Excerpt: Before the Hysteria

Her fisted hands drilled into Oli Lemieux's chest. There would be bruises and broken ribs, his jaw was dislocated until she snapped it off--it hung as if by a thread.
By now he was laying on the ground, rasping breath, tears stinging his eyes and salty in his wordless mouth.
Rachel stepped on his neck quickly and precisely with her Louboutins. Only a minute later would she realize the blood stain but, miraculously, the stiletto hadn't broken.
Adrian found the pale, stench ridden body a few minutes later, following the scent of distinct, mingled of blood. It appeared she'd missed the vein, but caught the spinal cord. Breathing, heart beat, basic mental functions of the brain stem--all gone.
The little prick, Rachel fumed. He'd nearly betrayed her to the Senate itself. Almost mentioned her name, or mine, or Cyrille's. Maybe even her brother Adrian's. Oli Lemieux didn't deserve to live: so he didn't. Rachel killed him.
I think it all began with a pile of corpses. The ones piled up from patriotic plights and carnivorous war. A body of ancient bodies from an ancient battle thousands of years ago. The creature that rose from such carnage would be nothing but power and blood lust. A shining spectacle of a joke, created to menace the earth. In French we have a sweet, tangible word for these things: méchant. A little devil of a menance. A bully that is more serious than those found on a human child's playground, law firm, or dysfunctional family. Perhaps we were meant to be foils--for the gods spirits deemed earth to lack the proper balance of good and evil, vampires were introduced.
Luckily, «je suis pas méchant» but I am a vampire. I've let myself become a joke of an immortal--choosing to attempt blending in with humans--who I do honestly dread. It's probably similar to hate but more akin to a developing prejudice. Oh, but in true American, human style--for that is where I reside, USA, Earth (I can't wait to write that on letters as my return address: City, Country, Planet. You'll be damned if your letter entered a literal black hole.)--in this style, I am prejudiced against, as well. If only I had the passion I've developed a lack of. I hate without reason. Does this make me more or less human?
Adrian's interest was piqued. There had been a lull in conversation after he'd explained his sister's last encounter with Oli, a well-connected member of the Independents to the United States Senate. Note, for future reference, that the Independents are not a political party. They spit on politics and politicians tend to spit back with just as much folly.
"Yves," He began, "How much of this... this whole research business are you actually writing?" He launched another bagel out of orbit and moved on to overtly sugared, sour coffee. Before I answered this acquaintence/friend's question, I ask myself why I subject myself to sitting in a foodless cafe with an incubus so regularly. He ignored that question in my head (immortal twins can read minds, among other things) and waits for an answer to his spoken question.
Usually I'm not so witty/sarcastic. I'm thinking my brain has been set alight with all this new talk of secret Senate meetings and under the table discussions in Government. It evokes something special to recognize powers more corrupt in nature than your own.
"It's just research." I said, "There hasn't been much compiled of the issue yet."
"Of vampires."
He needn't be telepathic to know his voice was much too loud in such a public place.
"Have you gotten any interviews with the Independents yet?"
"Oh, no. But I've been thinking about it all week since their article in the Paper."
"They've gotten something published?"
"Not by their name, but someone I'm certain they've paid."
"Right."
"Adrian," I shifted forward. He noticed my usual stiffness. "Where's Cyrille? I need to speak to him."