The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(19)

“You are all that matters,” Sola said hoarsely.

Her grandmother came forward. “We will go. It is God’s way.”

“How do you know that?”

The smile that came back at her was old, and wise, and very beautiful. “I, too, prayed. To the Virgin Mary. I prayed you see Assail again, and then God sent those men to our house last night. We will leave now. Come.”

With that, her grandmother, who not only had no driver’s license, but couldn’t reach the pedals on anything other than a tricycle, headed for the door.

“Bring the groceries with the suitcases, Sola” was the command over her shoulder.





NINE


It was a little after ten o’clock two evenings later when Vishous materialized into the alleys of downtown, re-forming in the lee of some crappy-ass walk-ups on the east side of the city’s armpit of skyscrapers.

By a stroke of luck, the normal rotation schedule had not required him to be on deck the evening before, so he had managed to isolate himself from everyone for a good forty-eight hours, crashing at the modest ranch Layla had lived in during her estrangement from the household. V had not contacted anyone, not even to ask Fritz to bring him food and drink.

Learned that lesson well enough, fuck him very much.

And hey, Arby’s had been good enough back in his bachelor days, and it was good enough now.

As his time to calm the fuck down had come to a close, there had been a part of him that had debated going off the grid and pulling a permanent relocation. Shit, there were plenty of places to disappear to if a male wanted to not get found. In the end, however, he decided he wanted to fight more than he wanted to be in a pussy’s retreat.

On that note, the Hummer he was looking for came around a street corner like a predator stalking dinner, its headlights off, its running lights glowing softly, the steam coming out of its tailpipe curling up orange and red. As it stopped in front of him, the passenger door opened, a long leg with a shitkicker at the end landing treads-deep in the dirty, packed snow.

Butch O’Neal had been a human for a good thirty and a half years, give or take. Now the former homicide detective was not just a vampire, but Wrath’s own kin: One of the few survivors of a “jump-started” transition, his body hadn’t just gotten taller, but had filled out like he was shooting up steroids and pumping iron like Ahnold in the good ol’ days. Compact as a bulldog, mean as a snake in a fight, loyal as any good Red Sox fan had to be, he was the brother Vishous had never had.

And the bastard knew too much.

“Thanks for the ride, Q—what? Yeah, I’ll text.” He leaned back into the SUV a little farther. Laughed. “Too right.”

The cop shut the door, banged his gloved fist on the quarter panel, and stepped aside as Qhuinn’s second armor-plated SUV rumbled forward. The first one had been car-napped in front of a CVS—when the brother had left the keys in the ignition. Talk about your engraved invitation for a drive-off.

V lifted a hand as the vehicle went by. And then he started the countdown in his head. Three…two…one—

“So.” Butch jacked up his leathers even though they were already cupping his sac like a jockstrap. “How’s you.”

“Let’s go patrol.”

“Where you been?”

“Out.” Why in the fuck couldn’t he have lived in a cave all these years. By himself. “I’m done with this conversation, true.”

As V started stalking down the center of the street, he looked up at the windows of the grubby walk-ups on both sides. Every single one of them had the drapes drawn, and most were darkened. Those at ground level had iron bars locked on, and none, absolutely none, of them would be opened in the event of a scream, or a gunshot, or a holler.

In this neighborhood, nobody asked questions, made eye contact, or got involved in business that wasn’t their own.

Which made him think about the only thing the Lessening Society had in its favor. Those soulless bastards who were remote-controlled by the Omega didn’t want human involvement in the war any more than the vampires did. So the field of engagement, by mutual, if unacknowledged, agreement, was always here in the land of—

“You usually text if you’re gonna be out,” Butch said from behind him. “And we were supposed to play pool last night.”

When V didn’t respond, the cop whistled under his breath. “So Manny’s right.”

Vishous stopped and swung around. “About what.”

The cop shrugged, those hazel eyes annoyingly steady. “You and Jane okay?”

“Perfect. Why.”

“You know, you have an interesting way of posing a question without actually using a question mark.”

“That’s because I’m trying not to encourage a response.”

“So you guys did have a fight.”

Vishous crossed his arms over his chest. Because it was either he locked that shit down or he was liable to throw a punch—and the cop technically hadn’t done anything wrong.

“What did Manny say?”

“That Doc Jane has been in a release-the-Kraken mood since the night before last. And she’s sleeping in a patient room.”

“She’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine.”

“Isn’t that a nursery rhyme? Or is it from an ad for an antidepressant? I get the two confused.” When V just stared at the guy, Butch shrugged. “All I’m saying is, if you need—”