J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [893]
Man . . . it was going to be a loooooong frickin’ day. A very, very long frickin’ day.
As she watched the humans mill about and spin their wheels, and felt the collective weight of her bodyguards pressing down on her head, her right hand began to move, her fingers forming the curves and straightaways John had taught her.
A . . .
B . . .
C . . .
Lash woke up to the sound of moaning. And not the good kind.
Lying facedown on a bare mattress in that cheesy-ass ranch was another buzz kill. Third strike was the fact that when he finally got up, his body left a black stain behind.
Kind of like a shadow thrown on the ground, a reflection of what actually was.
Jesus f’n Christ. He was like that Nazi guy at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, the one whose face melted off . . . the one the DVD extras had said was special effected by hitting Jell-O with a hot fan.
Not exactly the sort of movie role he wanted to rock in RL.
As he walked out toward the kitchen, he felt like he was dragging a refrigerator behind him, and what do you know, Plastic Fantastic wasn’t doing much better as she lay on the floor by the back door. She’d been drained enough to incapacitate her, but not enough to zap her back to the Omega.
Bummer for her. To be forever on the brink of death, with all that pain and suffocation, and yet aware that the vast peace on the other side of all that was never coming? It was enough to make you want to kill yourself.
Cue laugh track.
Then again . . . she didn’t have a clue that she was going nowhere. That she would be forever in “as-is” condition. Probably best to keep that info on the down-low—it would be his good deed for the day.
As she marshaled a pathetic groan for him to help, he stepped over her and went to check on the food sitch. To conserve cash, he’d sucked back Mc-Crap for dinner on his way here. Shit had been one step up from dog food, and that had been warm and fresh from the fryer.
Age did not improve the half he hadn’t been able to stomach at the end of the night, but he ate what was left over anyway. Cold. Standing up over the crumpled bag on the countertop.
“Want some?” he said to the woman. “Yes? No?”
All she could do was plead with her bloodshot eyes and her gaping, oozing mouth. Or . . . maybe it wasn’t pleading. She looked kind of horrified—which suggested that whatever condition she was in, his appearance was startling and ugly enough to draw her out of her agony for a moment.
“Whatever, bitch. The sight of you ain’t doing wonders for my appetite, either.”
Turning away, he stared out the window to the sunny day and felt a whole lot of fuck-this-shit-for-real.
Man, he hadn’t wanted to leave that farmhouse, but he’d been a narcolepsy candidate, he’d been so exhausted—and no way he was risking a nap with that many of his enemy around. It was a case of retreat to fight again as opposed to pull a dreamland and bite the muzzle of a gun. Or worse.
But at least the sun was still on its rise in the cloudless sky, which was good news for him—it gave him the time he needed. The Brotherhood wasn’t showing up in one form or another until it was dark enough, and what kind of host would he be if he wasn’t there waiting.
The Omega’s fucking kiss-ass bitch may have started the party, but Lash was going to damn well finish it.
He needed more ammo, though, and not for his heat.
Grabbing his raincoat and putting on his hat, he tugged on his gloves and stepped back over the prostitute. As he was unlocking the dead bolt on the door, her shrunken hand skittered over to his shoe, her bloody fingers scratching at the leather.
He looked down at her. She no longer had speech, but her red-rimmed, bulging eyes said it all: Help me. I’m dying. I can’t kill myself . . . do it for me.
Apparently she’d gotten over her revulsion of him. Or maybe the fact that he’d covered up helped.
Ordinarily, he would have just left her as she was, but he couldn’t shake the