Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(49)

Up ahead, the front door was a massive, ornately carved thing, with

glass into which iron bars were set. But all they had for locks were simple dead bolts.

Candy-from-a-baby time.

She walked up, put her hand on the Schlage mechanism, and focused

what she had left of her energy on shifting the pins. One . . . two . . .

three . . . and the fourth.

Throwing the door wide, she had one foot outstide when she heard the

creak of someone coming into the kitchen.

Oh shit, Lash was back. He'd come back for her.

In a flash she was gone, panic giving her wings that her focused mind put to good use. Given the shape she was in, she knew she wasn't going to make it far and decided the best she could do was her basement place. At least there, she could be safe while she regrouped.

Xhex took form in the sheltered alcove that led down into her studio

and sprang the copper locks with her mind. As she went through the door, the motion-sensing lights came on in the whitewashed corridor, and she lifted her arm to shield her eyes as she stumbled down the steps. Locking the door with her thoughts, she tripped forward, becoming dimly aware she had a limp.

The impact of the wall? The scramble down the stairs? Who the f*ck

knew or cared.

She made it into her bedroom and shut herself in. As the automatic

lights came on, she looked at the bed. Clean white sheets. Pillows all arranged. Duvet spread flat.

She didn't make it to the mattress. As her knees gave out, she let

herself go, her skeleton collapsing in on itself until she was nothing but a pile of sticks covered by skin.

It was not sleep that claimed her as she hit the floor. But that was

okay.

Unconsciousness worked better anyway.

Blaylock reentered the brownstone with Rhage and Vishous a mere

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twenty minutes after they'd left with John. As soon as they'd gotten him back to the compound safely, they'd returned to finish the sweep of the premises: this time, they were looking for the small stuff like ID, computers, cash, drugs, anything that gave them intel.

Having watched the carnage John Matthew had thrown around, the

aftermath barely registered as Blay walked in the kitchen, and immediately started pulling open cupboards and drawers. Vishous headed up to the

second floor while Rhage rooted around the front of the house.

He was just finding his groove when Rhage called out, "The front door's wide open."

So someone had been back here since they'd pulled out with John.

Lesser? Not likely as they would never have left things unsecured. Maybe a human thief? The Brothers hadn't locked up the back when they'd taken off so perhaps someone had waltzed right in.

If it had been a human, what a sight they'd gotten. Might have

explained a rushed exit out the other way.

Blay popped his heat just in case there was someone in the house, and with his free hand, he was quick as he rifled around. He found two cell phones in a drawer with the knives, neither of which had chargers--but V

would solve that. There were also some business cards by the phone, but they were all for humans in the contracting trade--who had probably been used to work on the brownstone.

He was tackling the cupboards under the counter when he frowned

and looked up. Right in front of him was a bowl of fresh apples.

Glancing down in the direction of the stove, he saw some tomatoes.

And a loaf of French bread in a paper wrapper.

Straightening, he walked over to the Sub-Zero and cracked the thing

open. Organic milk. Takeout from Whole Foods. A fresh turkey ready to be cooked. Smoked Canadian bacon.

Not exactly prisoner food.

Blay looked up at the ceiling, where heavy footsteps sounded out as V

went from room to room. Then his eyes traced the kitchen as a whole, from the cashmere dress coat draped over a stool to the copper pans stacked in the open shelving to the coffeepot that had a brew in its belly.

Everything was name-brand and new and neater than a picture out of a

catalog.

This was up to Lash's standards for real . . . but lessers weren't supposed to be able to eat. So unless he was treating Xhex like a queen, which was highly unlikely . . . someone was chowing down on a regular basis in this house.

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The butler's pantry was right off the kitchen and Blay stepped through the wet remains of the slayer to give the shelved room a quick once-over: enough canned foods to keep a household going for a year.

He was on his way out when his eyes caught something on the floor:

There was a subtle series of scratches across the otherwise mirror-perfect surface of the hardwood . . . and they were arranged in a half-moon shape.

Blay's knees cracked as he got down on his haunches and shoved

aside a canister vacuum cleaner. The beadboard wall looked flush and

uninterrupted by any seams that shouldn't have been there, but a quick rapping trip around with his knuckles and he found a hollow space. Taking out his knife, he used the hilt as a sonar device to determine the precise dimensions of the hidden tuck hole; then he flipped the weapon around and penetrated the tongue-and-groove pattern with the tip of the blade.

Forcing open the cover, he took a penlight and flashed it inside.

Trash bag. The Hefty kind that was the color of lesser blood.