Lover Revealed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #4)(98)

Blaylock turned beet red and shook his head, tucking his arms around his chest.

“Okay, trainees, shoot your eyes up here.” They all looked at Z. “You want to know what it’s like, I’ll tell you.”

John got good and fixated. Z kept everything general, revealing nothing of himself, but it was all good information. And the more the Brother talked, the more John’s body vibrated.

That’s right, he told his blood and bones. Take notes and let’s do this soon.

He was so ready to be a man.



Van got out of the Town & Country, shut the passenger-side door quietly, and stayed in the shadows. What he was looking at some hundred yards away reminded him of where he’d grown up: run-down house with a tar-paper roof and a rotting car in the side yard. The only difference was that this was in the middle of nowhere, and his neighborhood had been closer to town. But it was the same two steps up from poverty.

As he scanned the area, the first thing he noticed was an odd sound cutting through the night. It was a rhythmic hitting…like someone was chopping logs? No…it was closer to pounding. Someone was pounding on what was probably the back door of the house in front of him.

“This is your target for tonight,” Mr. X said as two other lessers stepped out of the minivan. “The daylight details have been watching this place for the past week. No activity until after dark. Iron bars over the windows. Drapes are always drawn. Goal is capture, but kill if you think they’re going to get away from you—”

Mr. X stopped and frowned. Then looked around.

Van did the same and saw nothing out of whack.

Until a black Cadillac Escalade came down the drive. With its tinted windows and its spinning chrome, the thing looked like it was worth more than the house. What the hell was it doing out here in the sticks?

“Get armed,” Mr. X hissed. “Now.”

Van drew his fancy new Smith & Wesson forty, feeling the weight fill his palm. As his body primed for the fight ahead, he was so ready to engage an opponent.

Except Mr. X pegged him with hard eyes. “You stay back. I do not want you to engage. Just watch.”

You f*cker, Van thought, dragging a hand through his dark hair. You miserable f*cker.

“We clear?” Mr. X’s face was deadly cold. “You do not go in.”

The best Van could manage was a dip of the chin and he had to look away to keep from cursing out loud. Training his eyes on the SUV, he watched as the thing got to the end of the ratty little cul-de-sac and stopped.

Clearly, it was some kind of patrol. Not cops, though. At least, not human ones.

The Escalade’s engine was cut and two men got out. One was relatively normal-sized, assuming you were talking about linebackers. The other guy was enormous.

Jesus Christ…a Brother. Had to be. And Xavier was right. That vampire was bigger than anything Van had ever seen—and he’d gone into the ring with some monster-sized mofo’s in his day.

Just like that, the Brother was gone. Poof! into thin air. Before Van could ask what the holy hell that was about, the vampire’s partner turned his head and stared right at Mr. X. Even though they were all in the shadows.

“Oh, my God…” Xavier breathed. “He’s alive. And the master…is with…”

The Fore-lesser lurched forward and kept walking. Right into the moonlight. Right into the middle of the road.

What the f*ck was he thinking?



Butch’s body trembled as he looked at the pale-haired lesser who emerged from the darkness. No question, this was the one who’d worked him over: Even though Butch had no conscious memories of the torture, his body seemed to know who had done the damage, its recollection embedded in the very flesh that had been torn and bruised by the bastard.

Butch was so ready to have at the Fore-lesser.

Except the shit hit the fan before he ever had the chance.

From somewhere behind the house, a chain saw started up with a roar, then settled into a high, whining scream. And at that exact moment, a second pale-haired lesser stepped out from the woods with his gun aimed at Butch.

As the semiautomatic went off and bullets whizzed by his head, Butch palmed his own Glock and jammed for cover behind the Escalade. Once he had some shield, he returned the hi-how-are-yas, squeezing out rounds, his Glock kicking in his palm as he kept his vital organs out of the line of fire. When there was a breather in the exchange, he peered through bulletproof glass. The shooter was behind a rusted-out car carcass, no doubt reloading. Like Butch was.

And yet the first slayer, Butch’s torturer, still hadn’t armed himself. The guy was just standing in the middle of the road, staring at Butch.

Almost like eating lead would make his day.

So ready to f*cking oblige, Butch leaned out around the SUV, pulled his trigger, and popped the guy right in the chest. With a grunt, the Fore-lesser staggered back, but he didn’t go down. He seemed merely annoyed, throwing off the bullet’s impact like it was nothing more than a bee sting.

Butch had no idea what to make of that, but now wasn’t the time for wondering why his fancy bullets didn’t slow that particular slayer down. Sticking his arm into the breeze, he started firing at the guy again, the shots kicking out of his muzzle in quick succession. Finally, the lesser yard-saled, falling backward in a sprawling heap—

Just as a slapping noise came from behind Butch, so loud he thought another gun was going off.