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 memory of peeling his own face off. He was operating under the assumption that he wasn't going to end up a perpetually rotting nightmare, but what if that was his destiny? What if he continued to melt away until he could no longer support his skeleton and he ended up in the condition she was. . . nothing but suffering for eternity?
Lash withdrew a knife from the small of his back, and when he came at her with it, she didn't shrink back. Instead, she rolled herself over, offering the fresh meat of her chest.
One stab was all it took and her immediate misery was over: On a bright flash of light, she puffed into thin air, leaving nothing but a scorched circle on the matted rug.
Lash turned to leave--
He didn't make it through the door. His body ricocheted back and he slammed into the far wall, lights flashing in front of his eyes as a rush of power blasted through him.
It took a moment to figure out what the fuck was doing. . . and then it became clear: What he had given the prostitute had come home to him.
So that was how it worked, he thought as he breathed deep and felt less like death on roller skates.
Whatever was stabbed with steel returned to sender, so to speak.
Well, it went back provided that the Brotherhood's secret weapon didn't get there first. Butch O'Neal was the Omega's Achilles' heel, capable of circumventing that reunion by absorbing the evil essence that animated a slayer into himself.
Having just gotten the rush, Lash now knew what a threat O'Neal was. If you didn't get your LEGOs back, eventually you couldn't build much of anything--or worse, your toy box was empty. . . and then what. You disappeared?
Yeah, avoiding that Butch bastard was important. Good tip.
Heading into the garage, Lash left the ranch in the Mercedes and went not out to the sticks, but downtown to the 'scrapers.
As it was just a little past eleven thirty in the morning, there were suits and ties out everywhere, the fleet of wingtips stopping at intersections, waiting for the go-ahead, and then striding across the streets right in front of the grilles of cars. They were all so fucking self-righteous, these humans with their chins up and eyes straight ahead like nothing existed except whatever meeting, lunch, or waste-of-time errand they were speeding to.
He wanted to stomp on the accelerator and turn them into sloppy bowling pins, but he had enough to worry about and better things to do with his time. His destination? Trade Street and the hub of the bars and nightclubs. Which, unlike the business district, would be dead at this time of day.
As he cut down toward the river, it was clear that the two different parts of town functioned as a yin and yang when it came to crowds as well as appearances. In the sunlight, the tall financial buildings with their glass windows and steel frames sparkled and flashed. In the land of dark alleys and neon signs, however, shit looked like an old whore well used: dirty, seedy, and sad.
When it came to people? Former was packed with the productive and the purposeful. Latter was lucky if it could pull together more than a couple of bums at this hour.
Which was precisely what he was banking on.
Heading for Caldwell's twin bridges, he passed by a vacant lot that had a chain- link fence around it and had to slow a little. Christ. . . that was where ZeroSum had been before it was reduced to a pile of rubble. And the real estate sign that was in front had a Sale Pending sticker slapped on it.
Wasn't that how things worked. Nasty, like nature, abhorred a vacuum--so if the new club going up on the site met a similar MacGyver end as Rehv's had, another would take its place just as fast.
Kind of like the sitch with his father. In no time at all, Lash had been replaced by something right up his own alley, so to speak.
Made you feel fucking dispensable. It really did.
Down under the bridges, it didn't take long to find what he was looking for, but wished he didn't need. His trolling beneath the overpasses quickly brought out the raggedy humans who slept in cardboard boxes or burned-out cars, and he thought of how similar to stray dogs they were: drawn by the hope of sustenance, suspicious from experience, riddled with disease.
The mange parallel worked, too.