The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(105)

“What is the man’s name?”

“Streeter. His name is Streeter. I didn’t mention this before because where I am from, we do not speak of such things. But it is all different now. Everything…is different now.”

“Would you be willing to come down to headquarters and give a statement?”

“Is there any way I could do it tomorrow? I really…I want to go lie down. I’m not feeling well…”

“Absolutely.”

She stared into his eyes. “I want you to catch those evil men, Detective de la Cruz. They need to be in jail for the rest of their lives for what they did to Ricardo—and what they must have done to my other brother.”

De la Cruz nodded. “That’s my job, Ms. Benloise. And I’m very good at it.”





FORTY-EIGHT


As night fell, and Jane continued to sleep in their bed, Vishous went out naked to his computers and sat in his Captain Kirk chair. He had taken his leather jacket with him as he’d left their room, and after he lit up a hand-rolled, he went fishing in its pockets.

The civilian Whinnig’s gun was your garden-variety poodle shooter, a nothing-special Smith & Wesson nine millimeter, and as he kicked out the clip, he checked the bullets. There were three left, and he freed them of their confines, rolling them around in his palm.

Why hadn’t they worked against that entity? V had shot the shit out of the shadow that had gone after him and had wounded it. But Whinnig had said that his bullets had gone right through without effect—and his injuries had certainly been consistent with an undeterred attack from a strong enemy.

Maybe the report was false. After all, the kid who had died—and come back, hello—hadn’t been combat trained. But, Jesus, how trained did you have to be to notice whether or not you were wounding the thing trying to kill you?

Sitting forward, he lined up the three bullets in a little row, their flat bottoms and copper-colored hats exactly what you’d expect to see from the kind of civilian ammo you could get in a Dick’s Sporting Goods store.

The thing V worried about was whether the Omega was improving on a prototype. Shoring up weaknesses in a creation to make it a more effective weapon. The vampire race’s enemy was soulless, evil, and a scourge on the fucking planet—but it was far from stupid. And a weapon that couldn’t withstand getting shot at was less effective than one that could.

V sat back and smoked for a while, his brain cranking along on the variables.

When his mental calculator kept showing him zeroes, he got frustrated and decided to check in with some of the Facebook groups to see if anything was out in the species yet about the attack. The brother, Aarone, had gone home and was undoubtedly talking to people in the glymera.

Nope. Nothing yet.

Then again, the aristocracy did consider themselves above social media—

As his cell phone went off with a text, he threw out a hand and grabbed the thing. When he saw who it was from and what it was about, he cursed and got to his feet.

Heading back to the bedroom, he snuck in, not wanting to disturb Jane—or Butch and Marissa, who were sleeping next door. And he was doing okay on the whole getting-dressed thing until he slammed his bare foot into the corner of the dresser.

Sure, he managed to keep the HOLY FUCKING WHAT THE FUCKBITCHASSFUCKINGPIECEOFSHIT WAS THAT to himself, but the thunderous toe-to-wood contact sound was nothing he could control.

“V?” Jane said in a sleepy way.

“Hey.” MOTHERFUCKINGOWFUCKOW—he rubbed his foot. “Sorry. Didn’t want to wake you.”

Of course, now that you’re up, honey, can you amputate my lower leg on this side? That’d be great. Thanks.

“You okay?”

“Perfect.” Fishing through the dresser, he grabbed and yanked on the first pair of pant-like anything he came to. Then he pulled on a T-shirt. “I gotta leave for a second before the Brotherhood meeting.”

“Mmm, love you. I’m going to go down to the clinic—what time is it?”

“Six p.m. You have another twenty minutes. Love you, too.”

Closing his eyes, he concentrated…

…and after a Tilt-A-Whirl, came out on the Other Side, in the Sanctuary. Without missing a beat, he strode across the cropped Astroturf-but-it-was-“real” lawn toward the Treasury.

As he closed in on the building, Phury stepped out of its entryway and lifted a hand. “Hey, my brother,” he called over. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem.” V slowed as the guy gave him a strange look. “What. Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Interesting pants.”

“Huh—oh, fuck.”

As V checked out his lower half, his only thought was thank God it was Phury and not anyone else: He had on Jane’s pink flannel PJ bottoms. The ones that had My Little Cocksucking Pony all over them. The ones that had been given to all the females in the house by Lassiter—not because he liked My Little Motherfucking Pony, but because the fallen angel knew when the ladies wore them, their hellrens were going to have to see Apple Jack and Rainbow Dash in their nightmares.

And now V was sporting a set like he was a fan.

Oh, and P.S., they were high-waters because he was ten inches taller than his shellan.

“That is the last time I get dressed in the dark, true,” he muttered.