J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [906]
John searched the scene before him, focusing on the shadows more than what the risen moon illuminated. Then he closed his eyes and let his instincts bleed out from him, giving that indefinable, invisible sensor in the center of his chest free rein.
In moments like this, he didn’t know why he did what he did; the urge just came upon him, the conviction that he had done this before—to good effect—so strong it was undeniable.
Yeah . . . he could feel something was off. . . . There were ghosts in there. And the certainty reminded him of what he’d felt when he’d been in that dreaded bedroom where Xhex had been so close and so far away. He had sensed her too, but been blocked from making the connection.
“The bodies are in there,” Xhex said. “We just can’t see or get to them. But I’m telling you . . . they’re in inside.”
“Well, let’s not fuck around out here then,” V said, dematerializing.
Rhage followed, poofing it right into the farmhouse while Butch took a more labor-intensive approach, hotfooting it across the scruffy lawn, with gun drawn and down at his thigh. He looked in the windows until V let him in the back.
“You going in?” Xhex asked.
John signed carefully so she could read his hands. You’ve already reported what’s doing inside. I’m more interested in who’s going to show up at the front door.
“Agreed.”
One by one the Brothers came back.
V spoke softly. “Assuming that Lash isn’t just showing off his induction efforts, and assuming Xhex is right—”
“No assumption there,” she bit out. “I am.”
“—then whoever turned the poor bastards has to come back.”
“Thank you, Sherlock.”
V glared in her direction. “You want to dial back the attitude, sweetheart?”
John straightened, thinking that however much he loved the Brother, he was so not appreciating that tone.
Xhex evidently agreed. “Call me sweetheart one more time and it’ll be the last word you ever speak—”
“Don’t threaten me, swee—”
Butch stepped behind V and clapped his palm over the guy’s piehole while John put his hand on Xhex’s arm, urging her to calm down as he glared in Vishous’s direction. He’d never understood the enmity between the pair of them, even though it had been there since he could remember—
He frowned. In the aftermath of the flare-up, Butch was looking at the ground. Xhex was focused on a tree over V’s shoulder. V was growling and staring at his fingernails.
Something is off with all this, John thought.
Oh . . . Jesus . . .
V had no reason to dislike Xhex—in fact, she was precisely the kind of female he’d typically respect. Unless, of course, she happened to have been with Butch . . .
V was known to be possessive about his best friend with everyone but the guy’s shellan.
John stopped his extrapolations right there; he so didn’t need to know any more. Butch was one hundred percent about his Marissa, so if anything had happened with Xhex . . . it was a lifetime ago. Probably before John had even met her—or maybe when he’d been just a pretrans.
Past was the past was the past.
Besides, he shouldn’t—
Any further thoughts on the sitch were mercifully derailed as a car drove by the farmhouse. Instantly, all their attention was crosshaired on a ride that was done up like an outfit some twelve-year-old girl might have wanted to find in her closet. In, like, 1985.
Gray and acid yellow and hot pink. Really? You really think that’s hot? Man . . . assuming that was a slayer behind the wheel, John just had another reason to kill the Flock of Seagulls motherfucker.
“That’s the souped-up Civic,” Xhex whispered. “That’s it.”
All at once there was a subtle shift in the scenery, like a screen had been pulled into place from above. Fortunately, visual acuity suffered only until what shielded them was settled; then everything was clear again.
“I’ve fired up the mhis,” V said. “And what a fucking asshole. That ride is too flashy to be in this part of town.”
“Ride?” Rhage snorted. “Please. That thing is a sewing machine with