“Ah, shit.” Rhiannon put the rag down in slow motion.
Though the MC was dead, a strange back beat of music kept playing. Thump-thump-thump-thump, over and over again. Light canisters continued to spin overhead, bathing the dance hall in alternating orange and blue, purple and green. The slick of blood on the stage was so dark that it looked more like ink than what coursed through human veins. As the second death unfolded, a stench of panicked sweat rose on the warm air.
Crash. A glass broke to her left as it slipped through a stunned customer’s fingers. The cowgirl.
Was this message for her? For Valerie, hidden somewhere in the crowd?
There were risks everywhere here. No win/win options. If she announced herself as a Slayer to save a string of hapless victims, then there was no guarantee the carnage would stop. Rhiannon would likely find herself bogged down in an unfair fight while the fanged muscle swept through the building, reigning terror and carnage. She could slip through the crowd and pick off as many lieutenants as possible, but that might draw the brunette’s attention. She could pull the fire alarm, which summoned the men with fire axes, who could hack through a barricaded door. Doing nothing was obviously not an option. At times like this, she wished she carried a handgun. It wouldn’t dust a vamp, but it could do a ton of cerebral damage. Usually if she did in the ring leader, the rest of the party fell apart.
She needed a compromise. This was the second floor, which meant there was a fire escape through the small kitchen behind the bar, an exit that the ring leader might not have considered. Even if she had, it was unlikely that one vamp in the alley could halt a stampeding herd of people on the stairs. The slayer grabbed the arm of the nearest bartender and stuck a phone receiver in her hand. “Duck under the counter and call the cops. Be quiet about it.” The girl nodded and happily tucked herself out of sight.
She’d need more help than that. Rhiannon looked at the frozen cowgirl. Would she step up if Rhiannon asked? As covertly as possible, the slayer opened a little swinging gate and signaled at the cowgirl. “Hey… psst. C’mere. There’s a door back there,” she mouthed and pointed over her shoulder. “Get as many people through the back as you can!” What she did with the command was up to the girl.
Rhiannon wiped her hand and looked around. Was there a way to announce herself without showing her face just yet? Strike some kind of bargain with the vampire who craved an audience? She spotted the electronic control booth in the back of the room and began to edge in that direction, weaving between the shoulders of people too confused or freaked out to take a step. Rhiannon winced as a neck snapped near the back exit. That snap reverberated in her own spine.
She crept into the door. She closed and locked it behind her, cut off the dim overhead light, and then snapped her fingers at the guy manning the controls, whose fingers lay trembling uselessly on the switchboard. “Hey. Get me a mic. Do you have a mic back here?”
He didn’t answer, just weakly pointed at a fuzzy microphone mounted on the panel, which was used to communicate during sound checks. His headphones were on crooked.
Rhiannon flipped a couple of buttons.
Scre-e-e-e-ch.
Bingo.
“Y’know, I’ve gotta hand it to you. This is pretty clever,” she said. “And you’re in luck, because I am more than willing to kick your ass tonight. Mind if we let the civilians go first? I’m not crazy about an audience.”
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ninetydegrees
no subject
on 2013-11-07 10:20 pm (UTC)Though the MC was dead, a strange back beat of music kept playing. Thump-thump-thump-thump, over and over again. Light canisters continued to spin overhead, bathing the dance hall in alternating orange and blue, purple and green. The slick of blood on the stage was so dark that it looked more like ink than what coursed through human veins. As the second death unfolded, a stench of panicked sweat rose on the warm air.
Crash. A glass broke to her left as it slipped through a stunned customer’s fingers. The cowgirl.
Was this message for her? For Valerie, hidden somewhere in the crowd?
There were risks everywhere here. No win/win options. If she announced herself as a Slayer to save a string of hapless victims, then there was no guarantee the carnage would stop. Rhiannon would likely find herself bogged down in an unfair fight while the fanged muscle swept through the building, reigning terror and carnage. She could slip through the crowd and pick off as many lieutenants as possible, but that might draw the brunette’s attention. She could pull the fire alarm, which summoned the men with fire axes, who could hack through a barricaded door. Doing nothing was obviously not an option. At times like this, she wished she carried a handgun. It wouldn’t dust a vamp, but it could do a ton of cerebral damage. Usually if she did in the ring leader, the rest of the party fell apart.
She needed a compromise. This was the second floor, which meant there was a fire escape through the small kitchen behind the bar, an exit that the ring leader might not have considered. Even if she had, it was unlikely that one vamp in the alley could halt a stampeding herd of people on the stairs. The slayer grabbed the arm of the nearest bartender and stuck a phone receiver in her hand. “Duck under the counter and call the cops. Be quiet about it.” The girl nodded and happily tucked herself out of sight.
She’d need more help than that. Rhiannon looked at the frozen cowgirl. Would she step up if Rhiannon asked? As covertly as possible, the slayer opened a little swinging gate and signaled at the cowgirl. “Hey… psst. C’mere. There’s a door back there,” she mouthed and pointed over her shoulder. “Get as many people through the back as you can!” What she did with the command was up to the girl.
Rhiannon wiped her hand and looked around. Was there a way to announce herself without showing her face just yet? Strike some kind of bargain with the vampire who craved an audience? She spotted the electronic control booth in the back of the room and began to edge in that direction, weaving between the shoulders of people too confused or freaked out to take a step. Rhiannon winced as a neck snapped near the back exit. That snap reverberated in her own spine.
She crept into the door. She closed and locked it behind her, cut off the dim overhead light, and then snapped her fingers at the guy manning the controls, whose fingers lay trembling uselessly on the switchboard. “Hey. Get me a mic. Do you have a mic back here?”
He didn’t answer, just weakly pointed at a fuzzy microphone mounted on the panel, which was used to communicate during sound checks. His headphones were on crooked.
Rhiannon flipped a couple of buttons.
Scre-e-e-e-ch.
Bingo.
“Y’know, I’ve gotta hand it to you. This is pretty clever,” she said. “And you’re in luck, because I am more than willing to kick your ass tonight. Mind if we let the civilians go first? I’m not crazy about an audience.”