J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [108]
All things considered, it was possible he’d already fallen off the ledge, possible that he was already sliding down the mountain of his destruction, bumping against boulders and trees, bouncing and breaking limbs, a mortal blow awaiting him.
He stabbed out the blunt. Falling into ruin was a bit like falling in love: Both descents stripped you bare and left you as you were at your core.
And in his limited experience, both endings were equally painful.
As John stared at the lesser who had appeared out of nowhere, he couldn’t move. He’d never been in a car accident before, but he had a feeling that this was what they were like. You were going along and then suddenly everything you were thinking about before the intersection was put on hold, replaced by a collision that became your one and only priority.
Damn, they really did smell like baby powder.
And luckily this one was not pale haired, so he was a new recruit. Which might be the only reason John and his friends got out of this alive.
Qhuinn and Blay got in front, blocking the way. But then a second lesser came out of the shadows, a chess piece moved into position by an unseen hand. He was also dark haired.
God, they were big.
The first one looked at John. “Better run along, son. This is no place for you.”
Holy shit, they didn’t know he was a pretrans. They thought he was just a human.
“Yeah,” Qhuinn said, shoving John’s shoulder. “You got your dime bag. Now get out of here, punk.”
Except he couldn’t leave his—
“I said, get the fuck out of here.” Qhuinn gave him a hard push, and John stumbled into a stack of tarpaper rolls big as couches.
Shit, if he ran, he was a coward. But if he stayed he was going to be worse than no help. Hating himself, he took off at a dead run, heading straight for ZeroSum. Like an idiot, he’d left his backpack at Blay’s, so he couldn’t call home. And it wasn’t like he could waste time looking for one of the Brothers on the off chance they might be hunting nearby. There was only one person he could think of who would help them.
At the club’s entrance he went right up to the bouncer at the head of the wait line.
Xhex. I need to see Xhex. Get me—
“What the hell are you doing, kid?” the bouncer said.
John mouthed the word Xhex over and over again while signing.
“Okay, you are pissing me off.” The bouncer loomed over John. “Get the hell out of here or I’m calling your mommy and daddy.”
Snickers from the wait line made John more frantic. Please! I need to see Xhex—
John heard a distant sound that was either a car peeling out or a scream, and as he wheeled around toward it, the dull weight of Blay’s Glock bumped into his thigh.
No phone to text from. No way to communicate.
But he had a six-pack of lead in his back pocket.
John ran back to the lot, dodging around parallel-parked cars, breathing hard, legs flying as fast as they could. His head was hammering at him, the exertion making the pain so bad he went nauseous. He rounded the corner, skidding on loose gravel.
Fuck! Blay was on the ground with a lesser sitting on his chest, and the two were fighting for control of what looked like a switchblade. Qhuinn was holding his own against the other slayer, but the pair were too evenly matched for John’s taste. Sooner or later one of them was—
Qhuinn took a right hook to the face and spun out, his head twirling on his spine like a top, carrying his body into a pirouette.
In that moment something came into John, came in through the back way, entered sure as if a ghost had stepped into his skin. Old knowledge, the kind that came with experience he hadn’t yet had enough years to gain, carried his hand deep into his back pocket. He palmed the Glock, popped it free, and double-handed it.
One blink had him bringing the weapon level. A second had the muzzle trained on the lesser fighting with Blay over the blade. A third had John squeezing