Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(180)

"Hey, baby," he said. "Miss me?"

Someone let out a growl that reminded him of his rottweiler, but

whatever, now that he had everyone's attention, he was going to take

advantage of the stage time. Willing the raincoat's hood from his head, he reached up, his shadow hands undoing the black strips that covered his face to reveal his features.

"Jesus Christ . . ." Qhuinn muttered. "You look like a Rorschach test."

Lash didn't dignify that with a response, mostly because the only one he cared about was the female in the leather. Obviously, she hadn't expected his transformation, and the way she recoiled? Better than a hug and a kiss.

To disgust her was just as good as turning her on--and much more fun when he got her back and booked their asses some time in a honeymoon suite.

Lash smiled and sent his new, improved voice out into the air. "I have such plans for you and me, bitch. 'Course, you're going to have to beg me for it--"

The goddamn f*cking female disappeared.

Right into thin air.

One moment she was standing by his car; the next there was nothing

but air where she had been. Bitch was still in the alley, though. He could sense her, just not see her--

The first gunshot that rang out came from behind him and caught him

in the shoulder--or didn't, as was the case. The trench coat shredded on impact, blowing out a flap, but the nonflesh beneath couldn't have cared less--and all he felt was an odd echoing sting.

Niiiiiice. Otherwise that might have hurt.

He cranked his head around, frankly unimpressed by how obvious she

was being and how bad her aim was.

Except Xhex hadn't been the one throwing the lead. Benloise's boys

had shown up with reinforcements, and good thing they couldn't aim for shit.

Last time he'd checked, his chest was still solid, so a couple of inches down and to the center and he might have had a sieve for a heart.

Rage at the goddamn nerve of those f*cking drug slingers had Lash

457

J. R.Ward

boiling up a ball of lights-out-* in his palm.

As he flashed back into an inset doorway, he cast the energy force

down at the humans, the blast providing a helluva show as it bowling-balled the bastards, illuminating their bodies all manga-style as they were thrown to the sides in the wake of the rollout.

By this point, more Brothers had arrived and all kinds of people had

started shooting, various guns getting a workout--which was no big deal until Lash took a slug in the hip, the pain scorching through his torso and making his heart ricochet around. As he cursed and fell to the side, his eyes shifted to the alley.

John Matthew was the only one who hadn't taken cover: Team

Brother had ducked behind the Mercedes and Benloise's guys had dragged themselves behind the rusted-out shell of a Jeep.

But John Matthew had his shitkickers planted on the ground and his

hands down at his sides.

Fucker made himself one hell of a target. It was almost a bore.

Lash summoned up another ball of energy in his palm and shouted,

"You're killing yourself sure as if you put a gun to your head, you bitch-ass motherf*cker."

John started walking forward, his fangs bared, a cold rush waving out ahead of him.

For a moment, Lash felt a prickle of tension filter through the nape of his neck. This couldn't be right. No one in their right mind would ride up on his grille like this.

It was suicide.

458

J. R.Ward

SIXTY-SEVEN

Plans, plans, plans . . .

Or, in other words, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit . . .

Xhex had had the perfect plan when she'd cloaked herself in the

manner of symphaths and whispered out of sight. As an assassin, she had prided herself not only on her success rate, but the flair she brought to her work, and this payback was going to be good. Her "plan" had been to flank up on Lash unseen and slice his throat before going to work on him--while she looked in his eyes and smiled like the crazy bitch she was.

First wrinkle? What the f*ck had happened to him since she'd seen him last? The reveal he'd pulled unwrapping his head had stunned the crap out of her. He had no flesh left on his face; there was nothing but black-slicked muscle fibers and jarring bones, his bright white teeth looking fluorescent in contrast. And his hands weren't right, either. They had form, not substance. In the shadowy night . . . they were nothing but a deeper shade of darkness.

Thank God she'd gotten away from him when she did--although

maybe all that decaying was the reason she'd been able to break out of her prison: It seemed logical to assume his powers were weakening as well.

But whatever . . . her second problem in Plan Land? John. Who right

now was standing in the center of the alley with everything but a sign saying SHOOTME HERE on his chest.

It was pretty frickin' obvious that there would be no reasoning with

him--even if she took form right next to his ear and screamed into his brain, she knew there was no derailing him. He was all animal as he faced off at his enemy, his fangs bared like a lion's, his body arching forward like he was going to pile-drive the guy.

Pretty good bet that he was going to die if he didn't take cover, but he didn't seem to care and the why was clear: His bonding scent was louder than any noise he could have made with his throat, the dark spice a roar that overcame every other smell, from the city's body odor to the river's sweat to the lesser stench that was wafting up from Lash's rotting body.