by J. R. Ward
Almost like eating lead would make his day.
So ready to fucking oblige, Butch leaned out around the SUV, pulled his trigger, and popped the guy right in the chest. With a grunt, the Fore-lesser staggered back, but he didn’t go down. He seemed merely annoyed, throwing off the bullet’s impact like it was nothing more than a bee sting.
Butch had no idea what to make of that, but now wasn’t the time for wondering why his fancy bullets didn’t slow that particular slayer down. Sticking his arm into the breeze, he started firing at the guy again, the shots kicking out of his muzzle in quick succession. Finally, the lesser yard-saled, falling backward in a sprawling heap—
Just as a slapping noise came from behind Butch, so loud he thought another gun was going off.
He swung around, two-fisting the Glock to keep it up in front and steady. Oh, shit!
A female with a child in her arms shot out of the house in a blind panic. And she had good reason to haul ass. Right on her heels was a hulking male with punishment on his face and a chain saw up over his shoulder. The lunatic was about to fall on the pair of them with that spinning blade, ready, willing, and able to kill.
Butch kicked up his gun muzzle two inches, aimed at the man’s head, and pulled the trigger—
Right as Vishous appeared behind the guy, reaching for the saw.
“Fuck!” Butch tried to stop his forefinger from squeezing, but the gun bucked and the bullet flew—
And someone grabbed Butch around the throat: The second lesser with the gun had moved in fast.
Butch got flipped off his feet and slammed onto the hood of the Escalade like he was a baseball bat. On impact, he lost his Glock, the weapon bouncing away, metal on metal.
Fuck that, though. He shoved his hand into the pocket of his coat and felt for the switchblade he carried. Bless the damn thing’s heart, it found his palm like it had come to a heel and he dragged his arm free. As the blade shot out, he jogged his torso to the left and stabbed the side of the slayer who held him down.
Howl of pain. Grip loosened.
Butch shoved hard against the chest above his, popping the lesser up off him. As the bastard hung in midair for a split second, Butch swung the knife in an arc. The switchblade streaked across the lesser’s throat, opening up a fountainhead of black blood.
Butch kicked the slayer to the ground and turned to the house.
Vishous was holding his own against the guy with the chain saw, avoiding the roaring blade while throwing body shots. Meanwhile, the female with the child was running like hell across the side yard while another, pale-haired lesser closed in from the right.
“Called for Rhage,” V had the presence of mind to holler.
“Going for vic,” Butch yelled as he took off. He ran flat out, his feet gouging into the ground, knees kicking up to his chest. He prayed he would get there in time, prayed he’d be fast enough…. Please, just this once…
He intercepted the lesser with a spectacular flying tackle. As they went down, he screamed for the female to keep going.
Gunshots went off somewhere, but he was too busy with a blurring struggle to care. He and the lesser rolled around in the patchy snow, punching and choking each other. He knew he was going to lose if they kept going like this, so out of desperation and some kind of driving instinct, he stopped fighting, let the slayer dominate him…and then locked stares with the undead.
That link, that horrible communion, that ironclad tie between them took root in an instant, rendering them both motionless. And with the bonding came an urge for Butch to consume.
He opened his mouth and began to inhale.
Chapter Thirty-one
Lying in the middle of the road, bleeding like a sieve, Mr. X kept his eye on the contaminated human who was supposed to be dead. The guy handled himself, especially as he took down a lesser in the side yard, but he was going to get overpowered. And sure enough, he did. As the slayer flipped him on his back, he was going to get slaughtered in—
Except then the pair of them froze, and the dynamic shifted, the rules of strength and weakness getting scrambled. The slayer might have been on top, but the human was in charge.
Mr. X became breathless. Something was happening over there…something…
But then a blond-haired Brother materialized out of thin air right beside the two. The warrior swooped down and tore the lesser off the human, breaking whatever link had been forged—
From out of the shadows, Van came over and blocked Mr. X’s view. “How’d you like to get out of here?”
Probably the safest course. He was about to pass out. “Yeah…and move fast.”
As Mr. X got picked up and rushed to the minivan, his head bobbed like a half-stuffed doll’s, and he watched through the wobbles as the blond Brother disintegrated the other lesser then knelt to check on the human.
Such fucking heroes.
Mr. X let his eyes go lax. And thanked a God he didn’t believe in that Van Dean was too much of a new recruit to know that lessers didn’t take their injured back home with them. Usually, a damaged slayer was left where he fell either for the Brothers to stab him back to the Omega or for him to gradually rot.
Mr. X felt himself get shoved into the minivan, and then the engine started and they were off. Easing over onto his back, he felt around his chest, assessing the damage. He was going to recover. It would take time, but his body wasn’t so hurt that it couldn’t regenerate.
As Van hung a sharp right, X was thrown against the door.
At his grunt of pain, Van looked back. “Sorry.”
“Fuck it. Get us gone.”
As the engine grew louder again, Mr. X closed his eyes. Man, that human showing up alive and breathing? Serious trouble. Serious trouble. What had happened? And why didn’t the Omega know that the human still lived? Especially because the guy reeked of the master’s presence?
Shit, who knew the whys. The more important thing was, now that X was aware that the man lived, did he tell the Omega? Or would that little news flash be what triggered another change in leadership and got X condemned forever? He’d sworn to the master that the Brothers had taken that guy out. He’d look like an idiot when it turned out not to be true.
The thing was, he was alive and on this side now, and he had to keep himself here until Van Dean came into his power. So, no…there would be no report on the Trojan human.
But the man was a dangerous liability. One that had to be eliminated ASAP.
Butch lay stiff on the snowy ground, trying to catch his breath, still caught in whatever the hell happened when he and one of those lessers got tight.
As his stomach rolled, he wondered where Rhage was. After Hollywood had cut off the link to the lesser and killed the bastard, he’d headed into the woods to make sure there were no others around.
So it was probably a good idea to get vertical and re-armed in case more came.
As Butch pushed himself up on his arms, he saw the mother and child across the lawn. They were cowering by a shed, wrapped up together as tight as vines. Shit…he recognized them; he’d seen them at Havers’s. These were the two Marissa had been sitting with the day he’d finally left the quarantine room.
Yeah, this was definitely the pair. The young had a cast on her lower leg.
Poor things, he thought. Huddled as they were, they were like every human victim he’d ever seen on the job, the characteristics of trauma transcending species lines: The mother’s wide eyes and pale skin and shattered illusions that life was okay were exactly what he’d dealt with before.
He got to his feet and went over to them slowly.
“I’m a—” He almost said police detective. “I’m a friend. I know what you are and I’m going to take care of you.”
The mother’s dilated eyes lifted from her daughter’s messy hair.
Keeping his voice level and not taking one step closer, he pointed to the Escalade. “I’d like you both to go sit in that car. I’ll give you the keys so you’re in control and can l
ock yourself in. Then I’m going to do a quick check-in with my partner, okay? After that, you’re going to Havers’s.”
He waited as the female surveyed him with a calculation he was very familiar with: Would he hurt her or her child? she was wondering. Did she dare trust someone of the opposite sex? What were her other options?
Keeping her daughter tight in her arms, she struggled to her feet, then held her hand way out. He came over and put his keys in her palm, knowing that V had another set so they could still get in the Escalade if they had to.
In a flash, the female turned and ran, her child a heavy, jangling load.
As Butch watched them go, he knew that little girl’s face was going to keep him up at night. Unlike her mother, she was totally calm. Like this kind of violence was business as usual.
With a curse, he jogged over to the house and shouted, “V, I’m coming in.”
Vishous’s voice drifted down from the second floor. “There’s no one else in here. And I didn’t get a plate on that minivan that took off.”
Butch checked out the body in the doorway. Male vampire, looked thirty-four years old or so. Then again, they all did until they started to age.
With his foot, Butch nudged the guy’s head. It was loose as a bow on a present.
V’s shitkickers came down the stairs. “He still dead?”
“Yup. You got him good—shit, your neck’s bleeding. Did I shoot you?”
V put his hand up to his throat, then looked at the blood on his palm. “Don’t know. He and I went at it in the back of the house and he nailed me with the saw, so this could be from anything. Where’s Rhage?”
“Right here.” Hollywood walked in. “I went through the woods. All clear. What happened to the mother and the kid?”
Butch nodded to the front door. “In the Escalade. They should go to the clinic. Mom has fresh bruises.”
“Let’s you and I take them,” V said. “Rhage, why don’t you get back to the twins?”
“Good deal. They’re heading downtown now to hunt. Be safe, you two.”
As Rhage dematerialized, Butch said, “What do you want to do with the body?”
“Let’s put it around back. Sun’ll be up in a couple of hours and that’ll take care of it.”
The two of them picked up the male, walked him through the grungy house, and laid him out next to the rotting shell of a Barcalounger.
Butch paused and looked at the hacked-out rear door. “So this guy shows up and goes all Jack Nicholson on his wife and kid. Meanwhile, the lessers have been scoping out the place and lucky, lucky they pick tonight to attack.”
“Bingo.”
“You get many domestic problems like this?”
“In the Old Country, sure, but here I haven’t heard of many.”
“Maybe they’re just not being reported.”
V rubbed his right eye, which was twitching. “Maybe.
Yeah…maybe.”
They went through what was left of the back door and locked it as best they could. On the way to the front exit, Butch saw a ratty stuffed animal in the corner of the living room, like it had been dropped there. He picked the tiger up, only to frown. The damn thing weighed a ton.
He tucked it under his arm, took out his cell phone, and made two quick calls as V worked on the front door to get it to shut. Then they walked over to the Escalade.
Butch cautiously approached the driver’s side with his hands out, the tiger dangling from one palm. And Vishous went around the hood with the same nice-’n-easy routine, coming to a halt about three feet away from the passenger door. Neither of them moved.
The wind blew in from the north, a cold, wet rush that made Butch feel the aches from the fight.
After a moment, the locks in the car were released with a punching sound.
John couldn’t stop staring at Blaylock. Especially in the shower. The guy’s body was huge now, muscles sprouting from all different places, fanning out from his spine, filling his legs and shoulders, jacking up his arms. Plus he was easily six inches taller. Christ, he had to be six-foot-four now.
But the thing was, he didn’t look happy. He moved awkwardly, facing the tiled wall for most of the time he washed. And going by his flinching, the soap he used seemed to irritate him, or maybe his skin itself was the problem. Plus he kept trying to get under the spray, only to step back and adjust the temperature.
“You going to fall in love with him now, too? Brothers might get jealous.”
John glared over at Lash. The guy was smiling as he washed his little chest, a thick diamond chain catching the suds.
“Yo, Blay, you better not drop that soap. John-boy over here’s eyeing your meat like you read about.”
Blaylock ignored the comment.
“Yo, Blay. You heard me? Or you daydreaming about John-boy on his knees?”
John stepped in front of Lash, blocking his view of the other guy.
“Oh, please, like you’re going to protect him?” Lash eyed Blaylock. “Blay doesn’t need protecting by anyone, does he. He’s a biiiiiiiiig man now, aren’t you, Blay? Tell me, if John here wants to get you off, you going to let him? Bet you will. Bet you can’t wait for it. The two of you are going to make such a—”
John lunged forward, took Lash down to the wet tile, and…beat him senseless.
It was like he was on autopilot. He just hit the guy in the face over and over again, his fists riding a wave of anger until the shower floor ran bright red all the way to the drain. And no matter how many hands grabbed at John’s shoulders, he ignored them and kept pounding.
Until suddenly he was airlifted off of Lash.
He fought whoever it was that held him, fought and scratched even as he was dimly aware that the rest of the class had shrunk back in fear.
And John kept fighting and screaming without making a sound as he was hauled out of the shower. Out of the locker room. Down the hall. He clawed and punched until he was thrown onto the blue mats of the gym floor and the breath got knocked from him.
For a moment, all he could do was stare up at the caged ceiling lights, but when he realized he was being held down, the fight rushed back. Baring his teeth, he bit the thick wrist that was closest to his mouth.
Abruptly, he was flipped over onto his stomach and a huge weight gouged into his back.
“Wrath! No!”
The name registered only nominally. The queen’s voice even less so. John was beyond angry, burning uncontrollably, flailing around.
“You’re hurting him!”
“Stay out of this, Beth!” The king’s hard voice shot into John’s ear. “You finished yet, son? Or you want to go another round with those teeth of yours?”
John struggled even though he couldn’t move and his strength was flagging.
“Wrath, please let him up—”
“This is between him and me, leelan. I want you to go to the locker room and deal with the other half of this mess. That kid on the tile is going to have to be taken to Havers.”
There was a curse and then the sound of a door shutting.
Wrath’s voice came back right next to the side of John’s head. “You think popping one of those guys is going to make you a man?”
John heaved against the load on his back, not caring that it was the king. All that mattered, all that he felt, was the fury that ran through his veins.
“You think making that idiot with the fly mouth bleed is going to get you into the Brotherhood? Do you?”
John struggled harder. At least until a heavy hand landed on the back of his neck and his face had a communion with the floor mats.
“I don’t need thugs. I need soldiers. You want to know the difference? Soldiers think.” More pressure on his neck until John couldn’t even blink for the bug eyes he was sporting. “Soldiers think.”
All at once the weight was gone, and John took a heaving, sucking breath, the air dragging over his front teeth and hammering down his throat.
More breathing. More breathing.
“Get up.”
Fuck you, John thought. But he pushed at the mat. Unfortunately, his stupid, weak-ass body felt like it was chained to the floor. He literally couldn’t lift himself.
“Get up.”
Fuck you.
“What did you say to me?” John got yanked off the ground by the armpits and came face-to-face with the king. Who was savagely pissed off.
Fear struck John hard, the reality of how badly he’d lost it dawning on him.
Wrath bared fangs that seemed as long as John’s legs. “You think I can’t hear you just because you can’t talk?”
John’s feet dangled for a moment and then he was dropped. When his knees failed him, he crumpled to the mats.
Wrath stared down with contempt. “It’s a good goddamned thing Tohr isn’t around right now.”
Not fair, John wanted to yell. Not fair.
“You think Tohr would have been impressed by this?”
John thrust himself off the floor and wobbled to a stand, glaring up at Wrath.
Don’t say that name, he mouthed. Don’t say his name.
From out of nowhere, pain lanced through his temples. Then, in his mind, he heard Wrath’s voice saying the word Tohrment again and again. Clamping his hands over his ears, he tripped over his feet, backing away.
Wrath followed, coming forward, the name getting louder until it was a screaming, relentless, pounding chant. Then John saw the face, Tohr’s face, clear as if it were before him. The navy blue eyes. The short dark military hair. The hard features.
John opened his mouth and started to scream. No sound came out, but he kept at it until the crying took over. Swamped by heartache, missing the only father he’d known, he covered his eyes and hunched his shoulders, falling in on himself as he wept.
The instant he caved it all went away: His mind silenced. The vision disappeared.
Strong arms gathered him up.
John started screaming again, but now in agony, not anger. With nowhere to turn, he clutched at Wrath’s huge shoulders. All he wanted was the hurting to stop…. He wanted the painin him, the stuff he tried to bury deep, to go away. He was raw with emotion from the losses in his life and the tragedies of circumstance, nothing but bruises on the inside.