Mob Rules. Cameron Haley
the paint and I’ll shove a stake far enough up your ass to pick the blood clots out of your teeth.” I smiled and tucked my arm inside Adan’s. “Fred,” I added.
I’d like to say Fred sensed my great power and backed down. I’d like to say he recognized the more dangerous predator and submitted to the law of the jungle. But he didn’t. Fred made a move.
There aren’t a lot of vampires in L.A. They don’t like gathering in large numbers—too much competition for food. But when it comes to vampires, popular culture is so full of shit I don’t even know where to begin. I’ll mention just two things in passing.
First, humans haven’t believed in monsters for a long time, but in the twenty-first century, we’ve taken it one step further. We’ve rehabilitated the bastards. These days, vampires aren’t really monsters; they’re just tragically hip antiheroes with unusual diets. They sip daintily from cherished and willing blood donors and pine away for their lost humanity.
Well, vampirism isn’t a disease. It’s not a virus, or a genetic disorder or any other ridiculous pseudoscientific rationalization. Vampirism is blood magic. It’s a necromantic shortcut to immortality and a limited range of superpowers. Vampires are just ex-human sociopaths who lacked the juice to become real sorcerers.
Second, in the supernatural food chain of the underworld, vampires are pussies.
The instant Fred leaned away from my car, I triggered the repulsion spell stored in the silver gangster ring on my right pinkie. The ring was a preloaded talisman, allowing me to cast the spell with only the barest concentration and no witty quotation.
So when the Vampire Fred launched himself at me with catlike speed and preternatural fury, the repulsion spell met him halfway and used his own kinetic energy—plus a little extra—to throw him over my Lincoln, across the street and into the storefront of an overpriced flower shop.
“This’ll just take a second,” I said to Adan, and then I went after Fred.
By the time I crossed the street, the vampire was standing up and brushing flower petals and broken glass from his suit. He saw me approach and dropped into a predatory crouch, fangs bared and ready for battle.
Still about twenty feet away, I casually extended my hand, palm up, toward the Vampire Fred. “Vi Victa Vis,” I said. That’s Cicero—sometimes I bust out the Latin. The force spell hit Fred in the sternum and knocked him through the back of the flower shop into the skin-care clinic on the other side of the drywall.
This time, Fred was a little slower getting up. It’s another myth of popular culture that vampires are fucking bulletproof. They’re tougher than humans and they heal quickly when they’re fed, but their bones still break when you hit them hard enough. Fred’s left shoulder was dislocated and his right leg was twisted at an unnatural angle.
“All movements go too far,” I said, picking him up with the telekinesis spell and flipping him back through the flower shop and out into the street. There was the screech of rubber against pavement and a double thump as the Vampire Fred was run over by a Mercedes before he could crawl out of the way. Oops.
I made my way back through the trashed flower shop, pausing to pick out a red rose for Adan. The Benz was stopped but the driver wasn’t getting out of the car. Fred was struggling to peel himself off the asphalt. I guess five hundred years of owning mortals had made him a little stubborn.
“A great flame follows a little spark,” I said, and a grapefruit-size sphere of fusion fire appeared, spinning like a miniature sun above my upturned hand. I let Fred get a good look at it.
“You might want to stay down, Fred, so I don’t have to cook your pasty ass.”
Fred’s jaw clenched, whether in pain or frustration I wasn’t sure. I could see the pride and survival instinct, both honed over centuries, warring in his eyes. He looked at me. He looked at the fire. Survival won.
Like I said, vampires are pussies.
“Here’s the way it is, Fred. Out of respect for your friendship with Mr. Rashan,” I said, turning and smiling at Adan, “I’m going to let you walk away. But Fred, if you fuck with me again, you’re going to burn. Clear?”
The Vampire Fred gritted his pointy teeth, and then he nodded.
“Groovy,” I said. “Now get the fuck out of here.”
Without a word, Fred pulled himself up and hobbled off down the street. Even with a busted wheel, the vampire limped faster than the human eye could follow.
I pulled in juice and dropped a confusion spell over the street, just enough hoodoo to render any witnesses or inconvenient security cameras useless to a police investigation. I looked in the direction the vampire had fled, then turned back to the crowd of stunned onlookers and shrugged.
“He wasn’t on the list.”
Three
Adan was annoyed. We were cruising down Santa Monica Boulevard toward the beach, and he was pressed against the passenger door and glaring at me.
“You didn’t have to kick his ass like that in front of everyone.”
“He started it,” I said. “I wasn’t going to touch him as long as he didn’t scratch my car.”
“You sound like a ten-year-old, Domino.”
“Well, what should I have done? He’s a vampire. You want me to go back and let him take a bite out of me?”
“No, of course not. And I know he’s a vampire, but he’s been cool to me. Besides, you provoked him.”
I shrugged. That was true. I tried a different angle.
“He’s cool? You know the magic is in the killing, right? Every human is topped off with ten pints, give or take, but all that’s just foreplay. It’s the mouthful that stops the heart that keeps him going.”
“I know. I just said he’s been cool to me.” He shook his head and snorted. “Anyway, you’re a gangster. Where do you get off judging him?”
I scowled. “Yeah, I’m a gangster—in your father’s employ, I might add—but that doesn’t make me a homicidal undead monster. Come to think of it, I can’t even remember the last time I killed a guy and drank his blood.”
“No, you just kill guys and have some stooge bury the bodies.”
Ouch. That was going to leave a mark. “I don’t kill anyone. Usually. And never civilians. If you choose to get in the game, you know the rules and you know the risks. It’s not murder when you have to kill an enemy soldier.”
Adan laughed. “Oh, yeah, the standard gangster code of situational ethics. That bullshit’s an insult to real soldiers.”
“That…is probably true. Anyway, it’s just a fucking metaphor. Excuse my language.”
“Actually,” Adan said, “I think it’s a fucking analogy.”
I glared at him and he laughed. I shook my head, chuckling, and just like that the tension was borne away by the wind whipping through the open convertible.
I wasn’t sure why I was arguing with this guy, anyway. His last name was Rashan. He knew the score. The truth was, Adan had pushed one of my buttons. Growing up, I’d always thought I’d end up using my magic for the Forces of Good. Maybe work a quiet job by day and kick evil ass by night, like Batman or the Ghostbusters. Long before I hooked up with the outfit, I’d seen enough of the world to know how things really work.
Adan was right. I clung to that gangster code because it was just about all I had to distinguish myself from psychopathic freaks like the Vampire Fred. I hadn’t killed often, but I had killed. I hadn’t killed innocents, but I’d taken husbands, and fathers, and brothers and sons. Even some sisters. To stay sane, I tried to convince myself they were bad guys, just like me, and they got what they deserved.