Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(13)

So he could say categorically that it was far worse to have had and

lost parents, than not to have had them at all.

Yeah, sure, Tohr was technically back in the Brotherhood's mansion,

but to John he was ever away: Even though he was now saying the right things, too many takeoffs had occurred such that now that a landing might actually have happened, it was too late.

John was through with that whole Tohr thing.

"Here's a mirror. Check 'er out, my man."

John nodded a thank-you and went over to a full-lengther in the

corner. As Blay returned from his extended cigarette break and Qhuinn emerged from behind the side room's curtain, John turned around and got a look-see at what was on his back.

Oh, God. It was exactly what he wanted. And the scrollwork was

boss. He nodded as he moved the hand mirror around, checking out every angle. Man, it was kind of a shame that no one other than his boys were ever going to see this. The tat was spectacular.

And more to the point, no matter what happened next, whether he

found Xhex dead or alive, she would always be with him.

Damn him to hell, these last four weeks since her abduction had been

the longest of his life. And he'd had some pretty f*cking long days before this shit. To not know where she was. To not know what had happened to her. To have lost her . . . He felt as if he'd been mortally injured, though his 44

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skin was intact and his arms and legs unbroken and his chest unpenetrated by bullet or blade.

But then again, in his heart, she was his. And even if he got her back just so she could live a life that didn't include him, that was okay. He only wanted her safe and alive.

John looked at the artist, put his hand over his heart, and bowed

deeply. As he rose from his position of gratitude, the guy stuck his palm out.

"You're welcome, man. Means a lot that you approve. Let me cover it up now with some cream and a wrap."

After they shook, John signed and Blay translated, "Not necessary. He heals lightning-quick."

"But it's going to need time to--" The tattoo artist leaned in and then frowned as he inspected where he'd worked.

Before the guy started asking questions, John stepped back and

grabbed his shirt from Blay. The fact was, the ink they'd brought with them had been lifted from V's stash--which meant part of its composition included salt. That name and those fabulous swirls were permanent--and his skin had already healed.

Which was one advantage of being a nearly purebred vampire.

"The tat rocks," Qhuinn said. "It's pure sex."

As if on cue, the woman who he'd just balled came out from behind

the side room's curtain, and it was hard not to notice Blay's pained

expression. Especially as she slipped a piece of paper into Qhuinn's back pocket. Undoubtedly her number was on the thing, but she really didn't need to get her hopes up. Once the guy had someone, that was it--kind of like his sex partners were a meal that couldn't be re-eaten and never had any leftovers. Unfortunately said Kat von D look-alike had stars in her eyes.

"Call me," she murmured to him with a confidence that would fade as the days passed.

Qhuinn smiled a little. "Take care."

At the sound of the two words, Blay relaxed, his big shoulders easing up. In Qhuinn-landia, take care was synonymous with I'm never going to see, call, or f*ck you again.

John took out his wallet, which was stuffed with tons of bills and

absolutely no identification, and peeled off four hundreds. Which was twice what the tat cost. As the artist started shaking his head and saying it was too much, John nodded at Qhuinn.

The two of them lifted their right palms at the humans, and then

reached into those minds and covered up the memories of the last couple hours. Neither the artist nor the receptionist would have any concrete 45

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recollection of what had happened. At the most, they might have hazy

dreams. At the least, they'd have a headache.

As the pair slipped into trances, John, Blay, and Qhuinn walked out of the shop's door and into the shadows. They waited until the artist shook himself back into focus, went over, and flipped the lock . . . and then it was time to get down to business.

"Sal's?" Qhuinn asked, his voice lower than usual thanks to postcoital satisfaction.

Blay fired up another Dunhill as John nodded and signed, They're

expecting us.

One after another, his boys disappeared into the night. But before

John ghosted out, he paused for a moment, his instincts ringing.

Looking left and right, his laser-sharp eyes penetrated the darkness.

Trade Street had a lot of neon lights and there were cars going by because it was only two a.m., but he wasn't interested in the lit parts.

The dark alleys were the thing.

Somebody was watching them.

He put his hand inside his leather jacket and closed his palm around

his dagger's hilt. He had no problem killing the enemy, especially now, when he knew damn well who had his female . . . and he hoped something that smelled like a week-old dead deer stepped up to him.

No such luck. Instead, his cell phone went off with a whistle. No

doubt Qhuinn and/or Blay were wondering where the f*ck he was.

He waited a minute more and decided the information he hoped to get