The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(112)

FIFTY-ONE


V beelined his shit out of the Sanctuary, re-forming in the mansion’s foyer. Taking the grand staircase two at a time, he all but flew up to the second story and burst into Wrath’s pale blue study. The Brotherhood had already started to gather for the meeting, everybody talking over everyone, all those male voices like a wall he had to break through.

Fortunately, they all went silent as he crashed into the room.

“I figured it out,” he panted. “I got it!”

There was some generalized throat clearing, and then someone muttered, “You’re ready to come out as a My Little Pony fan?”

“What?” V said.

“No offense,” somebody else chimed in, “but you have seriously Rainbow’d that Dash of yours.”

Rhage put his palms up. “Which is cool—”

“Hey, whatever you like—”

“My best friend is an Apple Jack—”

“See what I have to live with?” Butch said mournfully. “I don’t care about the color, it’s the cut that kills me. Showing that much ankle. In winter?”

V looked down at himself for the second time—and the view hadn’t improved in the slightest. Still high-waters. Still pink. Still flannel.

Still Fuck Me Pony.

Wrath spoke up from behind his father’s grand desk. “Can someone tell me what the hell he’s wearing?”

Vishous ripped those fucking pj bottoms off so fast, he nearly split the seams—and he would have thrown them in the fire, but for all he knew, Jane liked them.

“We done?” he asked his brothers as he met ’em in the eye one by one. “We fucking done now? So we can talk about what’s killing civilians? Or do you bunch of ass eaters want to waste more time. While people are dying.”

From over in the corner by the fire, someone said, “Okaaaay, let’s not humor shame.”

Annnnd that started the deluge. “I’m feeling very shamed right now—”

“Completely shamed, and I was just expressing myself—”

“Can someone bubble-wrap me and give me a puppy to hold? ’Cuz my work/life balance has seriously suffered—”

“What happened to your other nut? Was one of those ponies hungry?”

That last one came out of Lassiter’s mouth, and V seriously thought about marching over and punching that angel in the junk.

But for all V knew, the fidiot was wearing a solid gold jockstrap.

Behind his desk, the King was smiling. “You know, normally I don’t miss my sight. This is not one of those fucking times.”

“He’s nakey,” Rhage supplied helpfully. “Well, half-nakey, and it’s the business half that’s out in the breeze if you get my drift. And can I just say, it’s so good not to be on the receiving end of—”

“My little mermaid!”

“How’s your water hose—”

“Harpoon—are you, Hollywood?”

“Okay, what does that even mean,” Rhage muttered. “And all of you are motherfuckers—every single one—”

“All right,” Wrath said. “Enough. V, what you got?”

“One meat, one veg, and a side of pissed off,” someone cracked. “And a knitting addiction he refuses to come clean about.”

The King put an end to it by throwing his fist into his desk—but he was still smiling. “V. What.”

Before V launched into the report, he thought about telling them all to kiss his ass. But considering he had both his buck and that ass exposed, he was worried someone might take him up on the offer—and then he’d have to kill them. Which would get messy. After all, he was willing to do Fritz a solid, but there were more effective ways to create work for that doggen and his staff.

Besides, George, the King’s golden retriever, got worried when people yelled too much and got rowdy. The dog was already leaning into his master’s leg. Real violence broke out around him and they were liable to have to send him to counseling.

V got serious. “The civilian who was attacked last night stated that when he shot at the shadow, his bullets were ineffective. That was not my experience. When I shot at the one that came at me, my bullets caused damage. I couldn’t reconcile this—until I was up at the Sanctuary just now. I put my hand into the water, and the remnants of my wound healed like that.” He snapped his fingers. “And that’s when it dawned on me. Our bullets have water from the Sanctuary in them. Those hollow tips that I fill for all of you, that’s the difference. And it’s a material one, evidently. Because without that little booster shot of the holy-holy, those fucking entities can’t be slowed down—and if they get you? You’re Norman Reedus with the bad things in the afterlife.”

The Brotherhood had always treated their bullets in such a way, going back for a hundred years. It had helped against the slayers—and clearly it did the same with the shadows.

“I’m going to see about increasing our ammo supply,” he said. “I want all of us to be prepared. The aftermath of those attacks—I don’t want any of you like that. I don’t want me like that.”

There was a grumbling of agreement, and then Wrath spoke up. “Where can we buy hollow tips in bulk without the humans getting up in our asses?”