Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood 9)

“I’m not going to hurt him, Jane. I’m not incented to rip him apart.”

Yeah, but going by that cold tone of voice, she had to wonder whether the best-laid plans of mice and vampires, blah, blah, blah . . . She quite believed Manny would live to treat V’s twin. Afterward? She had her reservations—especially if things tanked in the OR.

“I’m going to wait here a little longer. Maybe he’ll show. Or call. If he doesn’t, I’m going to think of something else.”

In the long silence, she could practically feel a cold draft through the phone. Her mate did a lot of things well: fight, make love, deal with anything computer-based. Being forced into immobility? Not a core competency. In fact, it was guaranteed to make him mental.

Still, the fact that he didn’t trust her made her feel distant.

“Stay with your sister, Vishous,” she said in an even tone. “I’ll be in touch.”

Silence.

“Vishous. Hang up on me and go sit with her.”

He didn’t say anything further. Just cut the connection.

As she hit end on the phone, she cursed.

A split second later, she was dialing again, and the instant she heard a deep voice answer, she had to brush away a tear that for all its translucency was very, very real. “Butch,” she croaked. “I need your help.”

As what little was left of the sunset disappeared and night stamped its time card and took over the next shift, Manny’s car was supposed to have gone home. It was supposed to have driven itself straight into Caldwell proper.

Instead, he’d ended up on the southern edge of the city, where the trees were big and the stretches of grass outnumbered the asphalt acres ten to one.

Made sense. Cemeteries had to have good stretches of pliable earth, because it wasn’t like you could plug a coffin into concrete.

Well, guess you could—it was called a mausoleum.

Pine Grove Cemetery was open until ten p.m., its massive iron gates thrown wide and its countless wrought-iron street lamps glowing butter yellow along the maze of lanes. As he entered, he went to the right, the Porsche’s xenon headlights sweeping around and washing over stretches of grave markers and lawn.

The site he was drawn to was a beacon that ultimately signified nothing. There was no body buried at the foot of the granite headstone he was going to—there hadn’t been one to bury. No ashes to put in a canister, either—or at least none that you could be sure weren’t mostly those of an Audi that had caught on fire.

About a half a mile of roping turns later, he eased off the accelerator and let the car glide to a stop. As far as he could tell, he was the only one in the whole cemetery, and that was just fine with him. No reason for an audience.

As he got out, the cool air did nothing to clear his head, but it gave his lungs something to do as he inhaled deeply and walked over the scratchy spring grass. He was careful not to step on any of the plots as he went along—sure, it wasn’t like the dead would know that he was above their airspace, but it seemed like a respectful thing to do.

Jane’s grave was up ahead, and he slowed as he approached what wasn’t left of her, as it were. In the distance, the sound of a train whistle cut through the stillness—and the hollow, mournful sound was so fucking clichéd he felt like he was in some movie he would never sit through at home, much less pay to see in a theater.

“Shit, Jane.”

Leaning down, he trailed his fingers along the top of the marker’s uneven edge. He’d chosen the jet-black stone because she wouldn’t have wanted anything pastel-y or washed-out. And the inscription was likewise simple and unfussy, just her name, dates, and one sentence at the bottom: REST IN PEACE.

Yup. He gave himself an A for originality on that one.

He remembered exactly where he’d been when he’d found out that she’d died: in the hospital—of course. It had been at the end of a very long day and night that had started with the knee of a hockey player and ended on a spectacular shoulder reconstruction, thanks to a druggie who’d decided to take a shot at flying.

He’d stepped out of the OR and found Goldberg waiting by the scrub sinks. One look at his colleague’s ashen face and Manny stopped in the process of removing his surgical mask. With the thing hanging off his face like a chin bib, he’d demanded to know what the fuck was wrong—all the while assuming it was either a forty-car pileup on the highway or a plane crash or a fire at a hotel . . . something that was a community-wide tragedy.

Except then he’d looked over the guy’s shoulder and seen five nurses and three other doctors. All of whom were in the same state Goldberg was . . . and none of whom were rushing to pull other staff in for rotation or prep the operating rooms.

Right. It was a community event. Their community.

“Who,” he’d demanded.

Goldberg had glanced back at his support troops and that was when Manny had guessed. And yet even as his gut had gone ice cooler on him, he’d held on to some irrational hope that the name about to come out of his surgeon’s mouth would be anything but—

“Jane. Car accident.”