Lover Revealed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #4)(61)

“In here,” Butch said, looking around for a gate.

“Give me your leg, cop.”

As Butch grabbed the top of the fence and cocked his knee, V tossed him over the thing like he was the morning newspaper. He landed in a crouch.

There they were. Three lessers. Two of whom were dragging a male out of the house by his arms.

Butch went into an instant overboil. He was radioactive angry about what had been done to him, frustrated by his fears for Marissa, trapped by his human nature—and those slayers became the focal point of his aggression.

Except V materialized next to him and grabbed his shoulder. As Butch wheeled around to tell the brother to f*ck off, Vishous hissed, “You can have at them. Just keep it quiet. We’ve got eyes everywhere and without Rhage around, I need to fight on all cylinders, true? So I can’t pull off no mhis. I’m not going to be able to mask this one.”

Butch stared at his roommate, realizing this was the first time he’d ever been given free rein to go fight. “Why are you letting me in now?”

“We gotta be sure whose side you’re on,” V said, unsheathing a dagger. “And this is how we’ll know. So I’ll take the two with the civilian and you hit the other one.”

Butch nodded once, then sprang forward, aware of a great roaring between his ears and within his body. As he gunned for the lesser that was about to move in on the house, the thing turned like he heard the approach.

The bastard merely looked annoyed as Butch ran up on him. “About time you backups showed.” The slayer pivoted away. “There are two females in here. The blonde’s really fast, so I want her—”

Butch tackled the lesser from behind and made like a vise, clamping on to the f*cker’s head and shoulders. It was like mounting a rodeo horse. The slayer went shit wild and spun around, grabbing at Butch’s legs and arms. When that didn’t work, the thing slammed the two of them back against the house hard enough to dent the aluminum siding.

Butch stayed locked on, his forearm tight against the lesser’s esophagus, his other hand on his straining wrist, pulling back. To get an even better hold, he linked his legs around the slayer’s hips, crossed his ankles, and squeezed with his thighs.

It took a while, but asphyxia and exertion eventually slowed the undead down.

Except, holy hell, by the time the lesser’s knees started to wobble, Butch knew what a pinball felt like. He’d been knocked against the house’s exterior, then its front doorjamb, and now they were in the hall and he was getting banged back and forth in the narrow space. His brains were pinging around the inside of his skull and his internal organs were like scrambled eggs, but, goddamn it, he was not letting go. The longer he kept the lesser occupied, the more chance those females had to escape—

Oh, shit, it was Tilt-A-Whirl time. The world spun and Butch hit the floor first, the lesser turtling over on top of him.

Bad place to be. Now he was the one who couldn’t breathe.

He threw out a leg, kicked against the wall, and slid out from under, wrenching the lesser’s torso. Unfortunately, the bastard pulled a twist move, too, and the two of them started rolling around and around on the nasty orange carpet. Finally, Butch’s strength wore out.

With little effort, the slayer flipped him over so they were face-to-face, then cranked Butch into a submission hold, immobilizing him.

Okay…now would be a great time for V to show up.

Except then the lesser looked down and met Butch’s eyes, and everything just slowed down. Ground to a halt. Stopped. Dead.

Another kind of vise action bolted them together, but this was a locking of stares and Butch was the one in control, even though he was on the bottom of the body pile. The lesser became transfixed and Butch followed his instincts.

Which meant he opened his mouth and began to inhale slowly.

But he wasn’t taking in air. He was taking in the slayer. Absorbing him. Consuming him. It was as before in the alley, but now no one stopped the process. Butch just kept sucking in an endless draw, a streaming black shadow passing from the lesser’s eyes and nose and mouth and going into Butch.

Who felt like a balloon filling up with smog. Who felt like he was assuming the mantle of the enemy.

When it was over, the slayer’s body just disintegrated into ash, the fine mist of gray particles falling onto Butch’s face, chest, and legs.

“Holy shit.”

In utter despair, Butch shifted his eyes around. V was leaning in through the front door, holding on to the frame as if the house was the only thing keeping him standing.

“Oh, God.” Butch rolled over onto his side, the ugly carpet scratchy on his cheek. He was wretchedly sick to his stomach, and his throat burned like he’d been hammering Scotch for hours. But worst, the evil was back in him, running through his veins.

As he breathed through his nose, he smelled baby powder. And he knew it was him, not remnants of the lesser.

“V…” he said with desperation, “what did I just do?”

“I don’t know, cop. I have no idea.”



Twenty minutes later, Vishous shut himself and his roommate in the Escalade and hit all the locks. As he dialed his cell phone and put it up to his ear, he eyed Butch. The cop was looking multifactorial ill in the passenger seat, like he was seasick and jet-lagged and coming down with the flu all at the same time. And he reeked of baby powder, as if he were sweating out the scent through every one of his pores.