Rage at the goddamn nerve of those fucking drug slingers had Lash boiling up a ball of lights-out-asshole in his palm.
As he flashed back into an inset doorway, he cast the energy force down at the humans, the blast providing a helluva show as it bowling-balled the bastards, illuminating their bodies all manga- style as they were thrown to the sides in the wake of the rollout.
By this point, more Brothers had arrived and all kinds of people had started shooting, various guns getting a workout--which was no big deal until Lash took a slug in the hip, the pain scorching through his torso and making his heart ricochet around. As he cursed and fell to the side, his eyes shifted to the alley.
John Matthew was the only one who hadn't taken cover: Team Brother had ducked behind the Mercedes and Benloise's guys had dragged themselves behind the rusted-out shell of a Jeep.
But John Matthew had his shitkickers planted on the ground and his hands down at his sides.
Fucker made himself one hell of a target. It was almost a bore.
Lash summoned up another ball of energy in his palm and shouted, "You're killing yourself sure as if you put a gun to your head, you bitch-ass motherfucker. "
John started walking forward, his fangs bared, a cold rush waving out ahead of him.
For a moment, Lash felt a prickle of tension filter through the nape of his neck. This couldn't be right. No one in their right mind would ride up on his grille like this.
It was suicide.
Chapter Sixty-seven
Plans, plans, plans. . .
Or, in other words, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. . .
Xhex had had the perfect plan when she'd cloaked herself in the manner of symphaths and whispered out of sight. As an assassin, she had prided herself not only on her success rate, but the flair she brought to her work, and this payback was going to be good. Her "plan" had been to flank up on Lash unseen and slice his throat before going to work on him--while she looked in his eyes and smiled like the crazy bitch she was.
First wrinkle? What the fuck had happened to him since she'd seen him last? The reveal he'd pulled unwrapping his head had stunned the crap out of her. He had no flesh left on his face; there was nothing but black- slicked muscle fibers and jarring bones, his bright white teeth looking fluorescent in contrast. And his hands weren't right, either. They had form, not substance. In the shadowy night. . . they were nothing but a deeper shade of darkness.
Thank God she'd gotten away from him when she did--although maybe all that decaying was the reason she'd been able to break out of her prison: It seemed logical to assume his powers were weakening as well.
But whatever. . . her second problem in Plan Land? John. Who right now was standing in the center of the alley with everything but a sign saying SHOOTME HERE on his chest.
It was pretty frickin' obvious that there would be no reasoning with him--even if she took form right next to his ear and screamed into his brain, she knew there was no derailing him. He was all animal as he faced off at his enemy, his fangs bared like a lion's, his body arching forward like he was going to pile-drive the guy.
Pretty good bet that he was going to die if he didn't take cover, but he didn't seem to care and the why was clear: His bonding scent was louder than any noise he could have made with his throat, the dark spice a roar that overcame every other smell, from the city's body odor to the river's sweat to the lesser stench that was wafting up from Lash's rotting body.
Standing in the gritty alley, John was the primordial male protecting his female--and everything she hadn't wanted in this situation for precisely this reason: Clearly, his personal safety meant nothing to him, his objective overriding all his common sense and specific training.
Bottom line? He wasn't going to be able to survive whatever energy ball Lash was palming up. . . and that reality shifted everything in her world.
New plan. No cloaking anymore for her. No disable, disarm, dismember. No extraction of pain for the agony she had been through, no Jack the Ripper routine.
As she took form and lunged at Lash, it was about saving John, not avenging herself. Because when it came down to it? Turned out John was the only thing that mattered to her.
She tackled Lash around the waist at the very moment he started to throw his ball of knock-down, and though she took him to the ground with her, he managed to course-correct his aim. . . and hit John square in the chest.
The impact blew her male off the pavement, sweeping him up and back, all but blowing him out of his boots.
"You fucking bastard!" she screamed into Lash's stripped face.
The son of a bitch's arms snapped around her, locking on with incredible strength. And as he flipped her around and pinned her to the pavement beneath him, his breath was hot and foul on her face.
"Gotcha," he sneered, grinding his hips into hers, his erection enough to make her sick.
"Fuck you!" With a quick jerk, she nailed him right in the. . . well, what passed for a nose. . . with a head butt that had him howling.
Unfortunately, she didn't get another clean shot as they struggled for control, rolling around, their legs intertwining, that horrible arousal of his pushing at her. He managed to snag one of her wrists, but at least she kept the other one out of his way.