Lover Avenged (Black Dagger Brotherhood #7)(160)

José walked around the scene carefully so he didn’t disturb the various prints or their little numbered flaggings or the path that had been made across the ground. It was clear what had happened. Grady had tried to run from whoever had gotten him and failed. Going by the blood streaks, he’d been injured, likely just to incapacitate him, and then moved over to Chrissy’s grave, where he had been dismembered and killed.

José went back to where the body was and took a gander at the headstone, noticing a brown streak that ran from the top down the front. Dried blood. And he was willing to bet it had been put there on purpose and when it was warm: Some of the stuff had dripped down inside the inscribed letters that spelled out CHRISTIANNE ANDREWS.

“You get this?” he asked.

The photographer glared at him. Then uncapped, snapped, and recapped.

“Thank you,” he said. “We’ll call you if we need anything else.” Or find any other guys hacked up like this.

She glanced back down at Grady. “My pleasure.”

Obviously, he thought, taking a drink from his coffee and grimacing. Old. Cold. Nasty. And not just the photographer. Man, station-house java was the absolute worst, and if he hadn’t been at a crime scene he would have ditched the swill and crushed the Styro cup.

José looked around the scene. Trees to hide behind. No lights other than on the road. Gates locked at night.

If only he’d stayed a little longer…he could have stopped the killer before they castrated Grady, fed the SOB his last meal, and no doubt enjoyed watching him die.

“Goddamn it.”

A gray station wagon with a county crest on the driver’s door pulled up and stopped, a guy with a little black bag getting out and jogging over. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No problem, Roberts.” José clapped palms with the medical examiner. “We’d love to get an estimated time of death whenever you can.”

“Sure thing, but it’s only going to be rough. Maybe a four-hour window?”

“Whatever you can tell us would be great.”

As the guy sat on his haunches and got to work, José looked around again, then went over and stared at the footprints. Three different kinds, one of which would match Grady’s. The other two would have to be cast and researched by the CSI types who were due any moment.

One pair of the unknowns was smaller than the others.

And he would be willing to bet his house and car and the college funds of both his daughters that they would turn out to be a female’s.





In the study at the Brotherhood mansion, Wrath was sitting upright in his chair with a death grip on both of the arms. Beth was in the room with him, and he could tell by her scent that she was scared shitless. There were other people, too. Talking. Pacing.

He could see nothing but blackness.

“Havers’s coming,” Tohr announced from the double doors. His voice quieted the room like a mute button, cutting off every voice and all the sounds of movement. “Doc Jane’s on the phone with him now. They’re going to bring him in one of the ambulances that has a blackout screen, because its faster than Fritz picking him up.”

Wrath had insisted on waiting for a couple of hours before even Doc Jane was called. He’d hoped his vision would come back. Was still hoping.

Praying was more like it.

Beth had been so strong, standing at his side, holding his hand as he struggled against the darkness. But a little bit ago, she’d excused herself. When she’d come back, he’d smelled her tears even though she’d no doubt wiped them clean.

That was what had made him pull the trig on the calling the white coats.

“How long?” Wrath asked roughly.

“ETA twenty minutes.”

As silence reigned, Wrath knew the other Brothers were around him. He heard Rhage unwrap yet another Toostie Pop. And V light up with the rasp of flint and an exhale of Turkish tobacco. Butch was chewing gum, the subtle snaps coming rapid-fire, like his molars were tap shoes on a hardwood floor. Z was there, and Nalla was in his arms, her sweet, lovely smell and occasional coos coming from the far corner. Even Phury was with them, having elected to stay the day, and he was standing with his twin and his niece.

He knew they were all there…and yet, he was alone. Utterly alone, sucked down deeply into his body, imprisoned in blindness.

Wrath cranked down onto the chair’s arms so he didn’t scream. He wanted to be strong for his shellan and his brothers and his race. He wanted to drop a couple of jokes, laugh this off as an interlude that was going to pass soon, show that he still had his sac and shit.

He cleared his throat. But instead of something along the lines of, This man walks into a bar with a parrot on his shoulder… what came out was, “Is this what you saw.”

The words were guttural, and everyone knew who they were addressed to.

V’s answer was low. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit.” Wrath was bathed in blackness, his brothers around him, no one able to reach him. It was what Vishous had seen. “Bull. Shit.”

“You sure you want to do this now?” V said.

“Is it the vision.” Wrath released the chair and slammed his fist onto the desk. “Is it the f*cking vision?”

“Yes.”

“The doctor’s coming,” Beth said quickly, her hand smoothing down his shoulder. “Doc Jane and Havers will talk. They’ll figure this out. They will.”