J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 1-4 - J. R. Ward [295]
He knocked on C’s door.
This was the fifth address he’d visited on Mr. X’s list of unaccounted-for members and the first of tonight’s forays. The evening before, he’d had good success. One of the slayers had been out of state, having decided on his own to help out a buddy in D.C. Two of the AWOLs, who were roommates, had been injured from getting into a fight with each other; they were healing up and would be back online within a couple of days. The final lesser had been a perfectly healthy SOB who’d just been watching the tube and lying around. Well, perfectly healthy, that was, until he’d sustained an unfortunate accident as O was leaving. It would be a good week before he was up and running again, but the visit had certainly clarified his priorities.
Funny how a couple of cracked kneecaps could do that to a guy.
O knocked again on C’s door and then picked the lock. When he opened the door, he recoiled. Oh, shit. The place smelled bad. Like rotting garbage.
He headed for the kitchen.
No, that wasn’t trash. That was C.
The lesser was facedown on the floor, a dried pool of black blood around him. Within reach of his hand, there were some bandages and a needle and thread, as if he’d tried to fix himself up. Next to the first-aid stuff was his BlackBerry and the keypad was covered with his blood. A woman’s purse, also stained, sat on the other side of him.
O rolled C over. The slayer’s neck had been slashed, a good deep cut. And given the way the skin had been cauterized, the slice had been made by one of the Brotherhood’s nasty black daggers. Man, whatever they had in that metal was like battery acid on a lesser wound.
C’s throat was working, kicking out guttural sounds, proving that you could in fact be a little bit dead. When he brought up his hand, there was a knife in it. A few shallow cuts marked his shirt, as if he’d tried to stab himself in the chest but had lacked the strength to get the job done.
“You’re in bad shape, my man,” O said, taking the blade away. He sat back on his heels, watching the guy flail around in slow motion. Lying on his back like that, arms and legs moving uselessly, he was like a june bug about to give up the ghost.
O glanced at the purse.
“You taking up an alternative lifestyle, C?” He picked the thing up and went through the contents. Bottle of medicine. Tissues. Tampon. Cell phone.
Hello, wallet.
He took out the driver’s license. Brown hair. Gray eyes. Impossible to tell whether the female was a vampire or a human. Address was out Route 22 in the sticks.
“Tell me if I get this right,” O said. “You and one of those brothers went head-to-head. The warrior had a female with him. You escaped after being knifed and took this purse so you could finish the job on the male’s lady friend. Trouble was, your wounds were too severe and you’ve been lying here ever since you got home. How’m I doing?”
O tossed the wallet into the bag and looked down at the man. C’s eyes were rolling around, loose marbles in his deflating bag of a head.
“You know, C, if it were up to me, I’d just leave you here. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but when we poof it out of existence, we go back to the Omega. Believe me, what you’re going to find on the other side with him is going to make the way you feel now seem like a fucking vacation.” O looked around. “Unfortunately, you’re stinking up the place. Some human’s going to come in, and then we’ve got us a problem.”
O picked up the knife, gripping the handle hard. As he lifted it above his shoulder, C’s relief brought all those body struggles to a standstill.
“You really shouldn’t feel better about this,” O said softly.
He sank the blade into the lesser’s chest. There was a flash of light and a popping sound. And C was gone.
O picked up the purse and headed out.
Mary walked