J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [821]
Lash looked down at the whore, her body all defiled, her makeup smudged on her cheeks, her ratty hair more fright wig than anything you’d expect to see on the street.
He needed this to work. Already, with nothing more than the barrier spell in place and this little fireball in his hand, he could feel his strength ebbing.
This had to fucking work.
He cast the blast into her chest cavity and her dead limbs flopped like fish tails against the sides of the tub. As the flash of light lit off and then dispersed, he waited . . . praying to—
The gasp she let out was god-awful. And also a godsend.
He was fascinated as her heart began to pump and his black blood was absorbed into the raw meat of her rib cage, the reanimation causing his cock to twitch in excitement. This was power, he thought. Fuck the shit money could buy.
He really was a god, just like his father.
Lash sat on his heels and watched the color return to her skin. As life came back to her, her hands curled against the edge of the tub and the withered muscles of her thighs twitched.
The next step was something he didn’t fully understand but wasn’t going to question. When she looked as if she was firmly back on the side of the living, he reached in with his bare hand and ripped that heart of hers right out of her chest.
More gasping. More choking. Blah, blah, blah.
He was fascinated with what he’d accomplished, especially as he put his palm over her sternum and commanded her flesh to reknit itself: What do you know, her very skin and bone followed his will and she was once more as she had been.
Except better. Because she was useful to him now.
He reached to the side and cranked on the shower, the spray hitting her body and face, her eyes blinking against the cold rain, her hands batting at it pitifully.
How long did he wait now? he wondered. How long until he could see if he was one step closer to what was really going to sustain him?
As a wave of exhaustion crept up his spine and fogged out his brain, he slumped against the cupboards that ran under the sink. Kicking the door shut, he balanced his forearms on his knees and played witness to the whore flailing around.
So weak.
So fucking weak.
It should have been his Xhex. He should have done this to her and not some random, skank-ass human.
Putting his hands to his face, he hung his head as his elation washed out of him. This was not how it was supposed to be. This was not what he’d planned.
On the run. Hunted. Scrambling in the world.
What the hell was he going to do without his father.
TWENTY-EIGHT
While John waited for Xhex to respond to his question, he focused on the words he’d written, tracing them with his pen, darkening them as he passed over them again.
He probably shouldn’t be making demands given the shape she was in, but he needed something back from her. If he was going to expose his blanket chest of not-so-hot, he couldn’t be the only one getting that kind of naked.
He also really wanted to know what was doing with her, and she was the only one who was going to tell him.
As the silence droned on, all he could think of was . . . shit, she was shutting the door on him. Again. On one level it so wasn’t a surprise and therefore shouldn’t have mattered. God knew he’d been on the receiving end of her rejections plenty of times.
The reality was that it felt like another death for him to face—
“I saw you. Yesterday.”
Her voice yanked his head up. What? he mouthed.
“He kept me in that bedroom. I saw you. You came in and went to the bed. You left with a pillow. I was . . . beside you the whole time you were there.”
John’s hand lifted to his cheek and she smiled a little. “Yes, I touched your face.