Eternal Craving by Nina Bangs Page B

weren’t important to him. Only recruitments mattered. Fine, so he was lying. Only death mattered.
    “Of course. Sketch pad, pencil, iPod. What else would I take to a slaughter?” Stake laughed at his own joke. He didn’t expect the worker to understand.
    Tonight he was hoping for lots of beautiful blood spatters cast in complex patterns over every solid surface. His artistic soul cried out for fulfillment.
    “iPod? What do you listen to?”
    Stake smiled at him, and if his smile looked a little predatory, well, all the better. “I listen to the music of death—the sounds of suffering in a symphony of screams.” A lie. But his answer went with his image. Perception was all-important when dealing with underlings.
    Actually, he listened to sounds of the sea. He’d always felt the pull of the ocean—the ebb and flow of its tides, the crash of waves beating against the shore. It was a coming-home sound. If he didn’t know better, he could almost believe he was birthed from the sea.
    The worker frowned. “I like Maroon 5 myself. But that’s just me.”
    Another worker appeared out of the darkness. “Everything’s set up. Dave has everyone quiet and ready to listen. The fools think they’re getting paid a few bucks to listen to a motivational speaker.” His chuckle held all the maniacal glee that Stake demanded in his people.
    “Excellent. You’ve done well, worker.” Already his blood sang with the promise of death.
    His setup was simple but brilliant. Bring in a few human sheep. Add in some possible nonhuman recruits to his cause. Mix well. Allow workers to kill humans in front of possible recruits. Give recruitment speech. Sign up nonhumans who thought killing humans was tons of fun. Personally kill nonhumans who refused to sign up—the best part for him. He’d do it slowly and with great creativity.
    First, though, he’d watch his workers tear the humans apart. While he sketched the carnage, he’d look for true artists among his workers, the ones who didn’t just dispatch the humans but made the whole process into an artistic triumph.
    The first worker frowned. “My name’s Carl. Why do you call everyone worker?”
    Because your name isn’t important enough to remember. You’re not important enough to remember. “I’ve had a problem with my memory since I was young. I can’t remember names.” He shrugged. “Don’t take it personally.”
    The worker Carl looked at him as though he wanted to make more of his stupid name, but he must have seen something in Stake’s eyes that changed his mind.
    “Why don’t you ever help with the killing? It’s a helluva high.” The second worker’s eyes glowed red in the night.
    Ah, a vampire after his own heart. Maybe he’d promote him. Maybe he’d even remember his name. “What’s your name again?”
    “Keith—” The guy looked surprised. “I’ve been your assistant for a couple of weeks now.”
    “Keith. Yes.” Stake would watch how well Keith killed to night.
    Stake turned to the shadowy figures behind him. They were a collection of the dregs of Philadelphia’s paranormal society. Homicidal vampires, bloodthirsty shifters, and a few Fae and demons who were in it for the thrill. His kind of men—beings. Couldn’t be a sexist. There were a few females mixed in with them. Yes, fifteen motivated killers were more than enough to create wonderfully bloody mayhem in a small enclosed space filled with clueless humans.
    “Yeah, why don’t you ever join in the fun, Stake?”
    His first in command, old what’s-his-name.
    “I’m an artist. I choose to hold myself above the fray. I prefer to observe and record.” He freaking couldn’t kill humans. Some stupid rule made up by the idiots, er, powers who ruled them all. Stake could only orchestrate their deaths, something he did very well.
    He’d have to limit his own pleasure to night and make sure he only destroyed the nonhumans who refused to join his cause. Anything more would lower the morale