The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(72)

Without missing a breath, the King EF5’d into his next victim … the heavy leather sofa that Rhage had just leaped up off.

Talk about your couch-icopters.

The entire thing came at John at about five feet off the floor, the pair of ends trading places as it spun around and around, cushions flying in all directions. He didn’t take it personally—especially as its mate do-si-doed with the bar, smashing the top-shelf bottles, liquor splashing all over the walls, the floor, the fire that was crackling in the hearth.

Wrath wasn’t finished.

The King picked up a side table, hauled it overhead, and pitched it in the direction of the TV. It missed the plasma screen, but managed to shatter an old-fashioned mirror—although the Sony didn’t last. The coffee table that had been in between the two sofas did that deed, killing the muted image of the two Boston guys and the old man from Southie with the baseball bat shilling for DirectTV.

The Brothers just let Wrath go. It wasn’t that they were afraid of getting hurt. Hell, Rhage stepped in and caught the first couch before it tore a hunk off of the archway’s molding. They just weren’t stupid.

Wrath - Beth × Overnight = Psycho-hose Beast

Better to let him wear himself out trashing the place. But, man, it was painful to watch—

John jumped to the side as an entire keg came flying at his head. Fortunately, Vishous was able to grab it before the thing hit the mosaic floor out in the foyer—which would have been a bitch to fix.

“We gotta keep him contained,” someone muttered.

“Amen,” somebody else replied. “He gets free in the house, and it’ll be shit even Fritz won’t know how to clean up.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Everyone turned and stared at Lassiter. The fallen angel with the bad attitude and even worse taste in just about everything had appeared from out of nowhere—and was looking serious, for once.

“What the f*ck is that?” V demanded as the angel put a thin gold pen up to his own mouth.

Turned out it wasn’t a fancy Bic. With a quick puff, Lassiter discharged a tiny dart across the room—and when it hit Wrath in the shoulder, the impact was as if the King had been struck by a bullet in the chest.

He went down hard, his body stiffening and then falling like an oak.

“What the f*ck did you do!” V pulled a Wrath and went for the angel. But Lassiter got right back in the Brother’s face.

“He was going to hurt himself, the house, or one of you *s! And don’t get your f*cking panties in a wad. He’s just going to have a little nap—”

Wrath let out a soft snore.

Moving carefully, the Brotherhood closed in like they were checking out a grizzly and John went with them. As a circle formed around Sleeping Beauty, there was a lot of cursing under breaths.

“If you’ve killed him—”

Lassiter put his gold whacker away. “Does he look dead.”

No, actually, the poor bastard looked like he was at peace with himself and the world, his coloring strong, his body so relaxed his shitkickers were lolling to the sides.

“Dearest … Virgin … Scribe…”

Everybody looked to the archway. Fritz was standing there with a Louis Vuitton duffel in one hand and the expression of someone witnessing a car accident on his face.

John closed his eyes.

He hoped like hell Beth had gone into that house, locked the door like she promised, and laid low during the daytime.

One of the pair of them was down hard. No one needed a second.





TWENTY-ONE


After Fritz and John left, Beth finally stepped into her father’s house—and as she entered, time’s relentless forward movement reversed itself. In the work of a moment, minutes, hours, days … then weeks and months … disappeared.

Abruptly, she was who she had been before meeting Wrath—a twenty-something human woman living with her cat in a cramped studio apartment, trying to make a go in the world with nothing and no one behind her. Sure, she had loved parts of her job, but her boss, Dick the Prick, had been a leering, misogynistic nightmare. And yeah, she’d been paid okay, except there hadn’t been much left over after her rent—or chance of advancement at the Caldwell Courier Journal. Oh, and romance of any kind had been as fictional and far-off on the horizon as the Lone Ranger.

Not that she’d been interested in men, really. Or women, at all.

But then this one time, at band camp …

Shutting the door, she was careful to lock herself in. Fritz had a key, so whenever he arrived with her stuff he’d be able to get in—but no one else would.

As the silence in the house surrounded her, it felt like bars on a cage. How in the hell had she ended up here? Spending an entire day without Wrath? As early as the night before, at their place in NYC, a separation like this would have been unthinkable.

Walking into the parlor on the left, she wandered around, remembering how, when she’d initially come here, she’d been convinced Wrath was a drug dealer, a criminal, a killer. At least she’d been wrong about the first two—and he’d proved that last one by nearly murdering Butch O’Neal in front of her in an alley.

Following that little horror, they’d come here—where they’d found Rhage in the downstairs bath, stitching himself up. It was after that that Wrath had taken her though the painting, down the lantern-lit stairwell underground … and into a hidden lair.