Lover Unleashed - J. R. Ward [112]
Butch came from out of nowhere, lurching with all the grace of a wounded buffalo, the bastard’s heavy body careening into the slayer just as that bat went over-the-shoulder with an aim at V’s head. The pair of them slammed into the bricks, and after a beat of motionless, fuckin’hell-that-was-a-stinger, the lesser pulled a full-torso jerk and gasped.
It was like watching eggs slide down the side of a kitchen cabinet: The slayer’s bones went liquid and the thing slumped onto the pavement, leaving Butch to collapse back with his black-blooded dagger in his hand.
He’d gutted the motherfucker.
“You . . . okay . . .” the cop groaned.
All V could do was look over at his best friend.
As the others continued fighting, the pair of them just stared at each other against the audio backdrop of grunts and metal-to-metal strikes and inventive cursing. There should be something said between them, V thought. There was just so much . . . to be said.
“I want it from you,” V bit out. “I need it.”
Butch nodded. “I know.”
“When.”
The cop nodded down at V’s fucked-up leg. “Get healed up first.” Butch groaned and got to his feet. “On that note, I’ll go get the Escalade.”
“Be careful. Take one of the brothers with—”
“Fuck off with that. And you stay put.”
“I’m not going anywhere with this knee, cop.”
Butch walked off, his stride only marginally better than V could have pulled off with the dislocated mess he was rocking. Craning his neck, he looked over at the others. They were prevailing—slowly but surely, the tide was turning in their favor.
Until about five minutes later.
When seven more slayers showed up at the alley.
Clearly the second wave had likewise called for backup, and these were also new recruits who were unsure how to handle the mhis: They’d obviously been provided an address by their comrades, but their eyes could see nothing but an empty alley.
They were going to get over the what-the-hell’s fast, however, and breach the barrier.
Moving as quickly as he could, V shoved his palms into the ground and dragged his ass into an inset doorway. The pain was so bad, his vision momentarily fritzed out, but that didn’t keep him from stripping his glove off and putting it into his jacket.
He hoped like hell Butch didn’t double back and come to fight. They were going to need transport as soon as this was over.
As the enemy’s next wave surged forward, he let his head flop onto his chest and breathed so shallowly his rib cage barely moved. With his hair falling into his face, his eyes were shielded, and he was able to stare through the black veil at the onslaught of slayers. Given the incredible number of fresh inductees, he knew that the Society had to be drawing psychos and socios from Manhattan—the pool in Caldwell simply wasn’t big enough to account for this surge in forces.
Which was going to work in the Brotherhood’s favor.
And he was right.
Four of the lessers went straight for the thick of the fighting, but one, a bulldog with thick shoulders and arms that hung like a gorilla’s, came over to V—probably to check him for weapons.
Vishous waited patiently, not moving, giving off a fuckload of next-stop-coffin.
Even when the bastard went to lean down, V stayed where he was . . . little closer . . . little . . . closer—
“Surprise, motherfucker,” he bit out. Then he grabbed the nearest wrist and yanked hard.
The slayer went over like a stack of plates, right across V’s bad leg. But it didn’t matter—adrenaline was a hell of a painkiller and gave him the strength not just to withstand the agony, but to hold the SOB in place.
Lifting up his glowing hand, Vishous brought his curse down on the face of the lesser—no reason to slap or slam; simple contact was enough. And just before it landed, his prey’s eyes popped wide, the illumination making the whites fluorescent.
“Yeah, this is gonna hurt,” V growled.
The sizzle and the scream were equally loud, but only the former persisted. In the latter’s place, a nasty stench like burned cheese wafted up along with a sooty smoke. It took less than a moment for the power in his