Lover Revealed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #4)(6)

The middle of March was still winter so far as upstate New York was concerned, and the night was meat-locker cold. As he walked alone down Trade Street, his breath left his mouth in white clouds and drifted over his shoulder. The chill and the isolation suited him: He was hot and crowded even though he’d left the club’s crush of sweaty people behind.

As he went along, his Ferragamos hit hard against the sidewalk, the heels grinding the salt and sand on the little concrete strip between dirty snowbanks. In the background, muffled music thumped out of the other bars on Trade, though business hours were soon going to be over.

When he came up to McGrider’s, he popped his collar and up’d his pace. He avoided the blues bar because the boys on the force hung out there and he didn’t want to see them. Far as his former colleagues in the CPD knew, he’d up and disappeared, and that was the way he wanted to keep it.

Screamer’s was next and hard-core rap pounded, turning the whole damn building into a bass extender. When he got to the far side of the club, he paused and looked down the alley that ran the length of the place.

It had all started here. His weird trip into the vampire world had started right here the previous July, with a car bomb he’d investigated at this site: a BMW blown to shit. A man ashed. No material evidence left behind except a couple of martial-arts throwing stars. The hit had been very professional, the kind of thing that sent a message, and shortly thereafter the bodies of the prostitutes had appeared in the alleys. Throats cut. Blood levels sky high with heroine. With more martial-arts weapons around.

He and his partner, José de la Cruz, had assumed the blast was a pimp-related turf toaster and the dead women payback, but soon enough he’d learned the whole story. Darius, a member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, had been taken out by his race’s enemies, the lessers. And the murders of those prostitutes were part of a strategy by the Lessening Society to capture civilian vampires for questioning.

Man, back then he’d never have even guessed vampires existed. Much less drove $90,000 BMWs. Or had sophisticated enemies.

Butch walked down the alley, right to the spot where the 650i had been blown to high heaven. There was still a black soot ring on the building from the bomb’s heat and he reached out, putting fingertips on the cold brick.

It had all started here.

A gust of wind came up and flashed under his coat, lifting the fine cashmere, getting to the fancy suit underneath. Dropping his hand, he looked down at his clothes. Overcoat was Missoni, about five grand. Suit underneath, an RL Black Label, about three grand. Shoes were amateur night at a mere seven hundred bucks. Cuff links were Cartier and into the five-digit category. Watch was Patek Philippe. Twenty-five grand.

The two forty-millimeter Glocks under his pits were two grand a piece.

So he was sporting…Jesus Christ, about $44,000 worth of Saks Fifth and Army/Navy. And this wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg for his threads. He had two closets worth of the shit back at the compound…none of which he’d bought with his own cash. All of which had been purchased with Brotherhood green.

Shit…he dressed in clothes that weren’t his. Lived in a house and ate food and watched a plasma screen TV…none of which were his. Drank Scotch he didn’t pay for. Drove a sweet ride he didn’t own. And what did he do in return? Not a whole hell of a lot. Every time action went down, the brothers kept him on the sidelines—

Footsteps rang out at the far end of the alley, pounding, pounding, getting closer. And there was more than one set.

Butch eased back into the shadows, slipping free the buttons on his coat and his suit jacket so he could get at his heat if he needed it. He had no intention of mixing up someone else’s biz, but he wasn’t the type to hang back if an innocent was getting cracked.

Guess the cop in him wasn’t dead yet.

As the alley had only one open end, the track-and-fielders heading this way were going to pass by him. Hoping to avoid any crossfire, he got tight with a Dumpster and waited to see what turned up.

Young guy flew by, terror on his face, his body all jerky panic. And then…well, what do you know, the two thugs in his trunk were pale haired. Big as houses. Smelling like baby powder.

Lessers. Going after a civilian.

Butch palmed one of his Glocks, speed-dialed V’s cell phone, and took off in pursuit. As he ran, the call dumped into voice mail, so he just shoved his Razr back into his pocket.

When he caught up with the drama, the three were at the base of the alley, a loose knot of bad news. Now that the slayers had the civilian cornered, they were moving all lazy, closing in, backing off, smiling, toying. The civilian was shaking, eyes so wide the whites glowed in the dark.

Butch leveled his gun at the scene. “Hey, Blondies, how ’bout you show me your hands?”

The lessers stopped and looked at him. Man, it was like getting pegged with headlights, assuming you were a deer and the thing coming at you was a Peterbilt. Those undead bastards were pure power backed up by cold logic—a nasty combination, especially in duplicate.

“This isn’t your business,” the one on the left said.

“Yeah, that’s what my roommate keeps telling me. But, see, I don’t take direction real well.”

He had to give the lessers credit; they were smart. One focused on him. The other closed in on the civilian, who looked as if he was way too scared to be able to dematerialize.

This is quickly going to become a hostage situation, Butch thought.