The Black Dagger Brotherhood_ An Insider's Guide - J. R. Ward [157]
And the intelligence in them was just as sharp as that weapon.
“Wrath, talk to me.”
Downtown on Tenth Street, Zsadist jogged over the pavement quick as a breeze, quiet as a ghost, a leathered-up wraith tracking his prey. He had found his first kills for the night, but at the moment he had his body on Master Lock, holding himself back, waiting until there was a little privacy.
No fighting in public for the Brotherhood. Unless you absolutely had to.
And this little impending shindig was going to create some noise. The three lessers ahead of him were primes, all paled-out, looking to go at it, moving with the deadly rhythm of heavy bodies on solid ground.
For fuck’s sake, he needed to get them in an alley.
As the four of them went along, the storm overhead stretched out its arms and started to pound on the night, its lightning flashing, its thunder cursing. Wind sprinted down the streets, then tripped and fell, forming gusts that pushed and then relented at Z’s back.
He told himself, Patience, but holding back felt like a punishment.
Except then, like a gift from the Scribe Virgin, the trio ahead turned into an alley. And wheeled around to face him.
Ah, so it wasn’t a gift or luck. They knew he’d been in their trunks and had been looking for some darkened corner to do business in.
Yeah, well, time to waltz, motherfuckers.
Z unsheathed his dagger and fell into a jog, triggering the starter gun on the fight. As he came forward the lessers backed up, disappearing further into the long alley, finding the shadows necessary to keep what was about to happen from human eyes.
Zsadist targeted the slayer on the right because the bastard was the biggest and had the largest knife, so disarming him was a tactical priority. It was also something Z was just plain jonesing to do.
His momentum carried him faster and faster until he was skimming the ground, shitkickers barely touching the pavement. As he moved in, he was the wind, carrying along, rushing forward, sweeping down on what was ahead of him.
The lessers got ready, switching positions, crouching for conflict, so that the big guy was up in front and the other two flanked him.
At the last moment Z tucked into a ball and rolled on the asphalt. Then he sprang up and led with his dagger, catching the linebacker lesser in the gut, opening the bastard up like a pillow. Man, abdominal cavities were always a messy affair, even if you didn’t eat, and the slayer went down on a waterfall of black blood.
Unfortunately, on the way to his dirt nap, he managed to clip Z right in the neck with his switchblade.
Z felt his skin split open and his vein start leaking, but there wasn’t time to get thought up about the injury. He focused on the other two slayers, popping free his second dagger so he was a two-fisted slashing machine. The fight went into hard-core territory fast, and as a second wound broke open on his shoulder, he thought he might even need a pickup at the end of it.
Especially as a length of steel chain snaked around his neck and went tight as a tire rim. With a yank he was whipped off his feet, and he back-landed it so hard he felt like he’d been body-punched: All the air left his lungs on that eviction notice, and it stayed away, his rib cage refusing to reexpand no matter how much he worked his mouth.
Right before he blacked out he thought of Bella, and the panic of leaving her gave him the crash-cart shock he needed. His sternum heaved for the heavens, drawing in breath so hard the shit went all the way down to his balls. And just in time.
As the two lessers fell on him, he twisted to the side and somehow popped off the pavement and found footing. Going on instinct and experience, he licksplitted a classic two-knife lock and cross on the first of the slayers, all but decapitating the thing. Then he stabbed the other one in the ear, shorting him out cold.
Except then four more showed up: backups called in, all nice and fresh, ready