Fat Vampire Value Meal (Books 1-4 in the series) (53 page)

Reginald rolled over to face the wall, away from Greta.
 

“I’m in hiding,” he grunted. “It’s like mourning, except that you get to watch slapstick comedies.” But now that he thought about it, watching those comedies wasn’t always a “get to” situation. Last night he’d watched
Dumb and Dumber
and had wished that it was still possible to die.
 

“I understand. But Reginald, you are being a pussy.”
 

Reginald turned to look at Greta. That had gotten his attention.
 

They’d been at the Chateau for almost three months. During that time, the European Vampire Council and the others living under the Chateau had treated Reginald, Maurice, and Nikki like visiting dignitaries who’d just watched their families murdered. They’d been welcomed in, and then they’d been given as much time and space as they needed to recover from leaving everything behind in America. Nikki and Maurice took a week to mope, then donned their optimist hats and began making themselves at home, clubbing and dining on the locals. Reginald, by contrast, was still wearing his “why the hell should I bother” hat. And also his “fuck off; I’m eating” pajamas.
 

“I’m sorry,” said Reginald. “Is my presence in my own room distracting to you?”
 

“Someone needs to tell you zat you are being a whiny pussy. Your friends will not, so I will. You cannot be mad at a pregnant girl.”
 

“I can try,” said Reginald.

Greta eyed him. Then, after staring into her green eyes for twenty uncomfortable seconds, Reginald turned back to face the wall.
 

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Maurice would never be recognized as Deacon of the American Council again. The vampire government’s infrastructure was continuing to crumble. Reginald had peeked into the Council’s computer systems a few times since arriving in Luxembourg (hacking was easy when you had a genius mind) and had discovered that none of the relocation or protection systems were in place anymore. The vampire social networks, however, were booming. Fangbook was more active than ever, and new videos of vampire atrocities — as well as insider looks into the combination slaughterhouse / puppet show that the Council had become — were posted every minute. It was too sad to watch. The chaos, panic, and murder were too widespread, too popular, too accepted. The old Council, under Logan, had ruled by fear. Now, under Barkley, it ruled by indifference. Without direction from above, the citizenry was like tens of thousands of unguided missiles: they blew up what they wanted when they wanted, and the world was paying the price.

Speaking to the wall, Reginald said, “Why bother to discuss it, Greta? I can’t go home. None of us can. America is eating itself alive, quite literally. With Charles in charge…” Then he stopped and laughed out loud.
 

“What?”

Reginald turned. “I just said ‘Charles in Charge.’ ”
 

Greta just stared at him. She didn’t get it.

 
“I’m just saying there’s no point,” said Reginald. “America is fucked. The rest of the world might hang in there for a little while, but eventually it’ll spread and then we’ll be fucked, too.”
 

“So you’re giving up?”
 

Reginald fluffed a pillow and studied the stone wall in front of him. “Yep.”
 

In a way, the disintegration of the vampire world was a relief to Reginald. He hadn’t felt comfortable as a human, but he felt even less comfortable as a slow, weak vampire who couldn’t catch prey and who didn’t like to drink blood. With only a very few exceptions, he loathed vampires. Most were murderous, bullying, elitist thugs. The fact that the vampires’ creators seemed likely to eliminate the entire race at any time might actually be a good thing. Sure, he’d die. And Nikki would die. And Maurice would die. And his few friends under the Chateau would die. But the humans would be safe.
 

And in truth, there weren’t many humans that Reginald cared about, either. He cared about his mother despite her passive-aggressiveness, and he cared about Nikki’s sister because she mattered to Nikki. But mostly, Reginald cared about Claire.
 

Claire, who was only a little girl.
 

Claire, who still had her whole life in front of her.
 

Claire, who was still out there, unprotected, in the warzone.
 

Reginald worried ceaselessly about Claire. Before boarding their plane to New York, the three refugees had picked up two humans and a vampire to bring with them as protected guests: Maurice’s wife, Reginald’s mother, and Nikki’s sister. They’d run together to Claire’s house, each of the strong vampires carrying a human or Reginald. They’d knocked. They’d rung the doorbell. They’d shouted. Reginald tried to enter the house, but found that his invitation had been revoked. For a while, they’d thought that Claire and Victoria weren’t home (despite the fact that the hospital had released Victoria following her near-death at the hands of vampire assailants), but then a small, female voice had called to them from the center of the house. It had repeated the revocation of all three of their invitations, then had told them to leave… that the poor little humans would be fine without their protection.
 

Reginald had tried to protest, but time was short — the Council and Guards were probably looking for them at that very moment — so Maurice had seized him bodily and had dragged him away. A half hour later, two humans and four vampires were being packed into a crate. Seventeen hours after that, they were in the catacombs under the Chateau de Differdange in the duchy of Luxembourg, leaving Claire and Victoria back in the States as two big, flapping loose ends.
 

“It’s been three months,” said Greta. “You can’t just continue to mope.”

“Sure I can,” said Reginald. “Look, I’ll show you.” He wedged his bulk more securely in the corner.
 

Behind him, Reginald heard Greta stand. She sighed. “Suit yourself, pussy,” she said. Then, after a moment, he could tell by the empty sound of the room and the change in psychic presence that she had gone.
 

Reginald laid on his side and stared at the wall. Like those in all of the rooms below the Chateau, the wall was raw stone that had been sprayed with a sealant to keep the rooms dry and to keep rock dust from crumbling in. Reginald let the rock be his world for the moment. It was easier that way. The rock expected nothing from him. The rock didn’t change from day to day. The rock, thanks to its spray-seal, didn’t disintegrate and fall apart and threaten to crush them all. The rock was uncomplicated and simple. Sure the rock was boring, but at least it wasn’t being led into chaos by a psychopath.
 

Light footsteps appeared behind Reginald.
 

“Babe,” said a soft voice.
 

Nikki.
 

In a moment, she’d touch his shoulder. She’d ask him how he was doing. She’d try and convince him to come join the others. He’d refuse, citing his total lack of interest in continuing to force a solution onto a hopeless problem. He’d say that he’d rather just sit in his room and wait for the world to end, watching TV and eating Cheetos. And because she loved him, she’d let him do it.

Instead of putting her hand gently on Reginald’s shoulder, Nikki punched the back of his head hard enough to drive his face two inches into the rock in front of him, pulverizing the front of his skull. Then, once his neck healed enough to allow it, Reginald pulled his face from the rock crater and turned. He looked at her, hurt.

Nikki was behind him, tall and strong and beautiful, wearing all black like a vampire assassin — right down to the long leather boots with the high heels.
 

“I don’t have time to play your self-pity game,” she said. “Something is happening. Get up and follow me. Now.”
 

C
HARLES
I
N
C
HARGE

WHEN REGINALD ARRIVED IN THE cathedral room — a huge space at the foot of the staircase that led to the castle above — he found EU Deacon Karl Stromm staring at a huge flat computer monitor. Karl did not look up. The other members of the Council were clustered around him, also staring at the screen. At first Reginald was intrigued, wondering what breaking story they might be watching unfold, but when he hooked around the group to peer at the monitor for himself, he was underwhelmed. It was the same old thing as always: a live, static shot from the American Vampire Council’s lone remaining security camera.
 

Onscreen, a few dangerous and dirty-looking groups of vampires milled through the arena. The floor was littered with human bodies and drenched with blood. Reginald could also see piles of ash that had once been vampires, indicating that there had been little prejudice in recent killings. The very walls of the arena were dented and battered, but the location still seemed to be the subbasement under the Asbury Club. That would mean that the Council hadn’t relocated in almost four months. None of this was good news.

Reginald located Maurice, who was seated at the back of the small cluster, and dragged a small plastic chair over from the wall to sit next to him. The chair was bright blue and had been brought down from the school above when the American group had arrived. The chair’s legs groaned as Reginald sat. Nikki pulled up a second chair and sat next to him, rubbing his shoulder in silent apology for the harsh way she’d gotten his attention back in the room.

Then, as Reginald watched the monitor, the floor of the American Council began to fill. The bloody pools vanished beneath the crowd’s feet. The scarred walls were blocked by bodies. Within a few minutes, vampires were everywhere — standing, walking, even climbing the walls — all looking forward, all curiously quiet. They seemed to be looking at the Deacon’s box.

Reginald leaned forward and put a hand on Karl’s shoulder.
 

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Karl turned. He was wearing a dramatic cloak made of red silk interwoven with gold fibers. His black hair was in a pony tail, held in place by a carved ring of wood.
 

“Charles is speaking,” he said, his voice full of old-world affect. “Some think this is when he officially takes control, naming himself Deacon.”
 

Reginald sat back, crossing his arms. “It’s just a formality. Charles has been the unofficial Deacon for months.” He turned to Nikki. “You smashed my face into the wall for this?”
 

“Not for
Charles
,” said Karl. “I tell her to summon you because of this.” He reached into a pocket in his robes, pulled out a cell phone, pressed a few buttons, and handed it back over his shoulder to Reginald. It was a casual series of movements, but Reginald still found it all very strange coming from Karl. Karl’s usual demeanor was like something from medieval times. Getting an iPhone from him was like receiving a text message from Count Dracula.
 

On the phone’s screen was an email. Reginald read it and then handed the phone back, having committed every pixel of the message to memory.
 

“Who is Nicholas Timken?” he asked.

“He is a frequent visitor to the Chateau before, when Maurice and Logan were Deacon.
Amerikaner
. He came each year for Oktoberfest and stayed with us. He contacted me after you came here and has been like eyes and ears for us.”
 

Reginald gestured at the screen. “We already have eyes and ears.”
 

“Nicholas feels like Maurice does,” Karl continued, ignoring the interruption. “He has no love for Council, but he sees what will happen if there is no Council, or if Charles takes over, which is like the same thing. We here could survive without a government because we are old and know the old ways. But in America?” Karl shrugged to indicate that America was filled with douchebags, which Reginald found himself unable to completely disagree with. “He says he wants to find a solution. I guess he must have found it.”
 

“And he seems like a bit of a drama queen,” Reginald added. Timken’s email to Karl was brief and unnecessarily mysterious. It said,
Watch the Council video feed at 0:00 GMT.
He could easily have told his European allies what he was up to, but apparently he wanted to put on a show instead. Reginald looked at an ancient-looking clock built into the room’s stone wall. The hands stood at 12:55am local time. Five minutes left.
 

Nikki was clicking around on her laptop, which she’d plugged into the Chateau’s network.
 

“Hey, there’s a first-person feed,” she said. “Check it out; someone in the crowd is streaming video.” She turned her screen to show the others, but Reginald found the presence of a live stream in the crowd odd. It couldn’t be a random person with a cell phone, because the Council structure blocked cellular signals. The camera would have to be hard-wired. But after displaying stupidity and apathy about everything else, why would Charles suddenly think to plant a camera in the crowd?

Karl squinted at Nikki’s laptop, then typed a new address into the computer in front of him. The view on the large monitor became the same as on Nikki’s screen: a close-up shot of the Deacon’s box. The camera zoomed in. The box was no longer empty; several vampires milled at its back, shuffling papers. Then one of the vampires turned and approached the front of the box. It was Charles.

Charles was dressed in formal black robes that were a total departure from his usual pressed slacks and designer shirts. His face looked serious and determined. He was holding a stack of papers. The papers looked as odd in his hands as the robe looked on his shoulders; Charles wasn’t organized or official or any of the other things that paperwork usually connoted. He should have been holding a man purse. Or a high-end vibrator from The Sharper Image, which he’d use as a combination come-on and conversation piece.