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Behind us, Thornfield and Zephyra continue to tear chunks out of each other, Literally. She sinks her jaws into his arm and rips off a chunk of muscle. It exposes the bone. He roars, but it starts to heal almost instantly.
She is on top of him again, tracing her finger down his chest, when she says, “I am going to rip off your head, Lucien. Just like I ripped off your brother’s. Do you remember?”
A vamp comes for me, fangs gnashing, and I hurl it off, sending it clattering into the wall behind me. Brother. Fuck.
Thornfield’s eyes flash. He reaches for her, and drags his nails down her gnarly arm.
She screams in pain.
He flips her over. He’s on top of her. He puts his hands around her throat.
“You can’t kill me, Lucien. There is no you without me. We are—”
He snaps her neck.
Just like that.
She is gone.
The vamp I’m wrestling goes limp in my arms. I let go and it staggers backward, mouth hanging open. “You killed her,” it mutters. “The queen is dead.”
Lucien stands up, dragging Zephyra’s lifeless body with him. He holds her by her the back of her neck, and she hangs there, motionless; a rodent in the clutches of a cat who’s not done playing, even though the mouse is dead.
He strides forward.
The vampires, just three of them left now, back away.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he says, eyes flashing with little red dots. “Do you know why?”
In unison, they shake their heads.
“I’m not going to kill you because I need you to remember who rules this city, and I need you to spread the word. It was never Zephyra. She was a pawn. She lived because I allowed her to live, and because I needed her. She may have called herself your queen but I am the king of this city. Do you understand?”
The ceiling shakes as his anger makes his voice roar. I back away, noticing that Kim has pressed himself up against the wall.
For the first time since we met, fear congeals in my veins.
Thornfield is an evil mother fucker.
He might come across as suave and logical, but he’s a beast. No different from the others. Except older, stronger, more powerful.
He holds Zephyra in front of him, one hand tight around her throat. Her head lolls to the side.
He reaches out, and plunges his hand into her ribcage.
When he pulls out her heart, he turns slowly to look at the others.
He lets her body drop to the floor. As it hits the ground, it explodes. Blood, and strings of muscle, and sinew, and fragments of bone, splatter our faces, and our arms, and the floor, and the ceiling.
Thornfield is covered in blood. He licks his lips. “She tastes just how she used to,” he says darkly. Then he brings her heart to his mouth, and sinks in his fangs.
He tears off a chunk, and swallows it whole.
“Now, who is your king?” He towers above the others. They are quaking, shivering, wringing their hands in front of them.
“You are.”
“The Thornfields have always ruled this city,” Lucien barks, holding out what’s left of Zephyra’s heart. To the redheaded vampire who looks too skinny to be standing upright, he says, “Eat.”
