longer children but savage, empty vessels whose only purpose was to help their significant harvest more souls.
And kill anyone who tried to stop them.
As they circled around him, he yanked the switchblade from his neck, blood pumping from the wound, spurting across the alley wall, then running down the front of his jacket. With a knife in each hand now, he widened his stance and waited for their soulless gazes to connect-that silent signal that the attack was on.
Then it came and they all moved in unison, approaching him from three different directions. The girl and one of the boys had knives of their own and the second boy carried a length of two-by-four, three sharp nails protruding from one end.
The weapon came at him fast and hard, swung like baseball bat, but he deflected it with his right forearm, feeling the sting of one of the nails. Stepping forward, he arced his arm and scraped the Roman across the kid’s chest, opening a deep, bloody gash. The kid’s eyes went wide and he stumbled back, grabbing at the wound-but it was too late. The blow was fatal and the kid knew it.
A split second later he was dust.
One down, but the other two were still in motion, the girl coming up on his left side, thrusting her knife at him. It was a good six inches long and it sank deep, just under his rib cage, its heat radiating painfully through his body.
Without hesitating, he swung his left arm out, slashing her forehead with the switchblade, then brought a leg up and kicked, the sole of his boot slamming into her chest, knocking her to the ground. Then he turned his attention to her boyfriend, who came at him in a headlong charge.
The kid was making it too easy.
He simply sidestepped and swung the Roman, its blade slicing through the kid’s neck with surprisingly little resistance. The kid’s head tumbled to the ground and burst into a cloud of dust, followed shortly by his body.
But it wasn’t over yet.
The girl was on her feet again, and despite the curtain of blood running down her face, she wasn’t about to give up. He could see that she was ready to make another charge, and he didn’t feel like wasting any more time on her.
Dropping the switchblade, he reached behind his back, freed his Glock 20 from his waistband, then swung his arm around and fired, putting two bullets in her chest.
She blew backwards onto the asphalt, her mouth opening and closing like a grounded carp, then the inevitable happened and all that was left of her was a pile of black dust.
When he turned his attention again to Zack, he wasn’t surprised to find that the punk had fled, leaving behind a smelly puddle of urine.
But there wasn’t much he could do about it now.
He was hurt. Badly. And it wouldn’t be long before this body gave out on him for good.
Clamping a hand to his bloody neck, he pulled the knife from his side, tossed it to the ground, then made his way toward the mouth of the alley, knowing he’d have to temporarily forego his surveillance of Jenna.
Not something he wanted to do, but he had no choice.
It was time to find a new skin.
23
The one who called himself Jonathan Beel hadn’t felt like doing the interview, but the moment he saw the reporter, he changed his mind.
She was quite fetching.
It was obvious that she had dressed up for the occasion, and he had no desire to disappoint her by politely feigning indifference to her appearance. He supposed he could uncross his legs and let her have an unvarnished view of her effect on him, but he decided that this might be pushing it. He didn’t want to frighten her away.
Instead, he merely offered her his appreciative gaze, and she drank it up like a milk-starved kitten.
“So for the one or two readers out there who haven’t yet seen the show,” she said, “why don’t you explain what
They were seated in directors’ chairs just to the right of the soundstage. He’d given her a tour of the new house they’d constructed, and she’d seemed suitably impressed by it. The truth was, this was first time Beel had seen it himself. He didn’t normally spend much time on the set. He had an empire to oversee, and this was only a very small part of it.
“It’s simple,” he told her. “We put twenty people in a house and force them to live together. Ten of them lead what most of us would consider virtuous lives, and the other ten have run into a bit of trouble, so to speak. Saints versus sinners. After eight weeks of various challenges to their hearts and minds, whoever is left standing is awarded a million dollars.”
“Well, it’s obviously a winning formula.”
Beel nodded. “Six weeks at number one. The network has already renewed us for another season, which is why we built this new set. We’re casting now.”
“Great news. But what do you say to those who claim that the show is fixed?”
“In what way?”
“The Saints never seem to win any of the challenges. Only the Sinners.”
Beel laughed, waving off the accusation. “Isn’t that the way the world usually works?”
The air outside the soundstage was chilly. As he walked the reporter to the parking lot, Beel pulled off his leather jacket and threw it over her shoulders. It was a shame to cover that smooth brown skin, but chivalry was a rarity in Hollywood and was sure to win him a few points.
He wanted to seduce her the old-fashioned way.
The interview had gone quite well. After she was done with her questions, the reporter had smiled and given him a look that said she was clearly interested. He knew that he could tempt her with a walk-on in one of his episodics (he was currently producing twelve shows for various networks), or maybe an on-air reporting audition for one of his cable news channels-but that would be cheating. Beel had no desire to use any tricks with this one. He considered her a challenge, and he had a feeling his efforts would not go unrewarded.
“Do you always wear your sunglasses at night?” she asked.
Her lips were full, but not altered by collagen or implants like so many of the women out here. He could imagine himself biting into the lower one, hearing her cry out in pain as he drew blood.
Then he’d move on to her nipples.
He had put on his sunglasses because he knew that his eyes gave him an unfair advantage with her. Inside the studio, she had so loved the feeling of his gaze as it washed over her, that he had decided to give himself another handicap.
“Always,” he said, in answer to her question, but didn’t offer any further explanation.
“It just seems so . . . pretentious, I guess. And I like it better when I can see your eyes.”
Of course she did.
Beel smiled. “If you could see my eyes right now, I’m afraid it might embarrass you.”
Ten points for that one.
They reached the parking lot and she moved to the slot he had reserved for her, where a worn ten-year-old Miata waited. He had expected her to be driving something a little more upscale, but then he remembered that she was a newspaper reporter.
She definitely carried her poverty well.
Stopping at the driver’s door, she opened her purse and dug around for her keys. When she found them, she turned, and Beel made sure to be standing close. Not close enough to make her uncomfortable, but enough to make his intentions clear.
She didn’t shy away. In fact, she surprised him. “Do you feel like having a drink?”
“I’d love to.”
