by J. R. Ward
John crossed his arms over his chest to keep from commenting on the lockdown, and as the Jeopardy! theme played in his head, he felt like he was going to explode.
Z’s hard stare sure as hell didn’t help.
Ten minutes later, the sound of those shutters lifting all around the mansion broke up the standoff and Z nodded at the door. “Okay, go now if you want. At least you won’t fry out.” John turned away. “I catch you without your ahstrux nohtrum again, I’m turning you in.”
Qhuinn cursed. “Yeah, and then I’ll get fired. Which means V’ll Donald Trump my ass with a dagger. You’re welcome.”
John gripped the knob and yanked his way out of the house, his skin feeling too tight. He didn’t want trouble with Z because he respected the guy, but he was pretty damned volatile and the trend suggested that was only going to get more true.
In the garage, he hung a louie and headed for the outside door that was on the back wall. As he went along, he refused to look at the coffins that were stacked across the way. Nope. Didn’t need the image of even one in his head right now. Sixteen? Whatever.
Opening the steel door, he stepped onto the long rolling lawn that stretched out around the drained swimming pool and eased down to the forest edge and the retaining wall. He knew that Qhuinn was right on his ass because the scent of disapproval contaminated the fresh air sure as mold in a basement. And Blay was with them as well, going by the cologne.
Just as he was about to dematerialize, his arm was grabbed hard. As he wheeled around to tell Qhuinn to fuck himself, he stopped.
Blay was the one doing the holding and the redhead’s blue eyes were burning.
The guy signed as opposed to spoke, probably because it forced John to pay attention.
You want to get yourself killed, fine. At this point, I’m resigning myself to that possibility. But you don’t endanger others. I won’t stand for that. Don’t leave without telling Qhuinn again.
John glanced over the guy’s shoulder at Qhuinn, who was looking as if he wanted to hit something he was so frustrated. Ah, so that was why Blay was doing the signing thing. Didn’t want the third wheel in this dysfunctional triumvirate to see what was being said.
We clear? Blay signed.
It was a rarity that Blay ever punched a hole in the wall of opinion. And that made John explain himself.
I can’t promise I won’t need to bolt, John signed. Just can’t do it. But I will swear that I will tell him. At least that way he can get out of the house.
John—
He shook his head and squeezed Blay’s arm. I just can’t promise anyone that. Not with where my head’s at. But I won’t leave without telling him where I’m going or when I’ll be back.
Blay’s jaw worked, clenching and releasing. He wasn’t stupid, however. He knew when there was a nonnegotiable on the table. Okay. I can live with that.
“You two want to share some love?” Qhuinn demanded.
John stepped back and signed, We’re going to the Xtreme Park until ten. Then we go to St. Francis Avenue. Trez texted me.
He dematerialized, traveling south and west, taking form behind the shed they’d hung around the night before. As his crew appeared behind him, he ignored the tension that clouded and weighted down the air.
Staring across the concrete, he traced the various players. That young gun with the busy pockets was still smack in the center of it all, leaning against one of the ramps, flicking a lighter so that it sparked but didn’t catch. There were about a half dozen skaters riding the hard stone and another dozen talking and spinning the wheels on their boards. Seven cars of various meh description were parked in the lot, and as the police rolled by slowly and kept going, John was feeling like this was a colossal waste of time.
Maybe if they headed deeper into downtown and trolled the alleys they’d have more—
The Lexus that wheeled up into the lot didn’t park in one of the spaces. It stopped perpendicular to those seven rear bumpers . . . and what got out from behind the wheel looked like a high school kid, what with the baggy jeans and the cowboy hat.
But the breeze that floated over smelled like a morgue with no central AC.
And also of . . . Old Spice?
John straightened, his heart going all hi-how’re-ya. His first thought was to lunge out and tackle the bastard, but Qhuinn caught him with an arm bar.
“Wait for it,” the guy said. “Better to find out the whys.”
John knew his buddy was right, so he pulled the parking brake on his body and got busy memorizing the license plate on the chromed-out LS 600h.
The sedan’s other doors opened and three guys got out. They were not as pale as really old lessers got, but they were a fair shade of white boy, for sure, and they stank to high heaven.
Man, that baby-powder shit was straight-up nasty in the nose.
With one slayer staying behind to watch the ride, the other two fell into formation with the little cowboy in front. As they walked onto the concrete, all the eyes in the park went to them.
The kid by the middle ramp straightened and put his lighter in his pocket.
“Shit, I wish we had my fucking ride,” Qhuinn whispered.
True enough. Unless there was a skyscraper nearby where they could get a roof’s-eye view, there would be no way of tracking the Lexus.
The dealer didn’t move as he was approached and didn’t seem surprised by the visit, so chances were this was an arranged meeting. And what do you know, after some conversating, the slayers surrounded the guy and the bunch walked back over to the sedan.
All but one lesser got in the car.
Decision time. Did they bust into a vehicle, hot-wire it, and take off in pursuit? Did they materialize onto the hood of the fucking Lexus and throw down? Trouble was, both of those solutions ran the risk of a serious disturbance of the peace—and there was only so much mental cleanup they could do on a group of twenty humans.
“I think one’s staying behind,” Qhuinn murmured.
Yup. Flyboy was getting left in the lot as the Lexus K-turned and started to head out.
Letting the car go was the hardest thing John had ever done. But the reality was, that bunch of bastards had just picked up one of the prime dealers of the territory—so they were going to be back. And they’d left a lesser behind.
So there were things to keep him and his boys busy.
John watched the slayer walk into the park. Unlike the guy he was taking the place of, he was a roamer, pacing off the perimeter, meeting all of the eyes that were on him. He clearly made the skaters anxious and a couple of them who’d made buys the night before left. But not everyone was wary . . . or sober enough to be concerned.
As a soft ticking sound rose up, John looked down at himself. His foot was tapping in the dirt, going up and down as fast as a rabbit’s.
But he wasn’t going to blow it. He waited behind the shed . . . and waited . . . and waited.
It took the fucker nearly an hour to wander his nasty ass around, but when he was finally in range, all that foot tapping was so worth it.
With a quick shot of mental will, John canned the closest street lantern to give them a little privacy. And as the bastard looked up, John stepped out from behind the shed.
The lesser’s head snapped around and clearly he recognized that the war had just come and knocked on his door: The sonofabitch smiled and put his hand into his jacket.
John was not concerned that he was going to flash heat. The one rule of engagement was that there was no going at it in front of human bystand—
An autoloader appeared and went off in a quick one-two punch, the discharged shot sounding out with a pop that carried loud as a curse through the park.
John dived for cover, a whole lot of what-the-fuck giving him wings. And then more bullets went flying, the lead ricocheting off concrete as humans screamed and scrambled.
Behind the shed, he slammed his back against the wood and pulled his own piece. As Blay and Qhuinn slid into home, the
re was a split second of who’s-bleeding? that coincided with a pause in the bullet shower.
What the fuck is he thinking? Qhuinn signed. Public much?
Heavy footsteps approached and there was the clicking sound of a sleeve of ammo being changed. John glanced at the shed door. The Master Lock on a chain was a godsend, and he reached up with his palm, mentally unlocking the thing and slipping it free of its links so that it hung loose.
Go around the next corner, John told his boys. And make like you’re wounded.
Oh, hell, no—
John swung his gun muzzle into Qhuinn’s face.
As the guy recoiled, John just stared right into his buddy’s blue and green eyes. This was going down John’s way: He was going to be the one to do business with the slayer. End of discussion.
Fuck. You, Qhuinn mouthed before he and Blay dematerialized.
With a loud groan, John let himself fall hard to the side, his body hitting the ground like a massive bag of concrete. Sprawling out on his stomach, he kept his SIG under his chest with the safety still off.
The footsteps grew closer. And so did a low laugh, like the lesser was having the time of his life.
When Lash returned from his father’s, he took form in the bedroom next to the one he kept Xhex in. As much as he wanted to see her, he stayed away. Every time he came back from Dhunhd, he was a waste of space for a good half hour and he wasn’t about to be stupid and give her a chance to kill him.
Because she would. And wasn’t that sweet?
Lying down on the bed and closing his eyes, his body was slow and cold, and as he breathed deep, he felt as though he was thawing out like a slab of beef. Not that it was freezing on the other side. In fact, his father’s digs were toasty and well-appointed—assuming you were into the Liberace shit.
Daddy-o had almost no furniture, but enough candelabra to sink a ship. The oh-chillies seemed to have something to do with the leap back into this reality and every time he returned to this side, it was more of a struggle to rebound. The good news was that he didn’t think he was going to have to go over there as much. Now that his bag of tricks had been fully explored and mastered, there was really no need, and truth was, the Omega wasn’t exactly stimulating company.
It was a case of enough-about-me-what-do-you-think-about-me. And even if said demand for ego masturbation was being thrown out by an admittedly powerful, evil fucker who happened to be your pops, it got old fast.
Besides, his father’s love life was disturbing as shit.
Lash didn’t even know what those fucking things in that bed were. Black beasts, yeah, but the sex of them was as indiscernible as their species, and the way they oiled around was creepy. Plus they were always looking for a fuck even if there was company present.
And his father never said no.
As a beep sounded out, Lash reached into his suit jacket for his phone. It was a text from Mr. D: On the way. Gots the guy.
Lash looked at the clock and shot upright, thinking that the time couldn’t be right. He’d come back two hours ago—how had he lost track so badly?
Going vertical threw his stomach in a roll and putting his hands up to rub his face took more effort than it should have. The deadweight of his body, coupled with the aches, made him remember back to a time when he’d gotten colds or flus. Same feeling. Was it possible he was getting sick?
Made him wonder if anyone had come up with a product like Dead-quil or some shit.
Probably not.
Letting his arms fall into his lap, he glanced over to the bathroom. The shower seemed miles away and not really worth the effort.
It took him another ten minutes before he could throw off the lethargy, and when he got to his feet, he stretched hard to get his black blood flowing. The bathroom turned out to be not miles away but a matter of yards, and with each step he felt stronger. Heading over to start the hot water, he admired himself in the mirror and checked out his collection of bruises. Most of them from the night before were gone, but he knew he was going to get more—
Lash frowned and lifted up his arm. The sore on the inside of his forearm was larger, not smaller.
When he prodded it with his finger, it didn’t hurt, but the thing looked nasty as shit, a flat, open wound that was gray in the middle and bordered by a black line.
His first thought was that he needed to go see Havers . . . except that was ridiculous and nothing but a remnant from his old life. Like he was going to show up at the clinic and be all, Hey, could you fit my ass in?
Besides, he didn’t know where they’d moved the damn thing to. Which was the problem with a successful raid. Your target took your threat seriously and went deep underground.
Getting under the warm spray, he was careful to scrub the spot with some soap, figuring if it was some kind of infection that had to help; and then he thought about other things.
He had a big-ass night. The induction at eight. Meeting with Benloise at ten.
Back here for some more lovin’.
When he got out, he dried himself and inspected the sore. The damn thing appeared to be pissed off at the attention he’d given it, a thin black ooze welling up over its surface.
Oh, that stuff was going to be great to get out of his fucking silk shirts.
He slapped a Band-Aid the size of an index card on the thing and thought that maybe tonight he and his GF would play nice.
He’d tie her up for a change.
It took him no time at all to put on a sweet Zegna suit and head out. As he passed by the master bedroom’s door, he paused and made a fist. Banging on the wood loud enough to wake the dead, he smiled.
“Be back soon and I’m bringing chains.”
He waited for a response. When there was none, he reached for the knob and put his ear to the door. The sound of her even breathing was soft as a gentle current of air, but it was there. She lived. And she would be alive still when he returned.
With deliberate self-control, he released the knob. If he opened the door, he’d lose another couple of hours and his father was not into waiting.
Down in the kitchen, he took a stab at some eats and came up with nothing. The coffee machine had been timed to start up two hours ago, so a quick lift of the pot showed something close to crankcase oil. And cracking the fridge, he didn’t see anything that appealed even though he felt starved.
Lash ended up dematerializing from the kitchen empty-handed and with a bottomless gut. Not a great combo for his mood, but he wasn’t going to miss the show—if for no other reason than he wanted to see what had been done to him during his induction.
The farmhouse was out north and east of the brownstone, and the instant he took form on the lawn, he knew his father was inside: An odd shiver in his blood bubbled up every time he was around the Omega, like an echo in an enclosed space . . . although he wasn’t sure whether he was the sound and his father the cave, or if it was the other way around.
The front door was open, and as he mounted the porch steps and went into the shitty little hall, he thought about his induction.
“When you became truly mine.”
Lash wheeled around. The Omega was in the living room, his white robes covering his face and hands, his black energy seeping out onto the floor, a dark shadow formed by no illumination.
“Are you excited, my son?”
“Yeah.” Lash glanced over his shoulder at the dining room table. The bucket and the knives that had been used on him were right there. Ready and waiting.
The sound of gravel crunching under tires had him turning to the door. “They’re here.”
“My son, I should like you to bring me more. I find myself hungry for fresh ones.”
Lash went to the doorway. “No problem.”
In this at least, they were fully aligned. More inductees meant more money, more fighting.
The Omega came up behind Lash and there was a soft brushing movement as a black hand ran down his spine. “You are a good son.”
For a split s
econd, Lash’s dark heart ached. The phrase was exactly the one the vampire who’d raised him had said from time to time. “Thanks.”
Mr. D and the two others got out of the Lexus . . . and brought the human forward. It hadn’t dawned on the little bastard yet that he was a pair of jeans and a T-shirt away from being a sacrificial lamb. But the instant he got a look-see at the Omega, shit was going to become clear as a bell.
TWELVE
As John lay facedown and the footsteps of his enemy got closer, he breathed through his nose and got a sinus-load of fresh dirt. Pulling a possum was not a bright idea generally speaking, but this motherfucker with the epileptic trigger finger didn’t fit the profile of someone who was going to be too careful about whether he’d hit his mark or not.
Letting loose the lead in the middle of a public park?
Had the idiot never heard of the Caldwell Police Department? The Caldwell Courier Journal ?
The boots stopped and that sweet, choking smell lessers carried on their skin nearly made him gag. But funny how life and death got the attention of your esophagus.
He felt something blunt push at his left arm, like the slayer was checking with his boot to see if they were in toe tag territory. And then on cue, Qhuinn let out a low, pathetic moan from around the far side of the shed.
Like his liver was leaking into his colon.
The boots moved down John’s body as the bastard wandered forward to investigate and John cracked an eye. The slayer was pulling a Hollywood, his gun held straight out in a double-palm grip, the muzzle swinging from side to side with more affect than effect. Still, though he looked all Crockettand-Tubbs ridiculous with that theatrical bust-a-move, bullets were bullets and it would take only a quick shift in direction and John was at point-blank range.
Good thing he didn’t give a shit. As the fucker wedding-marched it toward Qhuinn’s moans, an image of Xhex’s face sprang John up off the ground in a single lithe move. He landed on top of the lesser’s thick back, latching on with his free arm and both of his legs as he put his gun to that pale temple.