“Tell them I went to DVN,” he told the priest, then teleported away.
T here was a big sign posted just inside the Brooklyn headquarters of the Digital Vampire Network. Auditions tonight for All My Vampires ! Male romantic lead role.
Connor frowned as he pushed his way into the crowded waiting room. Apparently, over a hundred young Vamps wanted to star in DVN‟s most popular soap opera. They‟d come dressed for the part, most of them in black tuxedos. Others had opted for costumes: a gladiator, a matador, a Dracula with a long silk cape. Connor wrinkled his nose at the staggering scent of cologne and hair gel.
“Hey!” A young Vamp in a black trench coat and dark sunglasses nudged him. “You have to get in line first to fill out the forms.” He pointed a black-painted fingernail at the queue that snaked around the room.
Connor reached overhead and pulled out his claymore. With a chorus of gasps and squeals, the lads parted like the Red Sea.
“Aw, shoot, he brought his own props,” muttered a young Vamp in a cowboy costume.
“And that kilt looks awesome. I wish I‟d thought of that.”
“Damn.” A Mr. Darcy impersonator tugged at his lacy cravat. “I knew I should have gone with the butch look.”
Connor strode toward the receptionist desk.
The girl‟s mouth dropped open at the sight of his drawn sword. “I—I—”
She appeared incapable of communicating in a coherent manner, so he skirted the desk and headed for the double doors behind her.
“Wait!” the receptionist cried. “You can‟t go—”
Her words were cut off when the doors swung shut. He hurried down the hallway, hoping to find the recording studio before Casimir could escape. If he could kill the bloody bastard tonight, the Malcontents would scatter in disarray. Countless human lives could be saved.
He spotted the red flashing light outside a studio and resisted the urge to rush in with a war cry. Instead, he quietly opened the door and slipped inside. It was dark by the entrance, but across the room, two dim lights illuminated the stage. Connor weaved silently around the cameras, which appeared to be turned on, although they were unmanned.
“You know I love you,” a male voice whispered behind a monitor. “You make me look so good.”
Connor groaned inwardly. The voice didn‟t belong to Casimir, but to Stone Cauffyn.
Apparently, now that the Nightly News was over, the newscaster was dallying with a lover, perhaps a makeup artist who made him look good.
Connor rounded the monitor and discovered Stone in a passionate embrace with . . . his hairbrush.
“Aagh!” Stone jumped and his brush clattered onto the floor. “I say, you scared the dickens out of me.”
Connor didn‟t know which was more bizarre: a man who used the word dickens or a man in love with his own hairbrush. “Where‟s Corky Courrant?”
“Look what you made me do.” Stone grabbed his brush off the floor and inspected it for damage. “Dash it all, I could have scratched it.”
“Where the hell is Corky Courrant?”
“No need to use such coarse language. And I strongly suggest you put away that medieval monstrosity of a weapon.” Stone turned toward the monitor where he could see his own image and ran the brush through his thick hair. “I say, I do sorely miss the good old days.
Regency England, don‟t you know? When genteel people behaved with proper etiquette and—”
“Ye bloody whoreson, tell me where Corky is!”
Stone huffed. “Miss Courrant is not here. Thank God. She wanted to sully this stage with an unsavory character.”
The studio lights turned on.
“What‟s going on here?” A bald-headed man stood by the studio door, his hand on the light switch. He eyed Connor suspiciously. “I‟ve called security.”
“I am security,” Connor replied. “Where‟s Corky Courrant?”
The bald-headed man sighed. “This is about that stupid interview with Casimir, isn‟t it? I told her it would cause
T here was a big sign posted just inside the Brooklyn headquarters of the Digital Vampire Network. Auditions tonight for All My Vampires ! Male romantic lead role.
Connor frowned as he pushed his way into the crowded waiting room. Apparently, over a hundred young Vamps wanted to star in DVN‟s most popular soap opera. They‟d come dressed for the part, most of them in black tuxedos. Others had opted for costumes: a gladiator, a matador, a Dracula with a long silk cape. Connor wrinkled his nose at the staggering scent of cologne and hair gel.
“Hey!” A young Vamp in a black trench coat and dark sunglasses nudged him. “You have to get in line first to fill out the forms.” He pointed a black-painted fingernail at the queue that snaked around the room.
Connor reached overhead and pulled out his claymore. With a chorus of gasps and squeals, the lads parted like the Red Sea.
“Aw, shoot, he brought his own props,” muttered a young Vamp in a cowboy costume.
“And that kilt looks awesome. I wish I‟d thought of that.”
“Damn.” A Mr. Darcy impersonator tugged at his lacy cravat. “I knew I should have gone with the butch look.”
Connor strode toward the receptionist desk.
The girl‟s mouth dropped open at the sight of his drawn sword. “I—I—”
She appeared incapable of communicating in a coherent manner, so he skirted the desk and headed for the double doors behind her.
“Wait!” the receptionist cried. “You can‟t go—”
Her words were cut off when the doors swung shut. He hurried down the hallway, hoping to find the recording studio before Casimir could escape. If he could kill the bloody bastard tonight, the Malcontents would scatter in disarray. Countless human lives could be saved.
He spotted the red flashing light outside a studio and resisted the urge to rush in with a war cry. Instead, he quietly opened the door and slipped inside. It was dark by the entrance, but across the room, two dim lights illuminated the stage. Connor weaved silently around the cameras, which appeared to be turned on, although they were unmanned.
“You know I love you,” a male voice whispered behind a monitor. “You make me look so good.”
Connor groaned inwardly. The voice didn‟t belong to Casimir, but to Stone Cauffyn.
Apparently, now that the Nightly News was over, the newscaster was dallying with a lover, perhaps a makeup artist who made him look good.
Connor rounded the monitor and discovered Stone in a passionate embrace with . . . his hairbrush.
“Aagh!” Stone jumped and his brush clattered onto the floor. “I say, you scared the dickens out of me.”
Connor didn‟t know which was more bizarre: a man who used the word dickens or a man in love with his own hairbrush. “Where‟s Corky Courrant?”
“Look what you made me do.” Stone grabbed his brush off the floor and inspected it for damage. “Dash it all, I could have scratched it.”
“Where the hell is Corky Courrant?”
“No need to use such coarse language. And I strongly suggest you put away that medieval monstrosity of a weapon.” Stone turned toward the monitor where he could see his own image and ran the brush through his thick hair. “I say, I do sorely miss the good old days.
Regency England, don‟t you know? When genteel people behaved with proper etiquette and—”
“Ye bloody whoreson, tell me where Corky is!”
Stone huffed. “Miss Courrant is not here. Thank God. She wanted to sully this stage with an unsavory character.”
The studio lights turned on.
“What‟s going on here?” A bald-headed man stood by the studio door, his hand on the light switch. He eyed Connor suspiciously. “I‟ve called security.”
“I am security,” Connor replied. “Where‟s Corky Courrant?”
The bald-headed man sighed. “This is about that stupid interview with Casimir, isn‟t it? I told her it would cause
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