Crimson Storm (The Crimson Accord #2) - Amy Patrick Page 0,2

walking back and forth just outside the twenty-foot-high electrified fence that separated the humans from the vampires, the wide brim of his ever-present Outback hat shading his smug face from the bright overhead security lights.

He was fond of tipping that hat in mock respect whenever he noticed one of the elder vampires looking at him.

“Top of the evening to ya,” he’d say and sneer in that mean way of his, perhaps unaware that the oldest among us were often the most dangerous.

Luckily for Gatlin—and all his fellow prison guards—the vampires in this place were more likely than not pacifists, the very last among our kind who’d bite them or even want to.

That was how we’d ended up here—we’d come along peacefully when we’d been told our sudden arrests were “just routine” and would be “resolved quickly” and that our property and personal belongings would be restored to us “with all haste” after it was confirmed we weren’t part of the violent vampire resistance movement.

All lies, sadly. I’d been here for the past month without so much as a meeting with the facility’s administrators or a lawyer or judge or anyone else who might answer my questions, take my statement, or let me go home.

My situation wasn’t unique. Nathaniel Bradford, an ancient vampire who’d arrived at the Safety Center a week ago, told me he’d simply been going for a stroll outside his Beverly Hills mansion when the police slapped platinum handcuffs on his wrists and forced him into the back of a cruiser.

He’d been growing increasingly frustrated as the days passed with no resolution. Like me, he paced the perimeter fence tonight, trapped and afraid.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Gatlin through the electrified chain link. “There has been a mistake. I’ve committed no crime. I demand to speak to the administrator.”

The guard laughed. “Well you’d better stop demanding or what you’ll get is one of these solar bullets in your cold, white ass,” he shouted.

He needn’t have yelled. Nathaniel could have heard the slightest whisper clearly. We all could.

“You can’t hold me here for no reason,” the elderly vampire informed him. “This is America. I’m an American citizen. I’m entitled to due process. I fought in the Revolutionary War for Heaven’s sake.”

The guard looked more rattled than I’d ever seen him. He took a step back. “Well then you’re old enough to know better than to argue with the business end of a UV rifle.”

“I doubt you even know how to handle that weapon,” Nathaniel taunted. “Your hands are shaking like those of an untested youth. In fact, I’ve fought alongside fifteen-year-olds who quaked less. If we’d had cowards like you in our ranks, the Revolution would have failed, and you’d be speaking with a British accent, which I must say in your case would be a vast improvement.”

The guard shouldered his rifle, pointing it at Nathaniel’s face. “I’ll show you how I handle my weapon, you blood-sucking parasite.”

Gesturing to one side with the gun barrel, he said, “Now shut your mouth and get back to your area before I light you up—permanently.”

The ancient vampire’s fangs emerged from between his lips.

Oh no. This wasn’t going to be good.

It wasn’t a purposely threatening expression or even one of thirst. It was simply a natural vampire reflex, a reaction to the bald aggression in the other man’s voice. I’d had to work hard to hide the automatic response in myself at times when I’d been taunted and insulted by the guards here.

Gatlin backstepped farther from the fence, still training his rifle on Nathaniel.

“Get back. Don’t think showing me your fangers is gonna get you in to see the warden any sooner. You think you’re so smart—I can’t believe you haven’t figured it out by now... you’re never getting out of here. None of you stiffs are.”

A growl rumbled in Nathaniel’s throat, but his voice remained calm. “I’m afraid that answer is unacceptable.”

His fangs slid fully from their sockets, their ultra-white color gleaming in the moonlight as he approached the fence, stretching his hands toward it as if to rip the steel links apart.

Maybe he could. I’d never met a vampire as old as him. I wasn’t sure what they were capable of. Maybe the electric current wouldn’t affect him as it did the younger members of our race.

His pale fingers contacted the metal. And nothing happened.

No blue spark, no buzz of high voltage. Nothing to keep Nathaniel from scaling the fence and jumping to freedom on the other side.

“Whoa—wait a minute.