Assuming said four-legged fucker had rolled in a damp ashtray.
Lifting his head up, he pulled his shirt to his neck. Still there. The lesions were still there and getting larger. And he felt like ass.
His hands shook as he got himself vertical, and when he checked his phone, he saw nothing from anybody. No voice mail back from Mr. D and no other slayers checking in. Both made sense. Everyone and everything was routed through his second in command so if the SOB had bit it, the Society couldn't find Lash.
Maybe the little Texan had been too good as a PA.
With hunger spurring him on, he shuffled into the kitchen and peeled open the refrigerator door. Empty. Except for a box of Arm & Hammer baking soda that should have been used on that couch.
Slamming the Frigidaire shut, he absolutely despised the world and everyone in it--although that was mostly a function of not having his eggs and bacon already waiting for him.
Plus crappy real estate did that to a guy. The ranch house was a new acquisition and one he'd been to only once before--hell, not even Mr. D knew the Society owned it. The thing was, Lash had bought it out of foreclosure because they were going to need places to make meth and the POS had a large basement. Stunning that whoever had owned it hadn't been able to cover the mortgage cost. The bitch was one step up from an outhouse.
Maybe half a step.
He headed out into the garage and it was a frickin' relief to be back in the Mercedes. . . although it galled him to have to hit a McDonald's drive- through for an Egg McMuffin and a coffee. He'd even had to wait in line along with a bunch of guys in trucks and moms in minivans.
As he went back to his brownstone, his attitude sank further into Man- son territory--and then shot completely into the sewer as he pulled up to the garage. The door was still up, but the Lexus was gone.
Parking the Mercedes under cover, he shut the thing in with the remote and got out. The garden in the back was relatively undisturbed, but he could smell the lesser the instant he--
Stopping on the terrace, his eyes shot to the second floor. Oh, God. . .
Energized by panic, Lash started to run full tilt and he took the back steps on a oner, bursting through the door--
His loafers skidded to a halt as he saw the carnage. Jesus. . .
Christ. . . his kitchen.
The place looked like it had been hit with an oil shower. And duh, there wasn't much left of Mr. D. The slayer's torso was in the middle of the room, by the island, but his arms and legs were scattered all around. . . and his digestive tract was like macrame hanging from the pulls on the cupboards.
By some miracle, the guy's head was still attached and his eyes opened wide, his mouth starting to move as he saw he was no longer alone; a guttural plea came out of lips glossy with congealed black blood.
"You fucking pussy," Lash spat. "Look at you. For fuck's sake!"
And goddamn it, he had bigger problems than his second in command getting shredded. He leaped over the mess, tore through the dining room, and raced up the stairs.
Bursting into the bedroom he'd shared with Xhex, he found nothing but a whole lot of empty. . . and a window with a hole in it.
"Motherfucker!"
Wheeling around, he looked through the open door and saw the mark outside on the hall wall. Stalking over, he pressed his nose against the silk wallpaper and inhaled. Her scent was in the fibers of the weave.
She had broken out physically.
Yet she'd still been in the room after Mr. D had been attacked. Had the Brothers come back and helped her get out?
A quick run through the house and Lash's mood we
nt from nasty to toxic. Laptop gone. Cell phones missing.
Motherfucker.
Down in the kitchen, he headed into the pantry to get the--
"Oh, fuck me!" Kneeling down, he checked out the panel that had been torn open. His stash was gone, too? How the hell had they found it?
Then again, Mr. D looked like an anatomy class had had at him. Maybe he'd spilled. Which meant Lash couldn't be sure what other addresses had been compromised.