Fuck a duck!
Johnson’s face flushed the worrying shade of purple again and I winced, steeling myself for the impending splatter that would surely happen when his head exploded.
Blinking rapidly to clear my watering eyes, the blur of shapes and colors solidified into the mass of reporters cramming themselves into the doorway. I wasn’t at all surprised to see Chrismer taking point, a smug smile curving her bright red lips.
“Great, it’s the queen bee and her lecherous cronies.” My lips pulled back in a snarl. Besides Samson, there wasn’t anyone else in the world that I hated with such a deep gut-wrenching passion as Chrismer.
With an exaggerated sway of her hips she stepped forward, standing apart from the other reporters who regarded her with a mixture of hatred and admiration.
“Riley Cray. What a surprise to find you here,” she purred, her eyes flashing a chilling silver for a heartbeat before fading back to their usual scrutinizing blue. The saccharine sweetness of her smile was enough to make the nausea rise again.
“Chrismer,” I replied, my voice rumbling just shy of a full out growl.
Yeah I bet you’re oh-so-shocked, bitch, I snarled mentally, the wolf gnashing her teeth.
“Is it true that Samson Reed has escaped from White Sands Supernatural Penitentiary? There have been reports of several murders between here and New Mexico, all of them showing signs of a werewolf attack. Do you believe these are the acts of Reed?” she asked in rapid succession, barely giving me enough time to breathe, let alone answer.
“Fuck off,” I growled as I moved forward to slam the door in her face. If I was lucky, the impact might even break her nose.
“Tell me, Ms. Cray, how does it feel to know that a psychotic murderer is hunting you? Do you fear for your life?” she asked, thrusting her microphone towards me. I recoiled from it as if it were a poisonous snake, her words stabbing into me with vicious precision.
“You have no shame, do you?” I whispered, remembering all too clearly how she had hounded me during the trial, highlighting my suffering to increase her ratings.
“I’m simply trying to deliver the truth to my viewers,” she replied, her face the picture of innocence except for the cruelty shining in her eyes.
“You and your viewers can go to hell,” I hissed.
Ignoring me she pressed on. “How does it feel to have the tables turned—for the hunter to become the hunted?”
I knew I shouldn’t goad her, no matter how much she pissed me off. With a Day Servant, you weren’t just dealing with the human puppet, but also the power of the master pulling the strings. But I just couldn’t help myself. Every fiber of my being wanted to wipe that damn smug smile off her face with my fist. Seeing as punching her would likely land my ass in jail, I lashed out with the only viable weapon at my disposal.
“How about I ask you a question? Does your master have to bite that pretty little neck before he can get a stiffy, or are they making Viagra for the undead these days?” I asked, stepping up to the threshold, the cold air sweeping across my bare legs.
“Filthy mutt,” she snarled through gritted teeth, eyes shimmering cold silver as she drew on her master’s power, the gathering energy lifting her perfectly coiffed hair off her shoulders. I wasn’t sure what she was getting ready to throw at me, but it was guaranteed to hurt.
“Coffin whore,” I shot back, figuring if she was going to take me out, I should at least get one good jab in first.
Her delicate features pinched together as if she tasted something sour. And then her beautiful mask settled back into place, hiding the cold savagery beneath.
“You’re going to pay for that, Cray.”
“Oh, bite me you overrated hooker.”
Johnson’s fingers were bands of hot iron when they clamped onto my upper arm, pulling me back from the doorway like an errant child. Pushing me behind him, he faced Chrismer and the other reporters clustered together in a shivering huddle.
“That’s enough out of you,” he hissed in my ear, hot breath blowing across my skin. Ignoring me for the moment, he turned back to Chrismer and plastered a tight, professional smile on his face. “We are not prepared to make a statement at this time. However, we will be holding a press conference tomorrow morning at FBI headquarters in Denver,” Johnson said smoothly, for once looking like the Special Agent he was rather than a bitter has-been.
He held onto his professionalism a moment longer as he closed the door, and I found myself reluctantly impressed. That is, until he rounded on me and the professional fa?ade fell, replaced with a look of seething anger.
“You. Sit. Now,” he ground out, biting off each word sharply as he extended a single thick finger towards one of the beds.