The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(62)

“Do they always do midnight rituals?” Assail asked.

“It’s a mass.” Marisol glanced over her grandmother’s white head at him. “It’s called a mass. And this cathedral does them on Thursdays and Saturdays each week, as well as on certain holidays. Caldwell has a very active Catholic community, and with so many people doing first and second shifts, these services offer working folks times to worship they wouldn’t otherwise have.”

The sound of voices behind them had him looking over his shoulder. A man and a woman were walking along in their wake, both burrowed into their coats and talking softly. As he regarded them, it was strange to realize that for as long as he had lived amongst humans, he had never spent much time with them. Yes, he had had business dealings, of course, but not anything of any leisurely pursuit.

Although, to be fair, he had not had much leisure to pursue in any kind of company.

The doors of the church were heavy and carved, and out of habit and manners, he went to jump ahead to open them, but Marisol got there first. Which was probably a good thing. He was not very strong, and just from the walk from the car, he was breathing hard.

Inside, he found himself in a vast entry room with red carpeting and dark wooden walls and stone plaques inscribed in Latin.

“The coatroom is over here,” Marisol murmured.

When they reemerged without their outerwear, he found himself fiddling with his baggy suit and the tie that was the only thing holding his loose collar against his neck.

“Marisol,” her grandmother said, “you must take off the hat. You cannot wear it.”

“Vovó, I have to.”

The two switched into their mother tongue, the argument hushed and quick. And then Mrs. Carvalho made a grunting sound and walked forth.

The baseball hat stayed on, and yes, it did hide most, if not all, of Marisol’s face—but how he hated the reason she had to wear it.

“Come on,” she said, tugging at his hand.

The worshipping space was magnificent, with a lofty vaulted ceiling, marble statuary, and a polished stone floor that went on forever. Hundreds of wooden pews in six sections of tight rows progressed down to an altar that was set beneath a glorious mural of the Christ enthroned. And indeed, the seating was so vast that the thirty people in front did little to fill out things.

At Marisol’s prompting, they settled over on the left, a couple of rows back from the last one that had anybody in it. As they got themselves arranged, with Marisol in the middle and him on the aisle, he took a deep breath.

Considering where he had been of late, it was an unexpected miracle to be in this incredible place.

And then the organ began to play, its deep basses reaching into his chest, its ringing highs…reaching into his soul.

I am home, he thought.

Although that was about who he was with, rather than where he was.





TWENTY-EIGHT


Across town, at the head of the alley, Vishous screamed as he saw Jane go from translucent to fully corporeal just as that fucking slayer started shooting.

“No!”

She was right between Phury and the shooter, protecting her patient, his brother, with her very body. And as the bullets went into her, the daggers V had thrown with perfect accuracy went into the lesser’s back.

Filled with terror and rage, Vishous threw himself into the air, his dislocated ankle tripping him up, his momentum more than overriding that. The tackle was short of his target so he curled in a ball, rolled the extra distance, and then locked on to the lesser’s head with both his hands.

He twisted so hard, he popped the skull off the tip of the spine, nothing but ribbons of skin and sinew holding the thing on.

There was so much more pain he wanted to give the soulless bastard, except he had to get to Jane.

Leaving the undead body, he scrambled through the snow to his shellan, who had fallen on her back. As he reached her, she lifted her head and looked down at her body. There were tufts in her Patagonia jacket where the bullets had gone through.

Her breathing was all wrong—short, tight, fast.

“No…” he moaned. “I’m not losing you again—”

She was mouthing something to him as her eyes met his—blood spattering her lips, her skin too pale. “Love…you…”

Then she was disappearing into thin air—

“Jane!” He wrapped his arms around her.

“Oh, God,” he heard someone say. “What did she do? What did she do…”

In Jane’s place, there was something in his hands…bullets. The bullets that had been in her had fallen into his palms.

“What did she do!”

He jerked his head toward the male voice. Phury was staring at him with horror, the words coming out of the male as if he felt responsible.

Vishous patted the snow where she had been. Her blood was there, staining the dirty white red…but she was—

“Jane!”

He screamed her name. And then with no answers and nothing but stark terror in his soul, he flipped over and launched himself at that slayer. He attacked the carcass even though it accomplished nothing, ripping with his fangs and tearing with his hands, foul, black blood covering him—until a brilliant pair of headlights flashed into his eyes and some force popped him off his prey.

Thrashing, kicking, biting, he went wild, fighting against everything and everyone around him—