Something was leaking. In his sleeve.
While the Omega started to do depraved things to the initiate, Lash jogged upstairs to the bathroom. Taking off his suit jacket, he folded the thing in half... and realized there was nowhere to lay it down. Everything was covered with two decades’ worth of grime.
Christ, why hadn’t he sent someone over to clean the place?
He ended up hanging the jacket from a hook and—
Oh, shit.
As he lifted his arm, there was a black stain right over where he’d put the bandage, and at the bottom of his elbow, there was a wet patch.
“Goddamn it.”
Ripping free his cuff links, he unbuttoned his shirt and froze as he looked down at his chest.
Lifting his eyes to the cloudy mirror, as if that were going to change what he was seeing, he leaned in toward the glass. There was another sore on his left pectoral, of the same flat, dime-size shape as the first. And a third by his belly button.
Wings of panic fanned up a light-headed dizziness and he caught himself on the sink. His first thought was to run to the Omega and ask for help, but he held off—going by the screams and grunts downstairs, there was some serious action happening in the dining room, and only an idiot interrupted that.
The Omega was fickle by nature, but had OCD concentration about some things.
Bracing his hands on the basin, Lash dropped his head as his empty stomach pulled a churn and burn on him. He had to wonder how many more of those spots he had—and didn’t want to know the answer.
His induction, rebirth, whatever, was supposed to be permanent. That’s what his father had told him. He was born from the evil, spawned from a dark well that was eternal.
Rotting in his own skin had not been part of the deal.
“Y’all okay there?”
Lash shut his eyes, the sound of the Texan’s voice like claws raking down his back. Except he just didn’t have the energy to fuck-off the guy.
“How are things going downstairs?” he asked instead.
Mr. D cleared his throat. And still the disapproval made him choke on his words. “I do believe it’ll be ’while yet, suh.”
Great.
Lash forced his sagging spine to straighten and turned to face his deputy—
In a sharp rush, his fangs punched into his mouth, and for a moment, he couldn’t figure out why. Then he realized his eyes had locked on the guy’s jugular.
Deep in Lash’s belly, his hunger grew horns and went haywire, thrashing and gouging his gut.
It happened too fast to stop or question or think. One second he was rooted where he stood in front of the sink. The next he was all over Mr. D, shoving the lesser back against the door, and going hard into the guy’s throat.
The black blood that hit his tongue was the tonic he needed and he drew with desperation, even as the Texan struggled and then fell still. But the fucker didn’t have to worry. There was nothing sexual in the sucking. It was nutrition, plain and simple.
And the more he swallowed, the more he needed.
Jacking the slayer tight against his chest, he fed like a motherfucker.
THIRTEEN
As the sound of the slayer’s boot against that gas can faded, Qhuinn moved down and sat on the SOB’s legs. The bastard might have gotten one kick in, but he was not getting a second chance.
Outside, the human cops gathered around the shed.
“It’s locked,” one of them said as the chain rattled.
“I have shell casings over here.”
“Wait, there’s something inside... phew, man, what a stench.”
“Whatever it is, it’s been dead at least a week. That smell—I’d take even my mother-in-law’s tuna casserole over that.”
There was a ripple of agreement.
In the darkness, John and Qhuinn locked eyes and waited. The only solution if the door got popped was to dematerialize and leave the lesser behind; there was no way of moving the weight of the slayer through thin air. But none of these policemen could possibly have the key—so that left shooting their way in as their only option.
And chances were good they’d assume a quick pop just to get into the shed was not worth the paperwork.
“Only one shooter, according to the nine-one-one call. And he can’t be in there.”
There was a cough and a curse. “If he is, his nose is falling off from the stank.”
“Call the groundskeeper,” a deep voice said. “Someone’s gotta get that dead animal out of there. Meantime, let’s head into the neighborhood.”
There was chatter and footsteps. A little later one of the cars drove off.
“We gotta off him,” Qhuinn whispered over John’s shoulder. “Take that knife and let’s do him and get the fuck out of here.”
John shook his head. There was no way he was losing this prize.
“John, we’re not leaving with him. Kill him so we can bounce.”
Even though Qhuinn couldn’t see his lips, John mouthed, Fuck that. He’s mine.
Letting this source of information slide was not going to happen. If anything, the human police could be dealt with mentally... or physically if it came down to it.
There was the smooth sound of a knife being unsheathed. “Sorry, John, we’re outtie.”
No! John yelled over his shoulder soundlessly.
Qhuinn’s hand locked on the collar of John’s jacket and dragged him off balance, so it was a case of either letting go of the slayer’s neck or snapping the fucker’s head off his spine. Since an incapacitated lesser couldn’t talk, John released his hold—and caught himself by planting his palm on the cold cement.
No fucking way was he going to let his buddy cheat him out of this.
As he lunged at the male, all hell broke loose. He and Qhuinn wrestled for control over the dagger, knocking into a lot more than a gas can, and the lesser rolled free and sprang for the door. As the cops started hollering, the slayer pounded to get out—
The next sound that made any impression over the din was a gunshot. The chaser of which was a metallic ringing.
The police had blasted off the Master Lock.
From down on the floor, John whipped his arm around to the small of his back, and as he pivoted on his knees, he and Qhuinn threw their knives in sync, their blades traveling end over end across the shallow space.
The penetrations were of such force that even though they went into the slayer’s torso between the shoulder blades, clearly one or both hit home: In a flash bright as lightning and with a sonic boom loud enough to make ears bleed, the lesser went back to his maker, leaving nothing but a smoky stink... and a hole the size of a refrigerator in the shed door.
With adrenaline running so high, neither he nor Qhuinn could dematerialize, so they leaped up and back-flatted it on either side of the gaper, staying put as first one gun muzzle then another eased inside.
Forearms were next.
Then profiles and shoulders. And flashlights.
Fortunately, the humans stepped fully inside.
“Psst. Your fly’s down.” As the cops turned on Qhuinn’s smart ass, John unsheathed both his SIGs, and with a quick cross-strike on those heads, CPD’s finest were seeing stars and sinking down onto the floor.
Which was precisely when Blay showed up with the Hummer.
John jumped over the policemen and hightailed it down to the SUV with Qhuinn right behind him, those New Rocks the fucker insisted on wearing positively pounding the earth. John gunned his way for the rear door, which Blay had popped, catching the handle and flipping himself inside as Qhuinn slid into the backseat.
As Blay took off, flooring the engine and blasting out of there, John was glad they’d had to tango with only one set of cops—although sure as shit the other two badges would be back ASAP.
They were heading north toward the highway as John clawed his way into the backseat... and relocked his hands around Qhuinn’s throat.