by J. R. Ward
Lash put down the windows and cut off the hot breeze wafting into the sedan’s front seat, and by the time he pulled up to the piece-of-shit house, he was much more alert. Parking around the back, so that the Merc was shielded by the screened-in porch and the garage, he went in through the kitchen door.
“Where are you?” he called out. “What’s the update?”
Silence.
He put his head into the garage, and when he saw only the Lexus, he figured Mr. D, Grady, and the other two were probably on their way back from jumping that other dealer. Which meant he had time to grab something to eat. As he went to the fridge that was stocked for him, he called the little Texan’s phone. One ring. Two rings.
He was pulling out a deli-made turkey sandwich and checking the date when D’s voice mail kicked in.
Lash straightened and stared down at his phone. He never went to voice mail. Ever.
Of course, maybe the meeting had been delayed and they were right in the middle of it.
Lash ate and waited, expecting to hear back right away. When he didn’t, he went into the living room and fired up the laptop, accessing the GPS software that located every single Lessening Society phone on the map of Caldwell. He set the search for Mr. D’s and discovered…
The guy was traveling fast and moving easterly. And the two other lessers were with him.
So why wasn’t the guy answering his fucking phone?
Suspicious, Lash called again and walked around the shithole as the ringing went on and on. There was nothing out of place in the house as far as he could see. Living room was the same and the two bedrooms and the master were tight, with all the window frames bolted in place and the shades down.
He was calling the Texan a third time when he took the hall to the street side of the house—
Lash stopped in midstep and swiveled his head to the one door he hadn’t opened—which had a cold breeze shooting out all around its jamb.
He didn’t have to open the thing to know what had happened, but he cracked the fucker anyway. The window was shattered and there were black streaks—rubber, not the blood of slayers—around the sill.
A quick look out the gaper and Lash saw footsteps in the thin layer of snow that were headed in the direction of the street. No doubt the hotfoot routine hadn’t lasted long. There were plenty of cars around to hot-wire in this quiet neighborhood, and that kind of shit was kindergarten for any criminal worth his cock.
Grady had done a runner.
And the move was a surprise. He was not the brightest diamond in the chain, but the police were after him. Why would he risk another set of motherfuckers gunning for him?
Lash went into the living room and frowned as he looked over at the couch, where Grady had left that greased-out Domino’s box and…the CCJ he’d been reading.
Which was open to the obituaries.
Thinking of Grady’s busted knuckles, Lash went over and picked up the paper—
He smelled something on the pages. Old Spice. Ah, so Mr. D had half a brain, and had looked at the thing, too….
Lash scanned down the listings. Bunch of humans in their seventies and eighties. One in her sixties. Two in their fifties. None of which had the name Grady listed either as sur or middle. Three out-of-towners with family here in Caldie…
And then there it was: Christianne Andrews, age twenty-four. No cause of death listed, but the DOD was on Sunday, and the burial service had been today at Pine Grove Cemetery. The key? In lieu of flowers, please send donations to the CPD’s Victims of Domestic Violence Fund.
Lash shot over to the laptop and checked on the GPS report. Mr. D’s Focus was wheezing itself toward…Well, what do you know. Pine Grove Cemetery, where the once-lovely Christianne was going to rest for eternity in the arms of angels.
Now Grady’s story was clear: Asshole beats the shit out of his girl regularly until he pushes the hard loving too far one night. She kicks it and the police find her body and start looking around for the drug-dealing boyfriend who’s taking his job stress home to the little woman. No wonder they were after the guy.
And love conquered all…even the common sense of criminals.
Lash went outside and dematerialized to the cemetery, ready to do a meet-and-greet not only with that fool human, but the stupid fucking slayers who should have been watching the idiot better.
He materialized just ten yards from a parked car—which almost got him eyeballed by the guy sitting inside of the thing. Shifting quickly behind the statue of a robed woman Lash checked out what was doing in the sedan: A human was inside, going from the scent. A human with a lot of coffee.
Undercover cop. Who was no doubt hoping that SOB Grady did exactly what he was doing: namely pay respects to the girl he’d murdered.
Yeah, well, two could play at the wait-and-see game.
Lash took out his phone and shielded the bright screen with his palm. The text he sent to Mr. D was a holdback that he hoped like fuck the guy got in time. With the police on-site Lash was going to handle Grady on his own.
And then he was going to throw down to whoever had left the human alone long enough so he could bust free.
FORTY-SIX
Standing at the foot of the grand staircase, Wrath finished prepping for the meeting with the glymera by drawing a Kevlar vest onto his shoulders. “It’s light.”
“Weight doesn’t always do you better,” V said as he fired up a hand-rolled and snapped his gold lighter shut.
“You sure about that.”
“When it comes to bulletproof vests, I am.” Vishous exhaled, the smoke momentarily shading his face before it floated upward to the ornate ceiling. “But if it’ll make you feel better, we can strap a garage door on your chest. Or a car, for that matter.”
Heavy footsteps from behind echoed up around the magnificent, jewel-colored foyer as Rhage and Zsadist came down together, a pair of straight-up killers with the daggers of the Brotherhood holstered handles-down on their chests. As they stepped in front of Wrath, there was a chiming noise from the vestibule, and Fritz shuffled over to let in Phury, who had dematerialized down from the Adirondacks, as well as Butch, who’d just walked across the courtyard.
Wrath felt a charge go through him as he looked at his brothers. Even though two of them were still not talking to him, he could feel the common warrior blood running through all their bodies, and he relished the collective need to fight the enemy, be it a lesser or one of their own race.
A soft sound from the stairs brought his head around.
Tohr was coming down from the second story with care, as if he weren’t sure he trusted his thigh muscles to catch and hold his weight. From what Wrath could see, the brother was dressed in camos that were cinched onto hips the size of a boy’s, and he had on a thick black turtleneck sweater that bagged under his armpits. There were no daggers on his chest, but he had a pair of guns hanging from that hope-and-a-prayer leather belt that was holding his pants up.
Lassiter was right beside him, but the angel for once wasn’t pulling any smart-ass. Although he wasn’t looking where he was going, either. For some reason, he was staring at the mural on the ceiling, at the warriors fighting in the clouds.
All the Brothers looked up at Tohr, and he didn’t stop, didn’t meet anyone’s eye, just kept on coming until he reached the mosaic floor. Still no stopping. He passed the Brotherhood, went over to the door that led out into the night, and waited.
The only echo from what he’d once been was the set of his jaw. That hard shot of bone was parallel to the floor and then some. As far as he was concerned, he was going out and that was that.
Yeah, wrong.
Wrath walked over to him and said softly, “I’m sorry, Tohr—”
“There’s no reason to be sorry. Let’s go.”
“No.”
There was a whole lot of awkward shuffling, as if the other brothers were hating this as much as Wrath was.
“You’re not strong enough.” Wrath wanted to put his hand on
Tohr’s shoulder, but he knew that would lead to a violent shrug-off, given how Tohr’s fragile body was tensing up. “Just wait until you’re ready. This war…this fucking war is going to be around.”
The grandfather clock in the study upstairs started to gong, the rhythmic sound drifting out of Wrath’s office, over the gold-leafed balustrade, and falling to the ears of the assembled. It was eleven thirty. Time to head out if they wanted to scope the meeting locale before the glymera types arrived.
Wrath cursed under his breath and looked over his shoulder at the five black-clad fighters who were standing together in a unit. Their bodies hummed with power, their weapons not just what hung from holsters and harnesses, but also their hands and feet and arms and legs and minds. Their mental toughness was in the blood; the training and the brute strength in their flesh.
You needed both to fight. Will alone got you only so far.
“You’re staying,” Wrath said. “And that’s final.”
With a curse, he punched his way into the vestibule and out the other side. Leaving Tohr behind felt wrong, but there was no other choice. The Brother was compromised to the point of being a danger to himself, and he was a bad distraction. If he were on-site? Each one of the Brothers would have him on their minds, so the whole group would be head-fucked—not exactly what you wanted when you walked into a meeting where someone might try to assassinate the king. For, like, the second time this week.
As the outer doors of the mansion thundered shut, with Tohr on the other side, Wrath and the brothers stood in the bracing gusts that cut up the face of the compound’s mountain, barreled across the courtyard, and weaved in and out of the assembled cars.
“Goddamn it,” Rhage muttered as they focused on the horizon beyond.
After a while, Vishous turned his head to Wrath, his profile silhouetted against the gray sky. “We need to—”
The pop of a gunshot rang out, and the hand-rolled that was between V’s lips was clipped from his mouth. Or maybe it was just vaporized.
“What the fuck!” V shouted as he recoiled.
They all wheeled around, going for their weapons even though there was no way in hell their enemies were anywhere near the great stone fortress.
Tohr was standing calmly in the mansion’s doorway, his feet planted solidly, his two hands gripping the butt of the gun he’d set off.
V lunged forward, but Butch steel-barred him around the chest, keeping him from taking Tohr down to the ground.
Didn’t stop V’s mouth. “What the fuck are you thinking!”
Tohr lowered the muzzle. “I might not be able to fight hand-to-hand yet, but I’m the best shot out of all of you.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” V spat. “That’s what you are.”
“Do you really think I’d put a bullet in your head?” Tohr’s voice was even. “I’ve already lost the love of my life. Capping one of my brothers is not the kind of chaser I’m looking for. Like I said, I’m the best we’ve got with a gun, and that is not the kind of asset you want benched on a night like tonight.” Tohr reholstered the SIG. “And before you why the hell out of me, I had to make a statement, and it was better than shooting your ugly-ass goatee off. Not that I wouldn’t kill to give you the shave your chin is begging for.”
There was a long pause.
Wrath busted out laughing. Which was, of course, insane. But the idea that he didn’t have to deal with Tohr being left behind like some dog who wasn’t allowed to come with the rest of the family was such a stunning relief, all he could do was bellow.
Rhage was the first to join in, throwing his head back, the lights from the mansion catching in his bright blond hair, his superwhite teeth flashing. As he laughed, his big hand came up and landed over his heart like he was hoping he didn’t short the thing out.
Butch was next, the cop barking out loud and loosing his hold on his best friend’s torso. Phury smiled for a second, and then his big shoulders started to quake—which set Z off until his scarred face was one big, wide grin.
Tohr didn’t smile, but there was a glimmer of the way he used to be in the satisfaction with which he settled back on his heels. Tohr had always been a serious guy, the kind who was more interested in making sure everyone was chilled out and tight than cracking jokes and being a loudmouth. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t razz along with the best of ’em.
It was why he’d been so perfect as the Brotherhood’s leader. Right skill set for a necessary job: tight in the head, warm in the heart.
In the midst of the laughing, Rhage looked over at Wrath. Without a word said, the two of them embraced, and when they pulled apart, Wrath gave his brother the male equivalent of an apology—which was a good knock of the shoulders. Then he turned to Z and Z nodded once. Which was Zsadist’s shorthand of, Yeah, you were a dick, but you had your reasons and we’re cool.
Hard to know who started it, but someone put his arms over the shoulders of someone else, and then another guy did it, and then they were in a football huddle. The circle they made in that cold wind was uneven, composed of different body heights and chest widths that varied and arm lengths that were not equal. But linked together they were a unit.
Standing hip-to-hip with his brothers, Wrath saw as very rare and special what he had once taken for granted: the Brotherhood together once again.
“Hey, you wanna share some of the bromance over here?”
Lassiter’s voice brought their heads up. The angel was standing on the steps of the mansion, his glow casting a lovely, soft light into the night.
“Can I hit him?” V asked.
“Later,” Wrath said, breaking up the clinch. “And many, many times.”
“Not exactly what I had in mind,” the angel muttered as one by one they dematerialized to the meeting, with Butch driving off to meet them.
Xhex took form in a stand of pines that was about a hundred yards from Chrissy’s grave. She chose the locale not because she expected Grady to be standing over the headstone and sniffling into the arm of his eagle jacket, but because she wanted to feel even worse than she did already—and she couldn’t think of a better place for that than where the girl was going to end up come spring.
To her surprise, though, she wasn’t alone. For two reasons.
The sedan parked just around the bend, with a clear sight line to the grave, was undoubtedly de la Cruz or one of his subordinates. But there was someone else here, too.
A malevolent force, actually.
Every symphath urge she had told her to tread carefully. As far as she could tell, that thing was lesser with a nitrous oxide injection into its evil engine, and in a quick burst of self-protection, she insulated herself, blending into the landscape—
Well, well, well…another contingency heard from.
From the north, a group of men approached, two of whom were tallish and one who was much smaller. They were all dressed in black and were as fair in their coloring as Norwegians.
Great. Unless you had a new gang in town, one full of I’m-worth-it thugs who were into Preference by L’Oréal, that bunch of blondies were slayers.
The CPD, the Lessening Society, and something worse, all trolling around Chrissy’s grave? What were the chances?
Xhex waited, watching the slayers splinter apart and find trees to shadow themselves behind.
There was only one explanation: Grady had fallen in with the lessers. Not a surprise, considering they recruited from criminals, especially the violent kind.
Xhex let the minutes tick by, Milk Dudding the sitch, just waiting for the burst of action that was inevitable, given a movie with this sort of cast. She was due back at the club, but shit was just going to have to roll there without her, because there was no way she was leaving.
Grady had to be on the way.
A little more time passed, and there were lots more cold wind and many more clouds drifting dark blue and bright gray across the face of the moon.
And then, just like that, the lessers walked off.
The malevolent presence dematerialized as well.
Maybe they had given up, but it didn’t seem likely. From what she knew about lessers they were a lot of things, but ADD was not one of them. This meant either something more important had gone down, or they’d changed their—
She heard a rustle across the ground.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Grady.
He was huddling against the cold, his arms tucked into a black parka that was too big for him, his feet shuffling through the thin snow cover. He was looking all around, searching the graves for the newest one, and if he kept going, he was going to find Chrissy’s soon enough.
Of course, that also meant he was going to see the cop in the unmarked. Or the cop was going to see him.
Right. Time to make a move.
Assuming the slayers stayed gone, Xhex could deal with the CPD.
She was not going to lose this opportunity. No fucking way.
Turning her phone off, she got ready to go to work.
FORTY-SEVEN
Goddamn it, we have to go,” Rehv said from behind his desk. As he ended yet another call to Xhex’s cell, he tossed his new phone like it was nothing but a piece of junk, something which was clearly getting to be a bad habit. “I don’t know where the hell she is, but we have to go.”
“She’ll come back.” Trez pulled on a black leather trench coat and headed for the door. “And better to have her out than in, given her mood. I’ll get with the shift supervisor and tell him to run any shit through me, then I’ll go get the B.”
As he left, iAm double-checked the two H&Ks under his arms with lethal efficiency, his black eyes calm, his hands steady. Satisfied, the male picked up a steel gray leather trench and put it on.
The fact that the brothers’ coats were similar made sense. iAm and Trez liked the same things. Always. Though they weren’t twins by virtue of birth, they dressed similarly and were always armed with identical weapons and consistently shared the same thoughts, values, and principles.
There was one way they were different, however. While iAm stood by the door, he was silent and still as a Doberman on duty. But his lack of chat didn’t mean he wasn’t as deadly as his brother, because the guy’s eyes spoke volumes even as his mouth was screwed down tight: iAm never missed a thing.
