J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [32]
V liked to grapple. And he was good at the ground game.
The slayer was fast, though, popping up off the icy pavement and throwing out a kick that shuffled V’s internal organs like a deck of cards. As V stumbled backward, he tripped on a Coke bottle, blew his ankle out, and took a seat on the express train down to the asphalt. Letting his body go loose, he kept his eyes on the slayer, who moved in fast. The bastard went for V’s off ankle, grabbing the shitkicker attached to it and twisting with all the power in his massive chest and arms.
V popped a holler as he flipped face-first onto the ground, but he shut out the pain. Using his bad ankle and his arms as leverage, he pushed himself off the asphalt, brought his free leg up to his chest and hammered it back, catching the motherfucker in the knee and shattering his joint. The lesser flamingoed, his leg bending in the absolute wrong way as he fell on V’s back.
The two of them clinched up hard-core, their forearms and biceps straining as they rolled around and ended up next to the slaughtered civilian. When V was bitten in the ear, his shit really got cranked out. Tearing himself free of the lesser’s teeth, he fisted the bastard’s frontal lobe, laying a bone-on-bone crack that stunned the fucker long enough for him to get free.
Kind of.
The knife went into his side just as he was pulling his legs out from under the slayer. The sharp, shooting pain was a bee sting on ’roids, and he knew the blade had broken skin and penetrated muscle just below his rib cage, on the left.
Man, if an intestine had been nicked, things were going to go bad, fast. So it was time to put the fight to bed.
Energized by the injury, V grabbed the lesser by the chin and the back of the head and twisted the son of a bitch like he was a beer bottle. The snap of the skull popping free of the spinal cord was like a branch cracking in half and the body went instantaneously loose, its arms flopping to the ground, its legs going still.
V grabbed his side as his crest of power faded. Shit, he was covered in cold sweat and his hands were shaking, but he had to finish the job. He quickly patted down the lesser, looking for ID before he poofed the bastard.
The slayer’s eyes met his, its mouth working slowly. “My name…was once Michael. Eighty…three…years ago. Michael Klosnick.”
Flipping open the wallet, V found a current driver’s license. “Well, Michael, have a nice trip to hell.”
“Glad…it’s over.”
“It’s not. Haven’t you heard?” Shit, his side was killing him. “Your new town house is the Omega’s body, buddy. You’re going to live there rent-free for fucking ever.”
Pale eyes cracked wide. “You lie.”
“Please. Like I’d bother?” V shook his head. “Doesn’t your boss mention that? Guess not.”
V unsheathed one of his daggers, heaved his arm up over his shoulder, and drove the blade square into that wide chest. There was a burst of light bright enough to show off the whole alley, then a pop and…shit, the burst caught the civilian, lighting him up as well thanks to a heavy gust of wind. As the two bodies were consumed, all that was left on the cold breeze was the thick smell of baby powder.
Fuck. How could they notify the civilian’s family now?
Vishous searched the area, and when he didn’t find another wallet, he propped himself against a Dumpster and just sat there, breathing in shallow sucks. Each inhale made him feel like he was being stabbed again, but going without oxygen was not an option, so he kept at it.
Before he got out his phone to call for help, he looked at his dagger. The black blade was covered with the inky blood of the lesser. He ran through the fight with the slayer and imagined another vampire in his place, one not as strong as he was. One who didn’t have the breeding he had.
He brought up his gloved hand. If his curse had defined him, the Brotherhood and its noble purpose had shaped