The Beast (Black Dagger Brotherhood 14)

BOOM!

Anywhere, anywhere—he had to get anywhere the fuck out of range—and fast. Too bad his body wasn’t listening. Even as his brain was screaming for speed, all he could do was lurch like a zombie—

Someone caught him from behind, hipping him up off the ground on a snatch-and-drag that quickly turned into an over-the-shoulder fireman carry. As he slammed into place head-down, he vomited from the agony, starbursts lighting his eyes up as his stomach emptied itself with violence. The good news was that he hadn’t eaten for twelve to fifteen hours at that point, so he didn’t cream up his cousin’s pant leg too badly.

He wanted to help the effort. He wanted to hang on himself. He wanted . . .

Bushes lashed him in the face, and he squinted to protect his eyes. Blood began to flow and it filled his nose. His shoulder got more and more painful. Pressure in his head grew unbearable, making him think of over-inflated tires, bags with too many things in them, water balloons that popped and spilled their contents everywhere.

Thank God for his cousins. They never deserted him.

One must remember to reward them in some manner.

The outbuilding seemed to canter toward them as opposed to the other way around, and from Assail’s upside-down vantage point, the thing appeared to be hanging from the earth instead of planted upon it. Brick. Even with the jostling and the darkness and the alternating strides, he could tell the shack was brick.

One could only hope for a sturdy construction.

His cousin broke down the door, and the air inside was musty and damp.

Without warning, Assail was dumped like the trash he was, and he landed on a dusty floor with a bounce that made him retch again. The door slammed shut, and then all he heard was his cousin’s heavy breathing. And his own.

And the muffled sounds of the battle.

There was an abrupt flare of orange light.

Through the haze of his pain, Assail frowned—and then recoiled. The face illuminated as a hand-rolled cigarette was lit was not that of either of his cousins.

“How badly are you hurt?” the Black Dagger Brother Vishous asked as he exhaled a most delicious smoke.

“’Twas you?”

“Do I look like Santa Claus?”

“An unlikely savior you are.” Assail grimaced and wiped his mouth upon his jacket sleeve. “And I apologize for your pants.”

V looked down at himself. “You got something against black leather?”

“I vomited down the back of them—”

“Shit!”

“Well, one can get them cleaned—”

“No, asshole, it’s coming for us.” V nodded to a cloudy window. “Damn it.”

Indeed, off in the distance, the thundering pounding of the dragon’s gait sounded once again, a storm gathering and heading in their direction.

Assail flailed around on the floor, looking for somewhere to hide. A closet. A bathroom. A cellar. Nothing. The interior was empty except for two floor-to-ceiling supports and a decade’s worth of rafter decay. Thank the Virgin Scribe that it appeared to be a stout brick and more likely to withstand—

The roof lifted and splintered on a oner, debris raining down, asphalt shingles slapping on the floor as if the shed were heralding its own demise with a round of applause. Fresh night air cleared away the musty smell, but it was hardly a relief given what had precipitated the access.

The beast was not a vegetarian, stipulated. But it also wasn’t worried about its fiber intake: the thing spit that old wooden roof out to the side, arched down, and opened up its jaws, releasing a sonic boom of a roar.

There was nowhere to run. The creature was standing over the building, poised to strike at what had become its lunchbox. Nowhere to take cover. No suitable defense to bring to bear.

“Go,” Assail said to the Brother as those great reptilian eyes narrowed and the muzzle blew an exhale as hot and fetid as a Dumpster in summer. “Give me your weapon. I’ll distract it.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“I am not one of your brothers.”

“You gave us this location. You gave us the head of the Fore-lesser. I’m not fucking leaving you, douche bag.”

“Such gallantry. And the compliments. Do stop.”

As the beast let out another roar and tossed its head as if it were prepared to toy with them a bit before consuming them, Assail thought of his drug dealing . . . his cocaine addiction . . .

The human female with whom he had fallen in love and had had to let go. Because she couldn’t handle his lifestyle, and he was too caught up in it to stop, even for her.

He shook his head at the Brother. “No, I’m not worth saving. Get the fuck out of here.”

SIX

Campbell’s Chicken & Stars.

As Mary stood over the stove in Safe Place’s original kitchen, she stirred the soup ’round and ’round with a stainless-steel spoon, watching the swollen almost-stars of pasta make circuits along with the squares of white meat and wedges of carrots. The pan was the smallest one they had in the house. The broth was yellow, and the sweet smell reminded her of the simple illnesses she’d had as a child . . . colds, flus, strep.

Easier things than cancer.

Or the MS that had taken her mother.

The bowl she poured things into was cream with rings of concentric yellow piping on the lip. She got a fresh spoon out of the drawer and went around the counter to the big, rough-cut table.

“Here,” she said to Bitty. “And I’ll get you some Saltines.”

Anywhere, anywhere—he had to get anywhere the fuck out of range—and fast. Too bad his body wasn’t listening. Even as his brain was screaming for speed, all he could do was lurch like a zombie—

Someone caught him from behind, hipping him up off the ground on a snatch-and-drag that quickly turned into an over-the-shoulder fireman carry. As he slammed into place head-down, he vomited from the agony, starbursts lighting his eyes up as his stomach emptied itself with violence. The good news was that he hadn’t eaten for twelve to fifteen hours at that point, so he didn’t cream up his cousin’s pant leg too badly.

He wanted to help the effort. He wanted to hang on himself. He wanted . . .

Bushes lashed him in the face, and he squinted to protect his eyes. Blood began to flow and it filled his nose. His shoulder got more and more painful. Pressure in his head grew unbearable, making him think of over-inflated tires, bags with too many things in them, water balloons that popped and spilled their contents everywhere.

Thank God for his cousins. They never deserted him.

One must remember to reward them in some manner.

The outbuilding seemed to canter toward them as opposed to the other way around, and from Assail’s upside-down vantage point, the thing appeared to be hanging from the earth instead of planted upon it. Brick. Even with the jostling and the darkness and the alternating strides, he could tell the shack was brick.

One could only hope for a sturdy construction.

His cousin broke down the door, and the air inside was musty and damp.

Without warning, Assail was dumped like the trash he was, and he landed on a dusty floor with a bounce that made him retch again. The door slammed shut, and then all he heard was his cousin’s heavy breathing. And his own.

And the muffled sounds of the battle.

There was an abrupt flare of orange light.

Through the haze of his pain, Assail frowned—and then recoiled. The face illuminated as a hand-rolled cigarette was lit was not that of either of his cousins.

“How badly are you hurt?” the Black Dagger Brother Vishous asked as he exhaled a most delicious smoke.

“’Twas you?”

“Do I look like Santa Claus?”

“An unlikely savior you are.” Assail grimaced and wiped his mouth upon his jacket sleeve. “And I apologize for your pants.”

V looked down at himself. “You got something against black leather?”

“I vomited down the back of them—”

“Shit!”

“Well, one can get them cleaned—”

“No, asshole, it’s coming for us.” V nodded to a cloudy window. “Damn it.”

Indeed, off in the distance, the thundering pounding of the dragon’s gait sounded once again, a storm gathering and heading in their direction.

Assail flailed around on the floor, looking for somewhere to hide. A closet. A bathroom. A cellar. Nothing. The interior was empty except for two floor-to-ceiling supports and a decade’s worth of rafter decay. Thank the Virgin Scribe that it appeared to be a stout brick and more likely to withstand—

The roof lifted and splintered on a oner, debris raining down, asphalt shingles slapping on the floor as if the shed were heralding its own demise with a round of applause. Fresh night air cleared away the musty smell, but it was hardly a relief given what had precipitated the access.

The beast was not a vegetarian, stipulated. But it also wasn’t worried about its fiber intake: the thing spit that old wooden roof out to the side, arched down, and opened up its jaws, releasing a sonic boom of a roar.

There was nowhere to run. The creature was standing over the building, poised to strike at what had become its lunchbox. Nowhere to take cover. No suitable defense to bring to bear.

“Go,” Assail said to the Brother as those great reptilian eyes narrowed and the muzzle blew an exhale as hot and fetid as a Dumpster in summer. “Give me your weapon. I’ll distract it.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“I am not one of your brothers.”

“You gave us this location. You gave us the head of the Fore-lesser. I’m not fucking leaving you, douche bag.”

“Such gallantry. And the compliments. Do stop.”

As the beast let out another roar and tossed its head as if it were prepared to toy with them a bit before consuming them, Assail thought of his drug dealing . . . his cocaine addiction . . .

The human female with whom he had fallen in love and had had to let go. Because she couldn’t handle his lifestyle, and he was too caught up in it to stop, even for her.

He shook his head at the Brother. “No, I’m not worth saving. Get the fuck out of here.”

SIX

Campbell’s Chicken & Stars.

As Mary stood over the stove in Safe Place’s original kitchen, she stirred the soup ’round and ’round with a stainless-steel spoon, watching the swollen almost-stars of pasta make circuits along with the squares of white meat and wedges of carrots. The pan was the smallest one they had in the house. The broth was yellow, and the sweet smell reminded her of the simple illnesses she’d had as a child . . . colds, flus, strep.

Easier things than cancer.

Or the MS that had taken her mother.

The bowl she poured things into was cream with rings of concentric yellow piping on the lip. She got a fresh spoon out of the drawer and went around the counter to the big, rough-cut table.

“Here,” she said to Bitty. “And I’ll get you some Saltines.”