The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(13)

Clunk!

Vishous opened the seven-thousand-pound door, and the ancient doggen butler on the other side was a beaming smile upright and walking in a penguin suit. Fritz Perlmutter loved his job and the household he served to a degree that had been grating at first. Like, how could anyone be that excited silver-traying drinks, organizing the rest of the staff, and spot-cleaning blood off rugs?

“You’re home!” Fritz exclaimed, as if V and Rhage had returned from a dangerous mission to the Arctic Circle and managed to only get frostbitten on a pinkie toe and one earlobe. “And early as well!”

Rhage plowed in, as was his way. “Fritz, my guy, I’m starved. Can you—”

“I have three footlongs pre-prepared for you. Ham and cheese, salami and cheese, and turkey and cheese. Allow me to mayonnaise them, and I shall bring them to you immediately.” Fritz looked at V. “A Grey Goose and tonic for you, sire?”

All V could do was shake his head in wonder. The guy had a way of growing on you, you know? “Yeah, thanks. We’re up with Wrath.”

“Right away!”

In spite of the jowls and the wrinkles, Fritz headed off fresh as a sprinter out of the blocks, his polished shoes clipping over the foyer’s mosaic floor, his white-gloved hands pumping to the beat of his love of service.

“It’s like he’s a mind reader,” Rhage said as they started for the grand staircase, with its gold-leafed balustrade and its blood-red runner. “I mean, how did he know—”

“You are never not hungry, and when have I ever turned down a V ’n’ T?” V held up his forefinger. “I’m not saying he ain’t a genius, but guessing you’re ready for a footlong is not prognostication.”

“You got a point, my brother.”

As they came to the second floor, the doors to the study were open, and across the pale blue room with its fine French furniture, Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, was all heavy-is-the-head-that-wears-thecrown. Plugged into the old carved desk his father had used, sitting on the old carved throne his father had sat in, the great Blind King’s wraparounds were angled down as he ran his fingertips over lines of braille. No doubt it was another report from Saxton, the Brotherhood’s solicitor and expert in the Old Laws.

“Well, well, well,” Wrath murmured as he looked up like his eyes worked, “back so soon. What went wrong.”

With his hip-length black hair falling from that widow’s peak, and his aristocratic features that had a cruel edge, he looked like exactly the force of nature he was, and had to be, if the goal was keeping the species alive and together, under the noses of humans and in spite of the persecution of enemies.

It went without saying that the brother wasn’t a party to deal with sometimes. Then again, anybody in his situation, with his kind of stress, would get a little cranky from time to time—although, to be fair, even before he started really doing the king shit, he’d had the interpersonal skills of a shotgun.

“I got a door prize,” Rhage said as he barged right in and planted it on one of the silk sofas by the fireplace. “Well, lots of little prizes.”

As Hollywood held up the Target bag full of coke, even though Wrath couldn’t see it, V shut the double doors. “All he had to do was empty the lower intestines of a dealer into the guy’s own couch.”

“Your beast come out?” the King said.

“Nah, I sneezed.”

Black brows lifted over the wraparounds. “Really? I didn’t know your nose had that kind of firepower.”

“It doesn’t,” V answered as he took out a hand-rolled. “He had an oopsie.”

“Do you need gun practice—”

“You would have sneezed, too,” Rhage interrupted the King. “And no, I don’t need to go to the range. Well, unless Lassiter has a target on his ass—”

“I’ll volunteer the angel right here, right now.” V parked it on the far side of the desk. “And can I be the one with the stapler, pinning the tail on his donkey? ’Cuz I’ll tell you right now, I’ma hit that Stanley until the thing jams.”

Wrath sat back, his hand reaching down to stroke the boxy head of his Seeing Eye dog. As George lifted his head in adoration, the King actually laughed a little at the joke. A rare event. Like Zsadist smiling.

“I would pay money to see that.” Annnnnnnnnd then shit got serious again. “So tell me what went tits up.”

V flicked his Bic, sucked the flame into the tip, and exhaled. “We got some samples of the product. Nothing much else. As we said, Rhage popped one contact, and the other—well, she got busy saving the world so she missed her appointment with the middleman.”

“Why don’t you get into her mind,” Wrath demanded. “Look under the rocks, find the worms. If that shit’s hitting the streets, and she’s one of the dealer’s enforcers, she’ll know where it’s coming from.”

“She doesn’t. Not yet. She’s working on a deal, though. Something was supposed to come of it tonight, but then—yeah, she had to go to rehab.”

Wrath shook his head. “Good dealers never use their own product.”

“Oh, it wasn’t for her. She was taking care of a junkie.” V stroked his goatee. “See, our girl down there, she’s got herself a little secret. She’s a cop playing among thieves.”