The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(61)

As more bullets sounded out in a series of pops, she jabbed a forefinger at the male. “Stay. There.”

Allowing herself to fade from her corporeal form, she ran directly into the line of fire. The lead slugs that were flying out of the alley V was in passed right through her, leaving ripples as if through water, her non-flesh registering the penetrations and exits in dull flares of heat.

Jane skidded in the snow and dropped down to Phury. Vishous was first and foremost on her mind, but she had to be professional—and triage rules had to apply.

As she reached out, Phury gasped and went to fight her off, his flailing arms going through her ghostly form.

“It’s me,” she said urgently, dropping her face close to his own. “It’s Jane.”

As he calmed down, she tried to see what was going on with the gunfight. There was more shooting, and she didn’t know whether that was good, because Brotherhood backup had arrived, or bad, because other lessers had and V was dead.

“I’m hit,” Phury said as he scratched at his leather jacket and tried to rip it open. She helped him with the zipper, and then—

“Thank God,” she muttered as she got a gander at his bulletproof vest.

The thing had done its job, catching the bullets and holding them from his flesh. But there still could be internal damage—

The slayer that shot out of the alley was running as if its non-life depended on it. Black blood was pouring out from its throat, a geyser tapped, but the bastard was still up and rolling. And it was armed.

Focusing on Phury, it lifted the gun in its hand, pointing the muzzle at the Brother’s head.

Bulletproof vests only worked on the places they were covering. A shot to the cranium was lethal.

And then, just before the lesser pulled its trigger, Jane saw the unbelievable.

Vishous was up on his feet and somehow walking out of the alley. He was bleeding down the side of his face and dragging his body, but he was pissed off and fully engaged in the fight. Hell, he even had daggers in both his fists and the snarl of a beast for an expression.

As things went into slo-mo, Jane had a moment of total pride in her mate. Even injured, he was fighting to protect his brother—and prevailing.

But then it was a case of one, two, three, all at the same time.

The lesser pulled his trigger.

Jane made herself fully physical to block the bullet.

And Vishous threw both of those blades.



* * *



—

Assail would have preferred to be the one driving to the church. As a male, he felt as though that was his duty. His two female companions, however, took a different opinion of tradition—and so he was in the Range Rover’s passenger seat whilst Marisol had the wheel.

At least he had a lovely view to enjoy. In the glow of the dash, his female’s profile was so beautiful, she arrested him completely, stopping everything but his heart. Even with that baseball cap pulled low, he enjoyed the curve of her cheek, the lushness of her lips, the column of her throat above her parka…

In fact, he could not look away. But at least he was causing no offense. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her grandmother smiling in the backseat—and his Marisol glanced his way every now and again, her blush a charming, secret gift.

Yet all was not perfect for him.

Shifting in his seat, he did not like the way his cashmere coat hung off him in folds, even though he was wearing a full suit underneath. And he had disliked the sight of the suit even more, that which had been tailored to fit his proper form dwarfing him the now, turning him into the son trying on the father’s clothes.

As he thought about his weight, he murmured, “I am already looking forward to your next meal, Mrs. Carvalho.”

“Big breakfast,” the grandmother said. “Very big.”

“This is good. I have much to regain.”

“You have been sick.”

This was uttered as if it were a form of absolution, a pardoning of that which was, in other circumstance, an intolerable offense.

“You both could not have come along at a better time,” he murmured.

’Lo, how he wanted to reach across and take Marisol’s hand, especially as she shot him a smile. But he had to be discreet out of respect to her and her grandmother.

Some ten minutes later, they were pulling into a parking lot beside a grand cathedral that reminded him of the ones built by humans in the Old Country, its buttresses, peaked Gothic arches, and ribbons of stained glass taking him home in ways too intense and internal to bear for long.

“Quite a beautiful church it is,” he commented as Marisol halted them in one of the spaces.

There were fifteen other cars parked in a lot big enough to handle a hundred, and the vehicles were all huddled close to the walkway leading around to the front.

As he got out, he opened Mrs. Carvalho’s door, extending his hand forth to help her down. Shutting things up, he offered Marisol’s grandmother his elbow, and the lady took it, wrapping her arm through his.

They waited for Marisol to come around, and he loved that look on his female’s face. That slight smile.

“Ready?” she said, her breath white in the cold night.

“Let us go—oh, madam, the curb.” He helped her grandmother up to the sidewalk. “There we are.”

As they proceeded over that which had been heavily salted, he looked up at the cathedral’s towering height. The structure was maintained in beautiful condition, nothing faded in its grandeur, the interior lighting showing through the stained glass and turning the pictorials into jewels.