Page 96 of Envious Of Fire
This is a full-blooded vampire for certain, like Lazarus and Salazo, only not quite as tall. Their eyes, slightly off-red in hue, maybe also described as raspberry, never once blink. Their lips, thin and wide, spread into an unsettling grin.
“My suit,” the vampire continues on, their lips never quite closing between words, always maintaining the grin that doesn’t quite touch their offputting, unblinking eyes. “It’s dyed in the blood of children I’ve killed.”
It’s only now that Drake straightens up, forcing himself to seem indifferent. “I don’t think anyone here has bought tickets to your performance, Uncle La-La, so why are you performing? Head back home. Salazo needs a backrub.”
“I enjoy killing children,” the vampire called La-La carries on. “They’re the most fun to kill. They scream the prettiest.”
“Work on your lines a little more,” suggests Drake, “and rehearse back at the cave with your theatrical friends. We’re on a mission to walk the pet. We’ll be back in an hour tops.”
In a flash of light, a fraction of a second, La-La now wields a weapon that was strapped to his back, unseen. A long, curved blade of a katana, beautifully reflecting the moonlight. La-La holds the sword out to the side, nearly scraping the cave wall with its tip. It is obvious without inspecting it closely that the blade is magnificently sharp, and considering the speed with which La-La drew it, Kyle wishes to be nowhere within range of that fearsome weapon or its greatly skilled owner.
“All of you are so young,” says La-La, still grinning. “I bet you scream just as prettily.”
“Should I go back and tell Salazo you stood in our way, my dear, demented uncle?” asks Drake. “Or should I send back hispet to report the news of such an obstruction himself? You have so many friends to play with. So many audience members in the den. Why waste your time on us?”
La-La’s only answer is dragging his long tongue across his opened lips, taking delight in Drake’s increasing impatience.
“Oh, I see. This is a test.” Drake smirks, appearing amused. “Alright, cool, you’re bored. C’mon, boys.” He gestures at Kyle and Mikey behind him—neither of whom share his confidence in drawing any closer to the vampire. “Don’t be rude, boys. Do make sure to greet my strange Uncle La-La as you pass by. Let’s go.”
Kyle forces his feet to move. At first, Mikey seems to cling to him in an effort to hold him back, then gives in, following on shaky feet behind Kyle and Drake. The closer they come, the more terrifying La-La appears, still grinning, still brandishing that menacing blade, the vampire’s long white hair swaying in the subtle night wind, gaze never leaving Kyle, wild grin never easing, lips never closing.
And then the three of them are out of the cave.
“Farewell!” sings Drake as he waves blithely back at La-La. “Let Salazo know not to worry. We’ll take good care of his pet, give him a nice walking, work him up to a sweaty delight.”
But it is only upon Kyle that La-La’s raspberry eyes seem affixed to. Only Kyle that La-La watches.
And it’s from the mouth of that cave that La-La lifts his delicate, pointy chin, grin persisting, and states: “I’m going to kill someone you love someday.”
Kyle stares back at that grinning face, the words becoming ice in his chest.
That ice lingers long after the trio make their way out of the abandoned quarry, out of the basin, into the open desert. As much as Kyle wants to believe that every footstep brings them closer to freedom, he can’t help the mounting sense of dread inLa-La’s last words to him—words that sound less and less like a threat.
More like a promise.
22.
Everything Will Be Fine.
—·—
The bad feelings start when Tristan returns to the clinic to find Raya’s room cleared out. Then he can’t seem to find her anywhere at all, not in her usual hangouts, not in the Midnight Garden, not in the Velvet Row where Kaleb is staying.
Then he checks the top of his tower.
And finds it beautifully furnished with expensive furniture: a vanity with a round gold-trimmed mirror, several tall white vases spilling with bright yellow flowers, a chandelier glittering with diamond jewels, a curly-armed sofa and ottoman that both look pulled from a Victorian mansion, a circular glass table with a decorative marble centerpiece upon it.
And in place of his beautiful window is a tapestry.
Of Lord Markadian’s face.
Smirking triumphantly.
All of this: illusion. All of this, replacing Tristan’s veryrealroom that was once his favorite place to come, to get away from the falsehoods of the House, to sit upon the ledge and peer at the moon on such a night as tonight.
That’s when Tristan’s eyes fall upon the floor, seeing the most offensive sight of all in this freshly-decorated room.
A bloodied Persian rug.
