Midnight Reign (Vampire Babylon #2)
Chris Marie Green
A huge, heartfelt thank-you to everyone who read Book One: you’ve kept Babylon going!
Thank you to Ginjer Buchanan, Madame Ace; Judy Duarte and Sheree Whitefeather, critique partners ’til the very end; Wally Lind and the crimescenewriter web loop, mentors who show me where to start (and let it be said that any and all errors in this book are my own); and Pamela Harty and Deidre Knight, who take care of business so I can just write.
STARRING
W HEN Jessica Reese came home from her job at a Hollywood bar that night, someone was waiting in the bedroom closet.
Someone hiding amidst hanging party dresses and dry-cleaning wrappers that ghosted back and forth with every slight, controlled breath. Someone who sat patiently with a container of bleach and a long knife that would be used to slash the victim’s throat and quiet her before that Someone could tear the woman’s neck apart in leisurely delight.
Someone was going to become a star tonight.
The sheer plastic hangings leeched air out of the tiny closet, making the wait a humid, trembling vigil.
Patient, patient, wait, just wait.
From the kitchen, a set of keys jangled onto a countertop, a pair of high-heeled shoes hammered on the wooden floor.
Someone fought to breathe, running a tongue over the sharp points of fangs. Blood pumped like gun blasts, the resulting hunger pulsing like open wounds. Just keep remembering why you’re here. Remember how the Lee Tomlinson made himself a star through shock value, ripping out that other woman’s throat? You can do it, too.
Every night, entertainment channels and newscasts spotlighted stock footage of the Lee Tomlinson, the “Vampire Killer,” the accused murderer wearing a ten-yard stare, handcuffs, and a harmless smile as he was led into the courtroom for arraignment. While breathlessly speculating about the upcoming trial, the press relished the charges: Lee had torn a woman’s throat out with his bare teeth, then become a fugitive who hadn’t even made it out of the county, thanks to a stop at a seedy motel. There, after getting his head together with the aid of some marijuana, he was found: a stoned and peaceful martyr who hadn’t even questioned the “anonymous tip” regarding his whereabouts. He hadn’t even fought the cops when they’d hauled him out of the room. They said he’d gone willingly, with that same smile on his lips, that same perpetual look of lost innocence in his gaze.
He already had a growing entourage of adoring women wearing the same clothing, makeup, and cotton-candy hairstyle that his victim—what’s her name—had sported in the one headshot they always showed on the news. The fans camped outside of the bar where their idol used to work, holding signs proclaiming his hotness, his innocence.
A celebrity. That’s what the Lee Tomlinson had turned out to be. A hopeful, Brandon Lee–look-alike actor who had never been anything more than a face in a mouthwash commercial…
…Until the cops had uncovered witnesses who’d placed Lee near the scene of the crime, then harvested the DNA evidence that led to the arrest of the “Vampire Killer.”
But the press’s nickname for Lee would become a joke tonight, right after they saw what a set of serious fangs could really do.
Footsteps exploded closer to the bedroom. Closer.
Someone shivered. If great care hadn’t already been taken to shave every body part, the hair would be standing on end over each inch of skin, a body electric with skin-buzzing currents.
Tap, tap, tap went the victim’s last footsteps.
The sound grew muted as she walked onto the bedroom carpet.
Someone started to ache, aroused by the woman’s proximity.
Stay calm. If the Lee Tomlinson can carry this off, anyone can. Now it’s your time to shine.
The fact that murdering someone using the Lee’s same patterns didn’t register much. Killing this woman might cause reasonable doubt in a courtroom for him.
Instead, jealousy, even anger, twisted every heartbeat. Confusion and need pumped through each tangled vein like tainted blood.
You’re smarter than the cops, so you won’t get caught like he did. You’re smarter than the Lee Tomlinson, too. You can beat him at his own game.
The thought of sinking fangs into flesh warped into a fantasy, one in which each violent bite was a thrust into Lee, a furious victory.
Through the slit of the sliding closet door, the victim came into view, ambling into the brandied darkness on three-inch heels. The steady drip of the adjoining bathroom’s leaking faucet kept time with Someone’s strangled breathing as the light from a dying streetlamp outside suffused the room.
The victim was on the midnight side of thirty, shrouded with August sweat and a dark red dress. She bent to work off the thin straps of her heels, her hair frizzed from humidity, her bodice gaping to reveal most of her small breasts.