Fat Vampire Value Meal (Books 1-4 in the series) (16 page)

Charles was still standing. “And the human girl?” he said.
 

“Dispose of her,” said Logan.
 

Nikki screamed and tugged at her chains. The sound was terrible and desperate and full of sorrow. Reginald could still see Claire in his mind, her small face dwarfed by the large anorak hood. Or asleep on his lap, feeling safe for once in her young life.
 

“Deacon,” said Reginald quietly, penitent. “She’s just a kid. She can be made to forget. And even if she spoke, nobody would believe her. Let her live. Please. Let me tell Maurice where she is. Let him be the one to make her forget.”
 

“No need, Deacon,” said Charles. “I already know where she is.”
 

“Please,” said Reginald. “You have me. It’s my fault. Do whatever you need to me, but let the others go.”
 

Logan seemed to be mulling something over in his mind. Then he said to Charles, “Dispose of her.”
 

The Guard with the clipboard made a note.
 

“Okay,” said Logan. “Let’s get this over with.”

G
UTS

REGINALD COULDN’T BE KILLED TWICE in punishment for his multiple crimes, so to make his ending as unpleasant as possible, Logan explained that he was to be laid down and cut open, over and over, by a torturer. He’d experience the pain of evisceration, which Logan assured him sounded quite unbearable, and then would heal. Once healed, he’d be cut open again, and again, and again. Different torturers put different flavors on the ritual. Some liked to dissect and remove organs. Some liked to repeatedly puncture the lungs and leave the condemned to gasp for breath, unable to go unconscious or die. Some had a neurologist’s understanding of physiology and could conjure unworldly pain merely by touching different nerve clusters.
 

This would go on for hours, until the assembly or Logan got bored. Then Reginald would be dragged into the sun to meet his end, but by then it would really just be about disposal, because he’d almost certainly have gone mad.
 

While this was going on, as if it wasn’t a rich enough experience, he’d also get to watch Nikki die. The round chamber she was in had a roof that would iris open when Logan pushed a button behind his throne, letting in the sun. It was approximately one o’clock in the afternoon, so the sun would be directly overhead — meaning that the crowd, safe in the arena, could remain comfortably in the shadows and watch while she burned.

Reginald was taken to a spot closer to the side chamber and bound with silver chains to a post of his own. He found himself just twenty feet from Nikki — close enough to see every detail of her upcoming ordeal, but far enough away that he wouldn’t be able to dive into the sunlight when the roof of the silo was opened. If he did that, it’d spoil all the fun.

He stood face-to-face with Nikki on the hard-packed floor, his eyes staring into hers. Neither said anything, but Reginald’s eyes told Nikki that he was sorry, and Nikki’s, which had grown strong, told him that it was okay.
 

A Guard walked to where Reginald stood, put a hand on his chest, and pushed him back so that he was lying in a semi-reclined position with his head propped against a small mound of sand that seemed to have been placed there specifically as a headrest. From his new position, he’d be able to clearly see Nikki as she died while also sufficiently exposing himself to let the torturer do his work.
 

The Guard unzipped Reginald’s jumpsuit to expose his huge white stomach. The air in the arena was very cold.
 

Up in the bleachers, Logan looked down at Reginald. “Anything to say before we get underway?” he said.
 

“Yes,” said Reginald, from the ground. “I’d like to invite you to go fuck your mother.”
 

Logan smirked.
 

Two Guards pinned Reginald’s hands and legs to the ground. A man wearing a robe and carrying a black leather bag appeared above Reginald, knelt, and then opened the bag. He pulled out an enormous knife, big enough to be called a machete. The edge was so sharp that it seemed to vanish into nothingness.
 

“This one is predictable,” said the man, indicating the giant knife, “but it’s a good way to start. We’ll have all the time in the world to explore the finer nuances after your girlfriend turns to ash.”
 

Reginald considered spitting in the man’s face, but it seemed like too big of a cliche. Besides, Reginald had a policy about unnecessarily angering people wielding knives.

Logan turned to the man next to him and said something. The man pressed something behind the throne.
 

Standing in front of Reginald, Nikki refused to look up as a rumbling noise began overhead. She looked into Reginald’s eyes, her body upright and proud, and silently said goodbye.

The torturer palpated Reginald’s gut. He kneaded it like dough. Then he slid the tip of the machete into Reginald. It entered as easily as if it were going into butter. A great torrent of blood lipped up around the blade and spilled to the dirt. The pain was sharp, like the knife, and Reginald felt some part of himself tugged away with the pain. He wanted to scream but refused to let himself, and then the knife was withdrawn and he watched himself heal.
 

A blinding light spilled down onto Nikki. All of the strength she’d had a moment ago left her and she screamed, holding her hands up and then curling into a ball, trying to shield herself. She began to smoke. Reginald squinted into the light. It hurt his eyes. Looking around the room, he could see that it was hurting the eyes of every vampire in the room, but none of them would look away. Their bloodlust made hateful bile rise in Reginald’s throat.
 

Again the torturer slid the huge knife into his stomach and Reginald’s attention was yanked from Nikki and from the crowd. Reginald couldn’t help himself this time. He screamed. He thrashed. The Guards held him as firmly as iron girders. Then the knife came out and the wound healed again. He could feel his heart pounding — whether in memory of the pain, anticipation of more, or in fear for Nikki, he didn’t know. Then, with barely a pause to let him catch his breath, the blade was back. He felt something pop. The pain this time was beyond the world. His head spun but remained maddeningly conscious and aware, offering no escape into delirium or shock.
 

The knife went deeper. Wiggled. Hands entered his fat, pulling at guts and organs. Then the hands withdrew and he healed again. The torturer looked down at him without expression, holding up a red, dripping fist.
 

Reginald squinted into the blinding light in front of him. Nikki had begun to smoke and pop in earnest. There was a sharp sizzle, then a burst of sparks. He yelled her name, but all she could answer with was a fading scream.
 

The torturer’s knife slid back into Reginald. Deeper. He tried to turn away from the pain but couldn’t move. It was as if he could actually feel his organs failing, and then, as the knife moved, he could feel them knit and heal. The knife moved back and forth, pausing at each end. He healed after each pass. His skin grew around the blade, and then it would move again. The sensation was maddening.
 

Nikki’s screams were fading. There was more smoke in the air, less from where her body lay motionless. There were sparks. Whimpers.
 

The knife cut again. Again hands entered his chest, his gut, his huge belly, pushing rolls of fat aside, bloodying the clay and turning it maroon beneath him. The hands pulled and prodded and ripped and tore. And then they stopped.

“What the hell is this?” said the torturer.
 

Nikki was silent. Done. Gone. But Reginald, the torturer’s hand rummaging inside of him, had no mourning to give.
 

The hand emerged from Reginald’s belly. In its grip was a flat, square cardboard box, about five inches on a side. The torturer looked at Reginald, angry and almost afraid.
 

“
What is this?
” he repeated.
 

“Sorry. “I forgot that was in there,” said Reginald. He snatched the box and laid it on the hard clay. Then, before the torturer could react, he shoved the bloody package into the silo filled with sunlight.
 

The torturer twisted the knife, his mouth curling into a snarl. Reginald groaned, but the groan was almost a laugh. Above them, in the stands, all eyes were watching Reginald. The arena came alive with muttered whispers.

“What. Was. THAT?”
yelled the torturer. His face was enraged, the tendons taut in his neck. Droplets of spit flew from his mouth and hit Reginald in the face. The knife rose and fell, rose and fell, and the torturer’s black robe became wet with spatters of blood.
 

Suddenly there was a bright flash from the stands as Logan’s robe exploded into fire. Sparks and smoke erupted from where he’d been standing. Then the same thing happened to either side, to each of Logan’s Guards. To members of the crowd. To Guards around the room, at the entrances and exits.

Beams of sunlight were lancing out of the silo and cutting through the darkness like swords. It was as if the shaft of sunlight had grown arms.
 

Two beams of sunlight hit the Guards holding Reginald. They spun away in pain, their faces already blistering. Maurice had told Reginald that his tolerance for sunlight would decline with age, and that the episode in the car his first week would have very seriously and very quickly incapacitated an older vampire. And apparently it was true, judging by the chaos he saw around him.

Reginald, with his younger eyes, forced himself to squint into the light of the silo so that he could watch Nikki work, tilting the shaving mirrors in her hands at anyone that tried to intervene or flee.
 

“Get this one!” Reginald yelled, gesturing with his head.
 

Nikki aimed one of the reflected beams at the torturer. A great glut of sparks erupted from his face and neck, and then he screamed and rolled away, clawing at his boiling skin.
 

Reginald pulled the machete out of his chest. Then, despite the silver chains, he found he was able to summon enough strength for something a human could do, and brought the blade down on the torturer’s neck. The blade went through him as if he were made of paper and twigs, and then he exploded into fire that smelled like brimstone. Knowing time was not on their side, Reginald didn’t pause to gloat. He cleaved the necks of the still-sparking Guards who had been holding him down, then seized a set of keys from the ash and began to free himself. In the stands, he could see Maurice doing the same.

Nikki trained the beams on Logan. Smoking and burning, Logan staggered backward and fell heavily into his throne. There was a blur as Maurice appeared behind him. With the flat of one hand, Maurice struck the back of the throne. It exploded forward into a million tiny wooden stakes, into Logan’s body.

Then there was a ball of fire, and the Deacon was gone.
 

“I claim Deaconship of this Council,” Maurice’s voice boomed. He looked down at Reginald and, as best he could through the glare, at Nikki. “And, I pardon the prisoners.”
 

He reached behind the remains of the throne and pressed a button, and the darkness returned.
 

R
UN

OF COURSE, IT WASN’T GOING to be quite that easy.
 

Logan had led the Council for nearly five hundred years, and while tradition did say that ascension happened through assassination of the Deacon, a lot had changed since that tradition had last been tested. The Guards were used to protecting Logan, and Maurice had said from the very beginning that the Council wouldn’t suddenly accept Maurice’s authority — assuming the three of them managed to pull off this little caper in the first place.
 

By declaring himself in front of the cameras, Maurice had recorded his intention in the official record. It was likely that after things settled down, after the events of the day were analyzed, he would be determined as the rightful Deacon — but for now, he was just a murderer.
 

So they ran: the two thousand year-old Deacon claimant, the human woman, and the mastermind.
 

“We got lucky,” said Nikki, comfortable at an easy jog.

“No,” said Reginald, who was already huffing and puffing. “None of it was luck.”
 

Reginald had studied every page of every publicly available Council transcript and had watched as much video as he could find time for. The Vampire Council, which went to such great pains to be unpredictable in its location, was utterly predictable in its proceedings. The layout of the arena and the sun chamber was always the same. A wanton creation charge laid on top of a death sentence always resulted in torture, and the torture ritual never changed. The Council always had spies who were shockingly thorough. Surprise witnesses were always called, revealing some secret the convicted party didn’t realize the council had known all along. It was boring, like clockwork.

Nothing that had happened today had surprised Reginald. It had all gone exactly as it always had… until the fat vampire did something that no thin vampire ever could, by hiding a weapon inside of his body.
 

They ran down the long underground corridor that connected the Council’s current location to an abandoned parking garage. Guards came in waves. Maurice was able to hold them off, but that would change when they began attacking in greater numbers. Reginald had predicted that would come next. Because the fugitives couldn’t escape into the sunlight, the Guards could drive them into a corner, where they’d be able to concentrate their remaining numbers into one large assault. Maurice was powerful, but Reginald had always been useless and they’d have realized by now that Nikki was human. Maurice couldn’t take on more than five or six at most.