The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood 16)

As she reached out, Phury gasped and went to fight her off, his flailing arms going through her ghostly form.

“It’s me,” she said urgently, dropping her face close to his own. “It’s Jane.”

As he calmed down, she tried to see what was going on with the gunfight. There was more shooting, and she didn’t know whether that was good, because Brotherhood backup had arrived, or bad, because other lessers had and V was dead.

“I’m hit,” Phury said as he scratched at his leather jacket and tried to rip it open. She helped him with the zipper, and then—

“Thank God,” she muttered as she got a gander at his bulletproof vest.

The thing had done its job, catching the bullets and holding them from his flesh. But there still could be internal damage—

The slayer that shot out of the alley was running as if its non-life depended on it. Black blood was pouring out from its throat, a geyser tapped, but the bastard was still up and rolling. And it was armed.

Focusing on Phury, it lifted the gun in its hand, pointing the muzzle at the Brother’s head.

Bulletproof vests only worked on the places they were covering. A shot to the cranium was lethal.

And then, just before the lesser pulled its trigger, Jane saw the unbelievable.

Vishous was up on his feet and somehow walking out of the alley. He was bleeding down the side of his face and dragging his body, but he was pissed off and fully engaged in the fight. Hell, he even had daggers in both his fists and the snarl of a beast for an expression.

As things went into slo-mo, Jane had a moment of total pride in her mate. Even injured, he was fighting to protect his brother—and prevailing.

But then it was a case of one, two, three, all at the same time.

The lesser pulled his trigger.

Jane made herself fully physical to block the bullet.

And Vishous threw both of those blades.

* * *

—

Assail would have preferred to be the one driving to the church. As a male, he felt as though that was his duty. His two female companions, however, took a different opinion of tradition—and so he was in the Range Rover’s passenger seat whilst Marisol had the wheel.

At least he had a lovely view to enjoy. In the glow of the dash, his female’s profile was so beautiful, she arrested him completely, stopping everything but his heart. Even with that baseball cap pulled low, he enjoyed the curve of her cheek, the lushness of her lips, the column of her throat above her parka…

In fact, he could not look away. But at least he was causing no offense. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her grandmother smiling in the backseat—and his Marisol glanced his way every now and again, her blush a charming, secret gift.

Yet all was not perfect for him.

Shifting in his seat, he did not like the way his cashmere coat hung off him in folds, even though he was wearing a full suit underneath. And he had disliked the sight of the suit even more, that which had been tailored to fit his proper form dwarfing him the now, turning him into the son trying on the father’s clothes.

As he thought about his weight, he murmured, “I am already looking forward to your next meal, Mrs. Carvalho.”

“Big breakfast,” the grandmother said. “Very big.”

“This is good. I have much to regain.”

“You have been sick.”

This was uttered as if it were a form of absolution, a pardoning of that which was, in other circumstance, an intolerable offense.

“You both could not have come along at a better time,” he murmured.

’Lo, how he wanted to reach across and take Marisol’s hand, especially as she shot him a smile. But he had to be discreet out of respect to her and her grandmother.

Some ten minutes later, they were pulling into a parking lot beside a grand cathedral that reminded him of the ones built by humans in the Old Country, its buttresses, peaked Gothic arches, and ribbons of stained glass taking him home in ways too intense and internal to bear for long.

“Quite a beautiful church it is,” he commented as Marisol halted them in one of the spaces.

There were fifteen other cars parked in a lot big enough to handle a hundred, and the vehicles were all huddled close to the walkway leading around to the front.

As he got out, he opened Mrs. Carvalho’s door, extending his hand forth to help her down. Shutting things up, he offered Marisol’s grandmother his elbow, and the lady took it, wrapping her arm through his.

They waited for Marisol to come around, and he loved that look on his female’s face. That slight smile.

“Ready?” she said, her breath white in the cold night.

“Let us go—oh, madam, the curb.” He helped her grandmother up to the sidewalk. “There we are.”

As they proceeded over that which had been heavily salted, he looked up at the cathedral’s towering height. The structure was maintained in beautiful condition, nothing faded in its grandeur, the interior lighting showing through the stained glass and turning the pictorials into jewels.

“Do they always do midnight rituals?” Assail asked.

“It’s a mass.” Marisol glanced over her grandmother’s white head at him. “It’s called a mass. And this cathedral does them on Thursdays and Saturdays each week, as well as on certain holidays. Caldwell has a very active Catholic community, and with so many people doing first and second shifts, these services offer working folks times to worship they wouldn’t otherwise have.”

The sound of voices behind them had him looking over his shoulder. A man and a woman were walking along in their wake, both burrowed into their coats and talking softly. As he regarded them, it was strange to realize that for as long as he had lived amongst humans, he had never spent much time with them. Yes, he had had business dealings, of course, but not anything of any leisurely pursuit.

Although, to be fair, he had not had much leisure to pursue in any kind of company.

The doors of the church were heavy and carved, and out of habit and manners, he went to jump ahead to open them, but Marisol got there first. Which was probably a good thing. He was not very strong, and just from the walk from the car, he was breathing hard.

Inside, he found himself in a vast entry room with red carpeting and dark wooden walls and stone plaques inscribed in Latin.

“The coatroom is over here,” Marisol murmured.

When they reemerged without their outerwear, he found himself fiddling with his baggy suit and the tie that was the only thing holding his loose collar against his neck.

“Marisol,” her grandmother said, “you must take off the hat. You cannot wear it.”

“Vovó, I have to.”

The two switched into their mother tongue, the argument hushed and quick. And then Mrs. Carvalho made a grunting sound and walked forth.

The baseball hat stayed on, and yes, it did hide most, if not all, of Marisol’s face—but how he hated the reason she had to wear it.

“Come on,” she said, tugging at his hand.

The worshipping space was magnificent, with a lofty vaulted ceiling, marble statuary, and a polished stone floor that went on forever. Hundreds of wooden pews in six sections of tight rows progressed down to an altar that was set beneath a glorious mural of the Christ enthroned. And indeed, the seating was so vast that the thirty people in front did little to fill out things.

At Marisol’s prompting, they settled over on the left, a couple of rows back from the last one that had anybody in it. As they got themselves arranged, with Marisol in the middle and him on the aisle, he took a deep breath.

Considering where he had been of late, it was an unexpected miracle to be in this incredible place.

And then the organ began to play, its deep basses reaching into his chest, its ringing highs…reaching into his soul.

I am home, he thought.

Although that was about who he was with, rather than where he was.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Across town, at the head of the alley, Vishous screamed as he saw Jane go from translucent to fully corporeal just as that fucking slayer started shooting.

“No!”

She was right between Phury and the shooter, protecting her patient, his brother, with her very body. And as the bullets went into her, the daggers V had thrown with perfect accuracy went into the lesser’s back. e reached out, Phury gasped and went to fight her off, his flailing arms going through her ghostly form.

“It’s me,” she said urgently, dropping her face close to his own. “It’s Jane.”

As he calmed down, she tried to see what was going on with the gunfight. There was more shooting, and she didn’t know whether that was good, because Brotherhood backup had arrived, or bad, because other lessers had and V was dead.

“I’m hit,” Phury said as he scratched at his leather jacket and tried to rip it open. She helped him with the zipper, and then—

“Thank God,” she muttered as she got a gander at his bulletproof vest.

The thing had done its job, catching the bullets and holding them from his flesh. But there still could be internal damage—

The slayer that shot out of the alley was running as if its non-life depended on it. Black blood was pouring out from its throat, a geyser tapped, but the bastard was still up and rolling. And it was armed.

Focusing on Phury, it lifted the gun in its hand, pointing the muzzle at the Brother’s head.

Bulletproof vests only worked on the places they were covering. A shot to the cranium was lethal.

And then, just before the lesser pulled its trigger, Jane saw the unbelievable.

Vishous was up on his feet and somehow walking out of the alley. He was bleeding down the side of his face and dragging his body, but he was pissed off and fully engaged in the fight. Hell, he even had daggers in both his fists and the snarl of a beast for an expression.

As things went into slo-mo, Jane had a moment of total pride in her mate. Even injured, he was fighting to protect his brother—and prevailing.

But then it was a case of one, two, three, all at the same time.

The lesser pulled his trigger.

Jane made herself fully physical to block the bullet.

And Vishous threw both of those blades.

* * *

—

Assail would have preferred to be the one driving to the church. As a male, he felt as though that was his duty. His two female companions, however, took a different opinion of tradition—and so he was in the Range Rover’s passenger seat whilst Marisol had the wheel.

At least he had a lovely view to enjoy. In the glow of the dash, his female’s profile was so beautiful, she arrested him completely, stopping everything but his heart. Even with that baseball cap pulled low, he enjoyed the curve of her cheek, the lushness of her lips, the column of her throat above her parka…

In fact, he could not look away. But at least he was causing no offense. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her grandmother smiling in the backseat—and his Marisol glanced his way every now and again, her blush a charming, secret gift.

Yet all was not perfect for him.

Shifting in his seat, he did not like the way his cashmere coat hung off him in folds, even though he was wearing a full suit underneath. And he had disliked the sight of the suit even more, that which had been tailored to fit his proper form dwarfing him the now, turning him into the son trying on the father’s clothes.

As he thought about his weight, he murmured, “I am already looking forward to your next meal, Mrs. Carvalho.”

“Big breakfast,” the grandmother said. “Very big.”

“This is good. I have much to regain.”

“You have been sick.”

This was uttered as if it were a form of absolution, a pardoning of that which was, in other circumstance, an intolerable offense.

“You both could not have come along at a better time,” he murmured.

’Lo, how he wanted to reach across and take Marisol’s hand, especially as she shot him a smile. But he had to be discreet out of respect to her and her grandmother.

Some ten minutes later, they were pulling into a parking lot beside a grand cathedral that reminded him of the ones built by humans in the Old Country, its buttresses, peaked Gothic arches, and ribbons of stained glass taking him home in ways too intense and internal to bear for long.

“Quite a beautiful church it is,” he commented as Marisol halted them in one of the spaces.

There were fifteen other cars parked in a lot big enough to handle a hundred, and the vehicles were all huddled close to the walkway leading around to the front.

As he got out, he opened Mrs. Carvalho’s door, extending his hand forth to help her down. Shutting things up, he offered Marisol’s grandmother his elbow, and the lady took it, wrapping her arm through his.

They waited for Marisol to come around, and he loved that look on his female’s face. That slight smile.

“Ready?” she said, her breath white in the cold night.

“Let us go—oh, madam, the curb.” He helped her grandmother up to the sidewalk. “There we are.”

As they proceeded over that which had been heavily salted, he looked up at the cathedral’s towering height. The structure was maintained in beautiful condition, nothing faded in its grandeur, the interior lighting showing through the stained glass and turning the pictorials into jewels.

“Do they always do midnight rituals?” Assail asked.

“It’s a mass.” Marisol glanced over her grandmother’s white head at him. “It’s called a mass. And this cathedral does them on Thursdays and Saturdays each week, as well as on certain holidays. Caldwell has a very active Catholic community, and with so many people doing first and second shifts, these services offer working folks times to worship they wouldn’t otherwise have.”

The sound of voices behind them had him looking over his shoulder. A man and a woman were walking along in their wake, both burrowed into their coats and talking softly. As he regarded them, it was strange to realize that for as long as he had lived amongst humans, he had never spent much time with them. Yes, he had had business dealings, of course, but not anything of any leisurely pursuit.

Although, to be fair, he had not had much leisure to pursue in any kind of company.

The doors of the church were heavy and carved, and out of habit and manners, he went to jump ahead to open them, but Marisol got there first. Which was probably a good thing. He was not very strong, and just from the walk from the car, he was breathing hard.

Inside, he found himself in a vast entry room with red carpeting and dark wooden walls and stone plaques inscribed in Latin.

“The coatroom is over here,” Marisol murmured.

When they reemerged without their outerwear, he found himself fiddling with his baggy suit and the tie that was the only thing holding his loose collar against his neck.

“Marisol,” her grandmother said, “you must take off the hat. You cannot wear it.”

“Vovó, I have to.”

The two switched into their mother tongue, the argument hushed and quick. And then Mrs. Carvalho made a grunting sound and walked forth.

The baseball hat stayed on, and yes, it did hide most, if not all, of Marisol’s face—but how he hated the reason she had to wear it.

“Come on,” she said, tugging at his hand.

The worshipping space was magnificent, with a lofty vaulted ceiling, marble statuary, and a polished stone floor that went on forever. Hundreds of wooden pews in six sections of tight rows progressed down to an altar that was set beneath a glorious mural of the Christ enthroned. And indeed, the seating was so vast that the thirty people in front did little to fill out things.

At Marisol’s prompting, they settled over on the left, a couple of rows back from the last one that had anybody in it. As they got themselves arranged, with Marisol in the middle and him on the aisle, he took a deep breath.

Considering where he had been of late, it was an unexpected miracle to be in this incredible place.

And then the organ began to play, its deep basses reaching into his chest, its ringing highs…reaching into his soul.

I am home, he thought.

Although that was about who he was with, rather than where he was.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Across town, at the head of the alley, Vishous screamed as he saw Jane go from translucent to fully corporeal just as that fucking slayer started shooting.

“No!”

She was right between Phury and the shooter, protecting her patient, his brother, with her very body. And as the bullets went into her, the daggers V had thrown with perfect accuracy went into the lesser’s back.