Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Colletion_ Books 11-15 - Laurell K. Hamilton [542]
“I haven’t killed innocent civilians because my master doesn’t like strippers.”
“I killed more people as a hunter than I’ve killed as a vampire,” he said. He tried to turn around and look at me, but apparently that hurt too much.
We were on a plot of grass, with flowers to one side and the parking lot to the other. “Good enough,” I said.
Zerbrowski turned, and Smith moved with him. They turned the vamp around so I could see his face. “I kill because the law says I can, not because I want to,” I said.
“Liar.”
“Knees,” I said.
He fought them, and I didn’t blame him. I shot him in the leg, and he collapsed to the ground. I hadn’t expected to have to shoot him so soon, or for wounding. The echo of the gun up my arm thrilled through my body, like the gun was where all the adrenaline came from, tingling up my arm.
Smith looked pale. Zerbrowski grim. But they still had his arms, even with him on the ground.
“I can make this quick, Cooper, or I can make it slow. Your choice.” My voice was empty. Nothing showed on my face. I just looked at him and knew that if he struggled I would shoot him by inches, until he was too wounded to get away, and I could let Zerbrowski and Smith move away without risking Cooper getting away.
He struggled, and I shot him again.
Smith let go of the arm. “I can’t do this. This isn’t right.”
“Then get the fuck away from him,” I said, and there was anger in my voice now, because I agreed with Smith. “Zerbrowski.”
“Yeah.” His voice was very careful.
I had the gun on Cooper, and my body had gone quiet, the anger sliding away on the nice white static in my head. “Move.”
He moved. Cooper tried to levitate. I figured he would. I put two shots into the center of his body, and he collapsed back to earth. He hadn’t been able to fly in the church when he was healthy, I hadn’t expected him to get better wounded. He didn’t.
I walked up to him, gun in a two-handed grip, aimed on the center of his forehead. “You’re enjoying this,” he said, and he made a sound in his throat. There was blood on his lips, his blood.
“No,” I said, “I’m really not.”
“Liar,” he said again, and tried to spit blood at my feet, but apparently his jaw hurt too much, and it made him writhe on his knees.
“I don’t want to kill you, Cooper, and I don’t enjoy it.”
He looked up at me, puzzled. “You feel empty inside. I enjoyed killing.”
“Bully for you,” I said, and I knew I should have pulled the trigger, should have ended it. Never let them talk.
“You really don’t enjoy this, do you?” he asked.
“No,” I said, looking into those brown eyes.
“Then how do you stay sane?”
I let all the air ease from my body, as the world narrowed down to the center of his forehead. But I could still see his eyes, so alive, so . . . real. I answered him, “I don’t know.” I squeezed the trigger, and the impact knocked him backward. He fell on his side, and I moved up on him, gun still held two-handed, because whether he was dead or whether he wasn’t, I wasn’t done.
He had a smallish hole in the middle of his forehead above his surprised eyes. I fired into his forehead until the top of his head exploded in brains and bone. Decapitation was nice, but spilling the brains all over the grass works, too. I switched my aim to his chest, and fired until my gun emptied. Then I got a second clip from my belt, reloaded and fired into his chest until I could see light through his body. Legally I could not carry my vamp executioner kit in the car unless I had a current warrant. I’d left home without a warrant, so my sawed-off shotgun was at home with my stakes and machete. Handguns will do the job, but it takes longer, and it wastes a hell of a lot of ammo.
The last gun shot echoed into the night. My ears were full of that ringing silence that happens when you’ve fired that many shots from that close a range without ear protection. I was standing over the body, one foot on its shoulder, pinning it to the ground.