J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 1-4 - J. R. Ward [479]
He decided his best move was cutting the power, so he went hunting for the main electrical line into the mansion. He found the utilities spinal cord around the back of the six-car garage, nestled in an enclave of HVAC shit that included three air-conditioning units, an exhaust blower, and a backup generator. The main power line’s thick, metal-encased vein came up through the earth and split, plugging into a series of four meters that were whizzing along.
He put a short-fused load of C4 plastic explosive right at the trunk and then rigged another setup like that at the nerve center of the generator. Stepping behind the garage, he triggered both remotely. Two pops broke out, and the flare of light and the smoke faded quickly.
He waited to see if anyone came running. No one did. On impulse he peered into a couple of the garage bays. Two were empty; the others had very nice cars in them, so nice he couldn’t even tell what kind one of them was.
With the juice cut off, he jogged around and cased the front of the house, skirting behind the boxwood hedge that ran down the facade. A set of French doors was perfect for entry. He put his gloved fist through one pane, shattering the glass, and then sprang the lock. As soon as he stepped inside, he started to reclose the door. It was critical that the contacts for the security alarm were in their proper place if an alternative generator kicked in—Holy…Moses.
Those were lithium-powered electrodes on the doors…which meant the contacts didn’t run on a current. And—shit—he was standing right in the middle of a laser beam. Jesus. This was very high-tech…as in Museum of Fine Arts, the White House, the pope’s bedroom high-tech.
The only reason he’d gotten into the house at all was because someone had wanted him to.
He listened. Total silence. A trap?
O stayed frozen, barely breathing, for a little longer and then made sure his gun was good to go before he silently walked through a bunch of rooms that were right out of some glossy magazine. As he went he wanted to slash the paintings on the walls and yank down the chandeliers and break the spindly legs of the fancy tables and chairs. He wanted to burn the drapes. He wanted to shit on the floors. He wanted to ruin it because it was beautiful, and because if his woman had ever lived here, it meant she was way better than he was.
He rounded a corner into some kind of living room and stopped dead.
Up on the wall, in an ornate gilded frame, was a portrait of his wife…and the thing was draped with black silk. Below the painting, on a marble-topped table, there was a gold chalice turned upside down and a square of white cloth with three rows of ten little stones. Twenty-nine were rubies. The last one, in the lower left-hand corner, was black.
The ritual was different from the Christian shit he’d lived with as a human, but this was a memorial to his wife.
O’s intestines turned into snakes, seething and hissing in his lower belly. He thought about throwing up.
His woman was dead.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Phury muttered as he limped around his room. His side hurt like a bitch, and he was trying to get ready to go out, and Butch’s mother-hen impression wasn’t helping.
The cop shook his head. “You need to go to the doctor, big guy.”
The fact that the human had a point burned Phury’s ass even more. “No, I don’t.”
“If you were going to spend the day on the couch, maybe. But fighting? Come on, man. If Tohr knew you were going out like this he’d have your head on a stick.”
True. “I’ll be fine. Just have to warm up.”
“Yeah, stretching’s really going to help that hole in your liver. Matter of fact, maybe I can get you some Ben-Gay and we’ll just massage the shit out of it. Good plan.”
Phury glared across the room. Butch cocked an eyebrow.
“You’re pissing me off, cop.”
“You don’t say.