The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(119)

Even though death had come, he wanted to reassure the poor sonofabitch.

And as he promised, Vishous was ready with the gun when, some ten minutes later, the body jerked once…twice…and woke the fuck up as a demon.

Before the undead could get its groove on, V put the gun to its temple and squeezed off three rounds right into the brain. There was no noise, other than the flopping of the arms, and only he, with his vampire sense of smell, caught the whiff of the gunpowder and fresh blood in the cold, cold wind.

Praying for stillness was not what you usually went for with a corpse. But as V waited to see what happened next, he was hoping like fuck that nothing moved. That there were no twitches. No jerks. No jiggles.

When two good solid minutes of statue passed, he put his weapon away with the suppressor still in place, and then snagged a knit cap that he kept on him.

He put the thing on the kid’s head to hide the bullet wounds and then whistled. Just as Rhage and the friend came back into the alley, Manny pulled the mobile surgical unit around at the far end and trundled down.

“Is he dead?” the civilian asked. “Oh…God…is he dead?”



* * *



—

Five stories directly above the scene, Throe stepped away from the lip of the roof and addressed his shadow. “You did very well. Now off you go.”

As he made a waving motion, the entity disappeared into thin air, leaving nothing in its wake—and Throe once again peered over the edge of the building to the alley down below. A large RV had shown up, and Vishous—yes, the Brother with the goatee was named Vishous, if he recalled—gathered up the body and carried it quickly into the belly of the vehicle.

Rhage, the blond Brother, put his arm around the shoulders of the weeping civilian. And then the pair of them dematerialized.

Throe stayed where he was as the Brotherhood’s presence rumbled off.

They had to be on to his plan, he thought. Why else would Vishous have killed the injured civilian? The Brother had drilled three bullets into that head, and then Rhage had left with the other one, as if he were going to strangle, stab, or shoot the male.

They were controlling the situation through elimination. Making sure no one could talk about the attacks. Hindering Throe’s progress toward social disruption.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

And what if they know of his identity?

Filled with frustration, he paced around the ductwork and mechanicals, trying to think if he’d done anything to give himself away—then again, if the Brotherhood knew or suspected it was him, they would come and find him. It wasn’t as if he were hiding himself at that mansion he’d taken over.

Of course, that could create a problem considering he’d murdered the owner and his too-young shellan. Sooner or later, he was going to have to account for their whereabouts—but he had a plan in place for that.

Tropical vacations, you know. Especially given that the couple had a geriatric half whose bones ached in the cold. Not a foolproof explanation, but it would buy Throe enough time to create sufficient chaos in the race that the last thing anyone would be worried about was the whereabouts of the mismatched pair.

Assuming the Brotherhood didn’t continue to contain that chaos.

Anger rose in the back of his throat, tightening his airway such that he wanted to scream it free. But then he calmed himself and refocused on the positives. The Brothers would not be able to make this all go away—if they killed enough members of the aristocracy, sooner or later they would be discovered and that would work well in Throe’s plans. Further, he had made an important refinement in this attack, one that had been an inspired tweak if he did say so himself.

It was better to target one of a pair. That way, there was a witness uncompromised by injury, with a clear recollection of events and a voice that was going to require expression.

Unless the Brotherhood eliminated them.

Then again…maybe they would not. Wrath seemed to have standards for behavior now.

Well, Throe would find out, either way. And perhaps it would be to his advantage. After the previous night’s exercise, he had waited for testimony of the attack to appear—but the only thing that had come was a statement of the death from a half-brother he had been unaware of Whinnig possessing. All he had known about the son of Stanalas was that he had managed to walk off with Groshe’s money—which should have been Throe’s for all he had done to service Naasha’s endless demands.

Yet there had been no details about the shadows shared. Just a listing on one of the race’s Facebook pages that the family was requesting privacy during this time of grief.

Stupid fucking discretion.

Well, he’d fixed that—or tried to. No glymera, this time. Just two regular civilians that he’d had to wait to go by, sure as a deer hunter in a stand had to be patient. And then they had arrived—and he had sent his shadow down to do what it did.

At least his entities were functioning well. They had no sense of self or purpose other than the commands he gave to them—so there was no disgruntlement or disagreement as Throe sent his shadow to kill the male on the right, but not the left. And when he’d been comfortable with how much injury had been meted out, he called the thing back with every confidence the order would be followed at the instant the mental thought was sent in its direction.

And it had been.

If only the rest were going so obligingly.