J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [239]
“On second thought, maybe I’ll just take off.”
“Good choice,” the lesser drawled.
The addict didn’t think that was such a hot idea. “No, oh, no ... no, I need—”
“Later.” The dealer buttoned up his jacket like a store-keeper would lock up a shop.
And it happened so fast, you couldn’t have stopped it. From out of nowhere, the addict brought out a box cutter and with a messy, more-luck-than-skill slash, he sliced the dealer’s throat wide-open. As blood went everywhere, the buyer busted the dealer’s shop apart, going through jacket pockets and stuffing cellophane packets into his beat-to-shit jeans. When the raid was over, he tore off like a rat, hunched over, scampering, too juiced with his lottery win to bother with the two bona fide killers who were in his path.
No doubt the lesser let him go just to clear the field so the real fighting could begin.
Phury let the human go because he felt like he was looking into a mirror.
The rank joy on the addict’s face was a total head nailer. The guy was clearly on the express train to one hell of a bender, and the fact that it was a free fix was only a small part of the buzz. The real boon was the lush ecstasy of super-surplus.
Phury knew that orgasmic rush. He got it every time he locked himself in his bedroom with a big fat pouch of red smoke and a fresh pack of rolling papers.
He . . . was jealous. He was so—
The length of steel chain caught him on the side of the throat and wrapped itself around his neck, a metal snake with one hell of a tail recoil. As the lesser yanked, the links dug in and cut off all kinds of things: breathing, circulation, voice.
Phury’s center of gravity shifted from his hips to his shoulders, and he fell forward, throwing out his hands to keep from face-planting it into the pavement. As he landed on all fours, he got a brief, vivid eyeful of the drug dealer, who was gurgling like a coffeepot ten feet away.
The dealer reached out a hand, his bloody lips working slowly. Help me . . . help me. . . .
The lesser’s boot hit Phury’s head like it was a soccer ball, the cracking impact sending the world spinning round and round as Phury’s body did the dreidel. He ended up flush against the drug dealer, the dying man’s deadweight stopping his roll.
Phury blinked and gasped. Up above, the glow of the city canceled out much of the galaxy’s stars, but didn’t touch the ones that were doing laps in his vision.
There was a choking gasp next to him, and for a split second he shuffled his dazed eyes next door. The drug dealer was doing a meet and greet with the Grim Reaper, his last breaths escaping through the gaping second mouth at the front of his throat. The guy smelled like crack, as if he were a user as well as a peddler.
This is my world, Phury thought. This world of Baggies and wads of cash and using and worrying about the next fix consumed more of his time than even the Brotherhood’s mission.
The wizard popped into his mind, standing like Atlas in that field of bones. Damn right it’s your world, ya fried daft bastard. And I am your king.
The lesser hauled on the chain, cutting off the wizard and making the stars in Phury’s head even brighter.
If he didn’t get back in the game here, asphyxiation was going to be his best and only friend.
Bringing his hands up to the links, he gripped the fuckers in two thick fists, jacked into a tuck position, and roped his prosthetic leg around the steel leash. Using the foot for leverage, he pushed against the links that ran under the sole of his shitkicker and created some slack so he could breathe.
The slayer leaned back like a waterskier, and the prosthesis weakened under the pressure, the angle of his fake foot changing. With a quick unhook, Phury freed his leg from the chain, dropped the slack on his end and braced his neck and shoulders. As the slayer went flying against the brick wall of a Valu-rite Dry Cleaners, the undead’s force and body weight yanked Phury up off the ground.
For a