THE_VEINGEL_-_Episode_005F-50F-50BOOKMOBI )9IKXK|KAlMOBIuч8REXTHD,8 @@@@@@THE VEINGEL - Episode 005

Chapter 3

Artemis. First Generation. Always wanted my job. Which is reason enough not to like him. But standing there dressed in all black motorcycle leathers, the ridiculous epitome of a B-movie vampire costumethats enough to piss me offespecially when he shows up unannounced. Ive called him on his outfit before, and he always reverts to his I collect Ducatis excuse. Whatever. In medieval Ireland, pimped out in armor polished to a mirror-like finish, his line was: Im a knight. The poser.

Why are you here? I ask in English, playing stupid, buying time. I deny him the courtesy of responding in the Angelic Tongue of our fathers, the Watchers.

The question is, Jequon, why werent you hereearlier?

That throws me. What the hell is he talking about? I locate Uri in my periphery, keeping my eyes on Artemis the whole time. The Russian hasnt moved.

Dont worry about Uri. He doesnt even realize Ive been in the room with him for the better part of the day. I had his errand bitch from downstairs bring up a special order. Snuck in and rolled underneath the bed after I heard him snoring What? you think a Russian gets that soused from vodka alone?

Uri pipes in from the hall, Its true comrade, it has been my water ever since Chernobyl. I have never seen this man before. He drugged me. I

Shut-up Uri. Artemis removes a brass and red plastic shotgun shell from his pocket and wiggles it in Urs direction; then he moves toward me a step.

So whats your excuse this time Jequon? Youre The Protector, remember? Who exactly are you protecting? Clearly not Lucian. You keep telling the Council youve got it under control, and meanwhile, our people are getting slaughtered by these chumps.

Too bad it takes an emergency to get them to listen me. I say, Jequons lost his edge, they say, impossible. But when they heard you were desperate enough to make half-million-dollar deals with a humana Russian mobster at thatwell, lets just say the Council has finally taken heed of my warnings.

Typical Artemis steam. Are you through admiring the sound of your own voice, I ask. You asked me a question and Id like to answer.

Artemis moves closer another step. There will be plenty of time to answer when I escort you before the Council, he says, and tries to disguise this bullshit with one of his trademark smirksa leer so self-righteous even Lucifer couldnt top it.

Artemis closes the gap between us by one more careful step. Dont make this difficult, he says. He reaches inside his coatI tense up, ready to springand he removes a set of Nephilim-grade, solid plate design, titanium handcuffs. Unlike his neck, I cant snap these, even on a good day.

Council orders. They thought these might make you a more agreeable travel companion.

Sure. I understand, I say.

For a Nephilim looking to kill one of his own, hed be hard pressed to find a better cover story: Just stage the crime scene to look like a Sons Of Jared killing, and whos the wiser?

Me. Thats who.

Although he gets props for posing as a Council investigatora wholly original embellishmenthis research into the SOJs methods came from an unreliable source.

Hold out your wrists, Artemis says.

I hold them out.

Artemis knows, of course, that after the SOJ kill their victim in a formal ceremony, they finish the ritual by branding the word damned onto the forehead. But the real SOJ spell damned in Aramaic. Artemis made the brand on Lucians forehead using letters from the Angelic alphabetletters no human understandsnot even the ancient scroll-scribbling SOJ. I leaked this bogus detail to my people centuries ago, anticipating the eventuality of a traitor like Artemis.

Holding the cuffs open in his right hand, Artemis reaches across his body and grabs hold of my left wrist. In this textbook position, he has the most leverage to secure the cuffs, and the best chance to defend himself if I were to make any sudden movements.

In theory, by holding my wrist with his opposite hand, he will be able to feel any motion in my arm much faster than he could see it, allowing him to sidestep an attack, and (as practiced thousands of times by anyone trained to make arrests) disrupt the balance of his attacker as he pivots behind to subdue him in some other way.

In theory.

In practice, Artemis bumps one side of the cuff closed on my left wrist and pivots the other side to secure my rightwhich doesnt happenbecause in the millisecond it takes for the bracelet to travel down its narrow arc, my palm is halfway to his chin.

Artemis sidesteps the blow and barely manages to keep the base of his skull attached to his spinal column. With a firm grip still on my wrist he immediately shuffles to one side, countering the momentum of my missed strike as he begins his pivot to get behind me. Textbook execution on his partand hes good. Real good. Even for a fellow 1st Gen.

But Im counting on his prowess. I meant to miss with the palm strike. I just wanted to get him moving. Instead of lunging forward off-balance, like he expects me to do after such a ferocious miss, I jerk my left elbow down, freeing my wrist from his grip, sending him stumbling forward as he tries in vain to hang on. Now I plant my left leg and torque my entire upper-body clockwise, leading with my chin, rotating every inch of my two-hundred-and-thirty pounds of pissed-off Protector-grade Nephilim on the ball of my foot. My other leg hangs loose, trailing slightly behind, accelerating, building momentum like the supersonic tip of a bullwhip.

As I complete the turn, I can see Artemis with his hands up, expecting a spinning back-fist, the most common strike thrown from my position. What he gets instead, just as he drops his hands, is the outside edge of my boot heel slamming between his eyes like a lead pipe.

Even if Artemis had defended for the kick, and left his guard up a split-second longer, it wouldnt have mattered. His face would still be caved in. His eyeballs still hanging loose from their disintegrated sockets. His brain still leaking out of his ear-holes in a bloody soup.

Our fathers in darkness, what have I done?

This is the first time Ive killed one of my own, and the act runs so contrary to the way Im wired I almost forget where I am.

Uris yelling at me. We still have a deal? Yes? Screaming it over and over.

Shut! Up!, I yell over him, we still have a deal. But its not finished until you answer some questions.

Uri gets a hold on his trembling. I tell you anything.

Well get to that, I say. First go get a hammer.

Technically, I have twenty-four hours to finish Artemis, but itd be stupid to wait. The last thing Sarajevos populace needs is a 1st Gen-turned-super-vamp in their midst. Hed make their history of ethnic cleansing seem like the good old days.

Lucian keeps one in his dresser, Uri says. Just in case

Put down the shotgun and the briefcase and go get it, I tell him. How he knows so damn much about what Lucian keeps in his dresser ranks high on the list of questions I want answered.

Uri produces a heavy steel mallet. I point to Lucian.

Pull one of the stakes loose from his wrist.

While hes prying the stake free, I open the window a crack and risk a look out at the street. Nothing suspicious as far as I can tell.

I nod toward Artemis. I take it you know what to do.

Yes.

Our kind give up the ghost the same as any talking monkey: either still the pulse of our blood, or drain it from our body. Just like generating a magnetic field from the flow of electrons in a wire, the flow of DNA in the bloodstream generates a soul. And as much as I hate reinforcing pop culture vampire lore, I have to admit, puncturing the heart can be more practical than draining all the blood from a corpse.

Uri sets down his tools beside the body and then roles Artemis over onto his back. Straddling him at waist level, he pulls open Artemiss shirt to expose his chest. He picks up the mallet and the stake. He probes for a gap between the ribs, directly over the heart and then he slams the mallet home with a metallic clang. And againtwo, three, four more times until the stake pins Artemis to the floor. I flinch with every strike. I knew him since he was a boy.

I take it you know how to dispose of a body? A rhetorical question.

Uri nods.

Good. Now youre going to answer my questions. You can start by explaining why someone shot a hole through my neck at the train station.

I know nothing about you getting shot.

Hes telling the truth. If he was lying, he wouldnt have frowned. His eyes would have darted up and to the side first, and then he would have looked surprised. Humans dont have much control over their facial expressions; I lick my lipsof course neither do I when Im this thirsty.

Uris face goes from confused to a portrait of abject fear.

Relax, I say, and motion down toward his club. Why dont we get a drink.

He has nothing to worry about. Im not about to feed on the second pastiest Russian Ive ever seen. Id rather go gray.

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