The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood 16)

Moving her head around, she inspected the interior and found nothing surprising: Galley kitchen, tiny bathroom, cots to sleep on. There was a minor degree of inhabitation debris like wrappers for foodstuffs and soda cans, as well as some weapons, so she guessed they had been here for a time before the ruckus had occurred.

Training the headlamp higher, she noted those narrow windows all the way at the top of the walls. Smart. One wouldn’t want anybody seeing inside—

Across the way, there was another door, one more akin to that of the entrance than the bathroom.

Vitoria stepped over the body and proceeded over to what turned out to be a stairwell down into a cellar. As her beam penetrated the black hole, something skittered out of the way at the bottom, and she began her descent cautiously, putting her gloved hand on a railing that was bolted into the wall.

There was a slight smell of death halfway to the lower level, the awful perfume the kind of thing that activated the most ancient part of her brain, triggering thoughts of stopping, turning around, leaving immediately. Which she refused to do.

At the bottom, she stopped and looked around.

There were three cells directly ahead, and there was a body locked in one, its arm extending out through the bars, the hand missing. The head of the man had been badly beaten in, with a pool of dried blood around it, all facial features unrecognizable between the damage and the decaying.

Vitoria took a deep breath. More blue jeans. It wasn’t either of her brothers.

Turning around, she—

“Oh…dear God,” she said in Spanish.

As she hastily made the sign of the cross, her stomach clenched and then heaved—and she had to cover her mouth or throw up.

A corpse was splayed against the far wall, hanging by chains that had been locked on its wrists. The male was naked, the head lolling to the side, a trail of long-dried blood running from one side of the neck down the chest to the leg, a wound of some sort in the abdomen.

She knew it was Ricardo by the hands and the pattern of hair.

But she had to be sure.

Walking forward, she shook so badly her teeth rattled together and her hands slapped against her hips. And when she leaned to the side so the beam flashed upward to the features of the face, she began to cry. The dried-up eyes were open with horror, the mouth distended as if Ricardo had cried for help that would never come, the flesh horribly wrinkled and falling off in strips because he had been dead for so long yet no one had come for his remains.

For all of the violent things Ricardo had wrought on others, for the many deaths he had caused, directly or indirectly, for the rigid restrictions he had put on her, there was plenty to justify this terrible, lonely, painful demise.

Yet as she stared at the decayed remains of the face she had known all her life, she thought not of all the bad things. She remembered the vases of flowers on their mother’s birthday: Though she was before the body of the man, she thought of the soul of the child.

She would mourn the latter, for that was the one she had the most in common with: all those hard, early years of poverty that had been the kiln to Ricardo’s ambitions had served the same purpose for her. They had been dirty and hungry together, mocked in the street as they begged, beaten, and chased away.

As emotion overcame her, there was a temptation to fall apart. To sink to her knees and wail. To throw her hands up in a scared defeat and return to safety back in South America.

This was what she had come here for, however. A slate wiped clean—and Eduardo was dead, too. She knew that without a doubt. If someone had done this to Ricardo, then the other had been killed as well.

Vitoria had wanted a revolution. So she needed to be able to stomach the bloodshed.

As she forced herself to go back upstairs, she tripped at the first step—but upon none of the others. Up at the top, she cleared her throat a couple of times and breathed through her nose. For some reason, she wanted the smell out of her nostrils before she went outside, as if that would dim the memories. Or perhaps she was trying to catch her breath. Or…

She couldn’t think straight. But she needed to start doing that immediately.

Striding to the door that was still only slightly ajar, she said roughly, “Nothing.”

Outside, Streeter pivoted around, his exhale of cigarette smoke floating up to the brightening sky. “No?”

She made what she hoped was a negatory sound and closed things up behind her. Before she put herself once more in her snowshoes, she checked to make sure the locking mechanism had engaged.

“So this was a waste of time,” he muttered.

“Yes. It was.”

If he had known her better, or been paying closer attention, he might have noticed her voice was hoarse. And her hands were shaking. And she was breathing hard. But he was too self-involved, and that was perfect.

Clipping herself back into the snowshoes, Vitoria set off once again, at a faster pace than before.

She had no choice but to leave the bodies, even that of her brother. It was better for her to pretend she knew nothing and be sought out by law enforcement if things ever came to that. Which would be a very long while, if at all. This outpost was totally secluded and secure, and she and Streeter’s tracks would be covered by snow soon enough—

“I’m sorry.”

Vitoria looked over her shoulder without breaking stride. “For what.”

“Bein’ wrong. Wastin’ your time.”

Now she lost her rhythm. “It’s okay. Do not worry yourself about it. We all make mistakes.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“You are welcome, Streeter.”

As she continued on, she tried to distract herself with plans to continue following up with more of those names in Eduardo’s journal. But it was hard. Ricardo’s throat had been torn open, for godsakes.

What kind of animal did that?

THIRTY-FOUR

Sometime after sunrise, Jane had her face in a pillow. Her naked body was flat on the mattress, and her legs were spread, and there was good reason for both. A huge weight was on top of her, moving, penetrating, the rhythm like waves in the ocean at high tide. Her hands were held down, big palms pressing on them, keeping her in place. Fangs, sharp and delicious, were sunk into her shoulder, the bite deep.

How Vishous managed to be in all those places at once was something to ponder—at a different damn time.

Bumping her butt against him signaled what she wanted and he was right on it, releasing his fangs, and lifting his weight off her so that she could get up on all fours. As soon as she was set like a table, V was back on her, his body so much bigger that he became a cage around her, one arm planted next to her, the other coming under her torso, between her breasts. His gloved hand locked on her collarbone and she got herself good and braced.

The pistoning force was so great that without his hold on her, she would have been thrown into the headboard—but fortunately, her male was strong enough to keep the pace and her in one place.

Holy hell, they were probably waking Butch and Marissa up with the bed banging like this.

Something to apologize for later.

Jane wasn’t going to waste a moment of time on anything but what they were doing. There was just such joy in giving herself up to the experience, laying down her inclination to dictate, anticipate, plan, and execute—and letting go. The trust she had in V was the conduit; the love was the connection. And there was also the knowledge that, at least when it came to her, he was willing to do fair turnaround. He would give himself to her in any way she asked or wanted—

An orgasm lightning’d through her, hitting her sex like the crack of a whip, and as if he had been waiting for that, V’s pelvis clapped forward once, twice…three times. After that, it was all inside of her, his erection kicking as he filled her up.

Then it was the great collapse.

When her eyes were able to focus, she looked at the clock. 8:38 a.m.

“You are the best alarm clock in the world,” she said.

V’s laugh was low and a little evil. “No hitting my snooze button, huh.”

“Nope.”

“Pity.”

They rolled over and spooned, and then she had to motivate. “So here’s the plan,” she said. “I go and do this check-in at Assail’s, and then I’m back for the rest of the day. Ehlena’s covering at the clinic, and Manny and I are on at nightfall.” g her head around, she inspected the interior and found nothing surprising: Galley kitchen, tiny bathroom, cots to sleep on. There was a minor degree of inhabitation debris like wrappers for foodstuffs and soda cans, as well as some weapons, so she guessed they had been here for a time before the ruckus had occurred.

Training the headlamp higher, she noted those narrow windows all the way at the top of the walls. Smart. One wouldn’t want anybody seeing inside—

Across the way, there was another door, one more akin to that of the entrance than the bathroom.

Vitoria stepped over the body and proceeded over to what turned out to be a stairwell down into a cellar. As her beam penetrated the black hole, something skittered out of the way at the bottom, and she began her descent cautiously, putting her gloved hand on a railing that was bolted into the wall.

There was a slight smell of death halfway to the lower level, the awful perfume the kind of thing that activated the most ancient part of her brain, triggering thoughts of stopping, turning around, leaving immediately. Which she refused to do.

At the bottom, she stopped and looked around.

There were three cells directly ahead, and there was a body locked in one, its arm extending out through the bars, the hand missing. The head of the man had been badly beaten in, with a pool of dried blood around it, all facial features unrecognizable between the damage and the decaying.

Vitoria took a deep breath. More blue jeans. It wasn’t either of her brothers.

Turning around, she—

“Oh…dear God,” she said in Spanish.

As she hastily made the sign of the cross, her stomach clenched and then heaved—and she had to cover her mouth or throw up.

A corpse was splayed against the far wall, hanging by chains that had been locked on its wrists. The male was naked, the head lolling to the side, a trail of long-dried blood running from one side of the neck down the chest to the leg, a wound of some sort in the abdomen.

She knew it was Ricardo by the hands and the pattern of hair.

But she had to be sure.

Walking forward, she shook so badly her teeth rattled together and her hands slapped against her hips. And when she leaned to the side so the beam flashed upward to the features of the face, she began to cry. The dried-up eyes were open with horror, the mouth distended as if Ricardo had cried for help that would never come, the flesh horribly wrinkled and falling off in strips because he had been dead for so long yet no one had come for his remains.

For all of the violent things Ricardo had wrought on others, for the many deaths he had caused, directly or indirectly, for the rigid restrictions he had put on her, there was plenty to justify this terrible, lonely, painful demise.

Yet as she stared at the decayed remains of the face she had known all her life, she thought not of all the bad things. She remembered the vases of flowers on their mother’s birthday: Though she was before the body of the man, she thought of the soul of the child.

She would mourn the latter, for that was the one she had the most in common with: all those hard, early years of poverty that had been the kiln to Ricardo’s ambitions had served the same purpose for her. They had been dirty and hungry together, mocked in the street as they begged, beaten, and chased away.

As emotion overcame her, there was a temptation to fall apart. To sink to her knees and wail. To throw her hands up in a scared defeat and return to safety back in South America.

This was what she had come here for, however. A slate wiped clean—and Eduardo was dead, too. She knew that without a doubt. If someone had done this to Ricardo, then the other had been killed as well.

Vitoria had wanted a revolution. So she needed to be able to stomach the bloodshed.

As she forced herself to go back upstairs, she tripped at the first step—but upon none of the others. Up at the top, she cleared her throat a couple of times and breathed through her nose. For some reason, she wanted the smell out of her nostrils before she went outside, as if that would dim the memories. Or perhaps she was trying to catch her breath. Or…

She couldn’t think straight. But she needed to start doing that immediately.

Striding to the door that was still only slightly ajar, she said roughly, “Nothing.”

Outside, Streeter pivoted around, his exhale of cigarette smoke floating up to the brightening sky. “No?”

She made what she hoped was a negatory sound and closed things up behind her. Before she put herself once more in her snowshoes, she checked to make sure the locking mechanism had engaged.

“So this was a waste of time,” he muttered.

“Yes. It was.”

If he had known her better, or been paying closer attention, he might have noticed her voice was hoarse. And her hands were shaking. And she was breathing hard. But he was too self-involved, and that was perfect.

Clipping herself back into the snowshoes, Vitoria set off once again, at a faster pace than before.

She had no choice but to leave the bodies, even that of her brother. It was better for her to pretend she knew nothing and be sought out by law enforcement if things ever came to that. Which would be a very long while, if at all. This outpost was totally secluded and secure, and she and Streeter’s tracks would be covered by snow soon enough—

“I’m sorry.”

Vitoria looked over her shoulder without breaking stride. “For what.”

“Bein’ wrong. Wastin’ your time.”

Now she lost her rhythm. “It’s okay. Do not worry yourself about it. We all make mistakes.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“You are welcome, Streeter.”

As she continued on, she tried to distract herself with plans to continue following up with more of those names in Eduardo’s journal. But it was hard. Ricardo’s throat had been torn open, for godsakes.

What kind of animal did that?

THIRTY-FOUR

Sometime after sunrise, Jane had her face in a pillow. Her naked body was flat on the mattress, and her legs were spread, and there was good reason for both. A huge weight was on top of her, moving, penetrating, the rhythm like waves in the ocean at high tide. Her hands were held down, big palms pressing on them, keeping her in place. Fangs, sharp and delicious, were sunk into her shoulder, the bite deep.

How Vishous managed to be in all those places at once was something to ponder—at a different damn time.

Bumping her butt against him signaled what she wanted and he was right on it, releasing his fangs, and lifting his weight off her so that she could get up on all fours. As soon as she was set like a table, V was back on her, his body so much bigger that he became a cage around her, one arm planted next to her, the other coming under her torso, between her breasts. His gloved hand locked on her collarbone and she got herself good and braced.

The pistoning force was so great that without his hold on her, she would have been thrown into the headboard—but fortunately, her male was strong enough to keep the pace and her in one place.

Holy hell, they were probably waking Butch and Marissa up with the bed banging like this.

Something to apologize for later.

Jane wasn’t going to waste a moment of time on anything but what they were doing. There was just such joy in giving herself up to the experience, laying down her inclination to dictate, anticipate, plan, and execute—and letting go. The trust she had in V was the conduit; the love was the connection. And there was also the knowledge that, at least when it came to her, he was willing to do fair turnaround. He would give himself to her in any way she asked or wanted—

An orgasm lightning’d through her, hitting her sex like the crack of a whip, and as if he had been waiting for that, V’s pelvis clapped forward once, twice…three times. After that, it was all inside of her, his erection kicking as he filled her up.

Then it was the great collapse.

When her eyes were able to focus, she looked at the clock. 8:38 a.m.

“You are the best alarm clock in the world,” she said.

V’s laugh was low and a little evil. “No hitting my snooze button, huh.”

“Nope.”

“Pity.”

They rolled over and spooned, and then she had to motivate. “So here’s the plan,” she said. “I go and do this check-in at Assail’s, and then I’m back for the rest of the day. Ehlena’s covering at the clinic, and Manny and I are on at nightfall.”