The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(59)

And he was scared as shit about Butch.

“What we got, Phury!” V called out again.

When there was still no response, Vishous sat forward and tried to see what was going on around the corner. His brother had been busy erasing the memories of the humans in that car, and no doubt calling for backup.

Stop fucking around with those humans, he wanted to scream. Get to Butch!

He had no idea what shape his roommate was in, and he couldn’t see down the road far enough to get any intel on that. What he did fucking know was that the goddamn slayer’s pistol had discharged a number of times before V had taken the undead off the vertical, and there absolutely was the smell of vampire blood in the air.

The cop must have been shot.

“Goddamn it, Phury! Talk to me—”

From out of nowhere, an image of his Jane formed, sure as if his mind was placing a call to the universe and summoning her— “What have we got,” she said as she kneeled before him.

V recoiled. “Huh?”

“Your leg. Are we a dislocation or a fracture?”

“Are you really here?” But then he kicked his own ass. “Don’t worry about me! I got this—Butch is shot over there! Go!”

She met him in the eye for a split second, as if she were assessing him. And then she nodded once.

“I’ve got him. Don’t worry. No matter what it is, I’ll handle it.”

Then she dipped down, kissed him quick and hard, and took off at a dead run.

As he watched her go, a feeling of total pride and security overwhelmed him nearly to the point of tears.

Whatever problems he had had with her focus on her job, he wouldn’t have wanted anybody else—not Havers, not Manny, not even himself—going to treat his best friend’s gunshot wound. Butch could not possibly be in better hands— A soft shuffling sound overhead brought his attention up to the fire escape above him, and he flared his nostrils, breathing in deep.

“Sonofabitch,” he muttered as he went for his gun.

Before he could shout a warning that they had company, a lesser dropped down on top of him from the iron latticework that went up the side of a building, the heavy weight compressing his spine from the back of his neck all the way to his ass. Courtesy of the impact, his broken/dislocated/whatever’d foot decided to wake up and get talking, and the pain was so great, he blacked out for a split second.

Which was all it took for the slayer to get the gun from his grip and start the fucking party.





TWENTY-SIX


Vitoria made the trip back from Ricardo’s West Point house to Caldwell in under twenty-five minutes. Then again, at this late night hour of ten o’clock, there was little traffic to speak of, and she was already refining her route and discovering shortcuts. As she drove along in her rental car, she hummed to the Latino station she had found on the radio, her manicured forefinger tapping on the top of the wheel.

She was not returning to the gallery, however.

No, no. Instead of getting off at the second exit for downtown, she stayed on the highway. A few miles farther north, she removed herself from the interstate and entered a part of the city that was technically suburban, but in terms of architecture, more akin to the financial district with its modernist houses made from concrete, steel, and great panes of glass.

This made so much sense, she thought as her old-fashioned map’s directions took her deeper into the land of people who preferred to spend their wealth on ugly things to fill cold, barren spaces.

It was absolutely perfect.

After some manner of recalculation, the house she had come in search of was located through the maze of streets—and its location on the very edge of the community’s homogeny was logical as well.

Vitoria drove past the address once…made a fat circle by taking a series of left-hand turns…and then passed it again.

The abode was two-storied, with an open room to one side that was all glass, and some manner of wings out to the back. Compared to the others, it was much smaller and on a lot that wasn’t quite as well planted or illuminated, an almost-there as opposed to an I-have-arrived.

If it were a plant, one would hope to water and repot it over time so that it could grow into fruition to match the others around it.

But that was not the way real estate worked. And once again, it was as she had expected.

Finding an appropriate place to park was something worth considering seriously, and she settled on a small park a quarter of a mile away. Before exiting the rental, she put the hood up on the black parka she had donned and slipped her burner phone into a pocket with a zipper.

As she got out, she looked around without moving her head. The night was so cold, casual pedestrians were staying indoors, and the few-and-far-betweens who were out with their dogs were tucked into their bodies and glaring at their four-legged friends.

Vitoria strode off, backtracking to the house.

She entered onto the property via the road behind it, slipping through a stand of evergreen bushes that had been clipped into a horizontal wave pattern.

No dog fence, but she could have guessed no pets.

As she halted and surveyed the house, she thought…oh, how she loved all that glass. So much to visualize before she broke in, so much helpful information.

And there it was…there was what she had come for: Yes, the homeowner was on the premises. And drinking a glass of white wine in a black silk robe.