage.” Which she’s going to need… until I can rectify her mistakes.

“Bunny,” she spits. “Not Bumpy.”

I look at her heaving breasts as she tries to fend off the goons. Er—guards. “Bumpy is more accurate.”

“Mr. D’Ange!” Sally Rothmore, the production manager who cowers behind the guards, startles in outrage at my characterization of my would-be assassin. “That’s sexist!”

She’s more horrified by my noticing Bumpy’s chest than by the fact the girl just tried to murder me. Humans are puzzling on the best of days. Still. It’s a testament to how the little slip of a slayer has unnerved me that I’ve made such an error… on live television.

“I only meant that she bumped my chin and forehead.” And cock, but I’m hoping no one saw that, what with her body shielding the action from the cameras.

The last thing I need is to be labeled… whatever it is that society will label me for leering at her chest and calling her Bumpy. These moderns take their sexual harassment claims very seriously, never mind that Bumpy just tried to kill me, which they’ll now likely interpret as proof of my guilt about… something reprehensible.

I’m going to need to do some damage control. But first.

I lift to my feet and stalk the three steps towards where Bumpy is attempting to fight off all three security guards. They’re winning, but she’s like a crazed cat without bones, all slide and squirm.

“Wait.”

Instantly, the guards halt. They’re afraid of me, not because of what I am, since they don’t know what I am, but because of what I own. Humans have an odd obsession with wealth.