J. Ward - Lover Avenged

Grady had done a runner.

And the move was a surprise. He was not the brightest diamond in the chain, but the police were after him. Why would he risk another set of motherfuckers gunning for him?

Lash went into the living room and frowned as he looked over at the couch, where Grady had left that greased-out Domino’s box and…the CCJ he’d been reading.

Which was open to the obituaries.

Thinking of Grady’s busted knuckles, Lash went over and picked up the paper-

He smelled something on the pages. Old Spice. Ah, so Mr. D had half a brain, and had looked at the thing, too…

Lash scanned down the listings. Bunch of humans in their seventies and eighties. One in her sixties. Two in their fifties. None of which had the name Grady listed either as sur or middle. Three out-of-towners with family here in Caldie…

And then there it was: Christianne Andrews, age twenty-four. No cause of death listed, but the DOD was on Sunday, and the burial service had been today at Pine Grove Cemetery. The key? In lieu of flowers, please send donations to the CPD’s Victims of Domestic Violence Fund.

Lash shot over to the laptop and checked on the GPS report. Mr. D’s Focus was wheezing itself toward…Well, what do you know. Pine Grove Cemetery, where the once-lovely Christianne was going to rest for eternity in the arms of angels.

Now Grady’s story was clear: Asshole beats the shit out of his girl regularly until he pushes the hard loving too far one night. She kicks it and the police find her body and start looking around for the drug-dealing boyfriend who’s taking his job stress home to the little woman. No wonder they were after the guy.

And love conquered all…even the common sense of criminals.

Lash went outside and dematerialized to the cemetery, ready to do a meet-and-greet not only with that fool human, but the stupid fucking slayers who should have been watching the idiot better.

He materialized just ten yards from a parked car-which almost got him eyeballed by the guy sitting inside of the thing. Shifting quickly behind the statue of a robed woman Lash checked out what was doing in the sedan: A human was inside, going from the scent. A human with a lot of coffee.

Undercover cop. Who was no doubt hoping that SOB Grady did exactly what he was doing: namely pay respects to the girl he’d murdered.

Yeah, well, two could play at the wait-and-see game.

Lash took out his phone and shielded the bright screen with his palm. The text he sent to Mr. D was a holdback that he hoped like fuck the guy got in time. With the police on-site Lash was going to handle Grady on his own.

And then he was going to throw down to whoever had left the human alone long enough so he could bust free.

Standing at the foot of the grand staircase, Wrath finished prepping for the meeting with the glymera by drawing a Kevlar vest onto his shoulders. “It’s light.”

“Weight doesn’t always do you better,” V said as he fired up a hand-rolled and snapped his gold lighter shut.

“You sure about that.”

“When it comes to bulletproof vests, I am.” Vishous exhaled, the smoke momentarily shading his face before it floated upward to the ornate ceiling. “But if it’ll make you feel better, we can strap a garage door on your chest. Or a car, for that matter.”

Heavy footsteps from behind echoed up around the magnificent, jewel-colored foyer as Rhage and Zsadist came down together, a pair of straight-up killers with the daggers of the Brotherhood holstered handles-down on their chests. As they stepped in front of Wrath, there was a chiming noise from the vestibule, and Fritz shuffled over to let in Phury, who had dematerialized down from the Adirondacks, as well as Butch, who’d just walked across the courtyard.

Wrath felt a charge go through him as he looked at his brothers. Even though two of them were still not talking to him, he could feel the common warrior blood running through all their bodies, and he relished the collective need to fight the enemy, be it a lesser or one of their own race.

A soft sound from the stairs brought his head around.

Tohr was coming down from the second story with care, as if he weren’t sure he trusted his thigh muscles to catch and hold his weight. From what Wrath could see, the brother was dressed in camos that were cinched onto hips the size of a boy’s, and he had on a thick black turtleneck sweater that bagged under his armpits. There were no daggers on his chest, but he had a pair of guns hanging from that hope-and-a-prayer leather belt that was holding his pants up.

Lassiter was right beside him, but the angel for once wasn’t pulling any smart-ass. Although he wasn’t looking where he was going, either. For some reason, he was staring at the mural on the ceiling, at the warriors fighting in the clouds.

All the Brothers looked up at Tohr, and he didn’t stop, didn’t meet anyone’s eye, just kept on coming until he reached the mosaic floor. Still no stopping. He passed the Brotherhood, went over to the door that led out into the night, and waited.

The only echo from what he’d once been was the set of his jaw. That hard shot of bone was parallel to the floor and then some. As far as he was concerned, he was going out and that was that.

Yeah, wrong.

Wrath walked over to him and said softly, “I’m sorry, Tohr-”

“There’s no reason to be sorry. Let’s go.”

“No.”

There was a whole lot of awkward shuffling, as if the other brothers were hating this as much as Wrath was.

“You’re not strong enough.” Wrath wanted to put his hand on Tohr’s shoulder, but he knew that would lead to a violent shrug-off, given how Tohr’s fragile body was tensing up. “Just wait until you’re ready. This war…this fucking war is going to be around.”

The grandfather clock in the study upstairs started to gong, the rhythmic sound drifting out of Wrath’s office, over the gold-leafed balustrade, and falling to the ears of the assembled. It was eleven thirty. Time to head out if they wanted to scope the meeting locale before the glymera types arrived.

Wrath cursed under his breath and looked over his shoulder at the five black-clad fighters who were standing together in a unit. Their bodies hummed with power, their weapons not just what hung from holsters and harnesses, but also their hands and feet and arms and legs and minds. Their mental toughness was in the blood; the training and the brute strength in their flesh.

You needed both to fight. Will alone got you only so far.

“You’re staying,” Wrath said. “And that’s final.”

With a curse, he punched his way into the vestibule and out the other side. Leaving Tohr behind felt wrong, but there was no other choice. The Brother was compromised to the point of being a danger to himself, and he was a bad distraction. If he were on-site? Each one of the Brothers would have him on their minds, so the whole group would be head-fucked-not exactly what you wanted when you walked into a meeting where someone might try to assassinate the king. For, like, the second time this week.

As the outer doors of the mansion thundered shut, with Tohr on the other side, Wrath and the brothers stood in the bracing gusts that cut up the face of the compound’s mountain, barreled across the courtyard, and weaved in and out of the assembled cars.

“Goddamn it,” Rhage muttered as they focused on the horizon beyond.

After a while, Vishous turned his head to Wrath, his profile silhouetted against the gray sky. “We need to-”

The pop of a gunshot rang out, and the hand-rolled that was between V’s lips was clipped from his mouth. Or maybe it was just vaporized.

“What the fuck!” V shouted as he recoiled.