Читать книгу Desired - Morgan Rice - Страница 9

Kyle smashed through the stone sarcophagus with a single punch. It smashed into a million bits, and he walked right out of the standing coffin, on his feet, and ready for action.

He wheeled and looked about, ready to fight anyone who approached. In fact, he was hoping that someone approached him for a fight. This time travel had been particularly annoying, and he was ready to let his rage out on someone.

But as he looked around, to his disappointment, he saw that the chamber was empty. It was just him.

Slowly, his rage began to cool. At least he’d landed in the right place, and he could already sense, the right time. He knew that he was more of a veteran of time travel than Caitlin, and he could place himself more specifically. He looked around, and to his satisfaction, saw that he landed exactly where he’d wanted to be: Les Invalides.

Les Invalides was a place he’d always loved, one that had been important to the more evil of his kind. A mausoleum, deep underground, it was made of marble, beautifully adorned, sarcophagi lining its walls. The building had a cylindrical shape, with a soaring, hundred foot ceiling, culminating in a dome. It was a somber place, the perfect resting place for all of France’s elite soldiers. It was also the place, Kyle knew, that Napoleon would one day be buried.

But not yet. It was only 1789, and Napoleon, that little bastard, was still alive. One of Kyle’s favorites of his own kind. He would be about 20 years old now, Kyle realized, still starting his career. He wouldn’t be buried in this place for some time to come. Of course, being of his race, Napoleon’s burial was just a ruse, just a way to let the human masses think he was one of theirs.

Kyle smiled at the thought of it. Here he was, in Napoleon’s final resting place, before Napoleon had even “died.” He would look forward to seeing him again, to reminiscing about old times. He was, after all, one of few people of his kind that Kyle semi-respected. But he was also an arrogant little bastard. Kyle would have to slap him into shape.

Kyle walked slowly across the marble floor, footsteps echoing, and checked himself. He had seen better days. He had lost one eye from that horrible little child, Caleb’s son, and his face was still disfigured from what Rexius had done to him back in New York. If that weren’t enough, he now had a large wound in his cheek from the spear that Sam had hurled at him in the Colosseum. He was a wreck, he knew.

But he also kind of liked it. He was a survivor. He was alive, and no one had been able to stop him. And he was madder than ever. Not only was he determined to stop Caitlin and Caleb from finding the Shield, but now he was determined to make them both pay. To make them suffer, just as he had suffered. Sam was on his list now, too. All three of them – he would stop at nothing until he tortured each of them slowly.

With a few leaps, Kyle bounded up the marble staircase, and into the upper level of the tomb. He circled around, walking down to the end of the chapel, beneath the huge dome, and reached behind the altar. He felt its limestone wall, searching.

Finally, he found what he was looking for. He pushed a hidden latch, and a secret compartment opened. He reached in, and pulled out a long, silver sword, its hilt encrusted with jewels. He held it up to the light, and studied it with satisfaction. Just as he remembered it.

He slung it over his back, turned, and headed down the corridor, reaching the front door. He leaned back, and with one huge kick, the large oak door when flying off its hinges, the crash of it echoing throughout the empty building. Kyle felt satisfied that he had his full strength back already.

Kyle saw that it was still night, and he relaxed. If he wanted to, he could fly through the night, head right for his target – but he wanted to savor his time. Paris in 1789 was a special place. It was still, he remembered, rife with prostitutes, alcoholics, gamblers, criminals. Despite the nice veneer and architecture, there lived an underbelly that was long and wide. He loved it. The town was his for the taking.

Kyle lifted his chin, listening, sensing, closing his eyes. He could sense Caitlin’s presence strongly in this city. And Caleb’s. Sam, he wasn’t so sure about, but he knew that at least the two of them were here. That was good. Now all he had to do was find them. He would come upon them by surprise, and, he imagined, kill them both quite easily. Paris was a much simpler place. There was no grand vampire Council, like in Rome, that he had to answer to. Even better, there was a strong evil coven here, led by Napoleon. And Napoleon owed him.

Kyle decided that his first order of business would be to track down the little runt and make him reciprocate. He would enlist all of Napoleon’s men to do whatever they could to track down Caitlin and Caleb. He knew Napoleon’s men could be useful if he should run into resistance. He would leave nothing to chance this time.

But he still had time. He could feed first, and get both his feet planted firmly on the ground. Plus, his plan here was already set in motion. Before he’d left Rome, he’d tracked down his old sidekick, Sergei, and had sent him back here ahead of him. If all had gone as planned, Sergei was here already, and hard at work executing their mission, infiltrating Aiden’s coven. Kyle smiled wide. There was nothing he loved more than a traitor, than a little weasel like Sergei. He had become a most useful plaything.

Kyle bounded down the steps like a schoolboy, filled with joy, ready to plunge right into the city, to take whatever he wanted.

As Kyle headed down the street, a street artist approached him, holding out a canvas and brush, gesturing for Kyle to allow him to paint his picture. If there was anything Kyle hated, it was someone wanting to draw his picture. He was in such a good mood, though, he decided to let the man live.

But when the man pressed his case, following Kyle aggressively, thrusting his canvas towards him, he pushed it too far. Kyle reached over, grabbed his brush, and jabbed it right between the man’s eyes. A second later, the man dropped dead.

Kyle took the canvas and tore it up over his corpse.

Kyle continued on, quite happy with himself. This was already turning out to be a great night.

As he turned down a cobblestone alley, heading into the district he remembered, everything began to feel familiar again. Several prostitutes lined the streets, beckoning him. At the same time, two large men stumbled out of a bar, clearly drunk, and bumped hard into Kyle, not looking where they were going.

“Hey, you jerk!” one of them yelled at him.

The other turned to Kyle. “Hey, one-eye!” he yelled. “Watch where you’re going!”

The big man reached out to give Kyle a hard shove to the chest.

But his eyes opened wide in surprise when his shove didn’t work. Kyle hadn’t been budged at all; it had been like pushing a stone wall.

Kyle shook his head slowly, amazed at the stupidity of these men. Before they could react, he reached back over his shoulder, extracted his sword with a cling, and in one motion, swung it, chopping off both their heads in a fraction of a second.

He watched with satisfaction as their heads rolled, and both of their bodies began to slump to the ground. He put back his sword, and reached out and pulled a headless corpse to him. He sunk his long fangs right into the open neck, and drank hardily as the blood squirted.

Kyle could hear the screaming of the prostitutes erupt all around him, as they saw what had happened. This was followed by the sound of doors slamming, window shutters closing.

The whole town was already scared of him, he realized.

Good, he thought. This was the sort of welcome he loved.