The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood 16)

The male struggled to focus. “Shot at it—”

“I know.” V took one of those flailing hands in his own and squeezed, like maybe that would help the kid to focus. “Tell me what it was.”

“A sh-sh-shadow…I could see through…it. Came out of nowhere…the bullets did nothing…the bullets…”

Motherfucker. “Was there anyone else around? Did you see anybody else?”

“No. No…no…noooooooo—”

“He’s arresting!” Jane said.

V spun around and grabbed for the portable defibrillator, unlatching the little table it was on and yanking the machine forward.

As the surgical unit lumbered on, bumping over the icy road, Jane leaned in and started chest compressions. She went hands-off long enough for Vishous to slap the electrodes on, and then they both stepped back.

“Clear,” she said.

Vishous hit the button and sent the electricity in, the civilian’s chest jerking up off the table, his arms flopping.

Jane went in and tested at the jugular. “Nothing. Again.”

He is not coming back, V thought.

They did two more rounds after that. And when there was still no pulse, Jane continued chest compressions and ordered V to get the standard protocol of drugs. But even after they pumped that kid full of adrenaline and other things…there was still nothing.

Some ten minutes and God only knew how many miles of road later, Jane stood back and shook her head.

“We lost him.” She cursed. “He’s gone.”

V looked toward the front of the van. “Yo, Q, take us to Havers’s. We’ve got a body, not a patient, back here.”

* * *

—

Throe watched it all happen from the rooftop of the club. He had taken care with himself this time, for he did not know what to expect and his previous arrogance—which had been grounded in what he’d assumed was the invincibility of his creation—had been replaced with a far more appropriate caution.

No more street clothes. He was dressed in all black, with a knit mask pulled down over his face so that nothing of him showed or could reflect light. He was also heavily armed, with sets of guns and rounds of ammunition strapped to his body. Finally, he had been sure to keep himself downwind of where the attack would take place—and he was not alone. This evening, he had brought with him two shadows, one to send down to street level, and a second to wait with him and be a protective backup if necessary.

Throe had a feeling that the Brothers were going to come quickly unto the scene, and assuming they did, it was critical that they not identify him in any fashion. He was not prepared to come forward. Yet.

And then there was too much waiting for his taste. The attack took far longer to transpire than he had anticipated, as the intended target was late, which was irritating.

But then all went according to plan. The male who had been summoned to meet finally arrived, and Throe sent down one of the shadows and observed keenly what transpired. This was a test on so many levels, including of his entities’ ability to fight without conventional weapons. When he had ordered them to kill Naasha’s ancient hellren, he had provided them with a knife. And he had done the same when he had sent them after those Brothers the other evening. But having witnessed that fight and seen what his creations were capable of with their bodies, he realized that weaponizing them may be a waste.

And he was right. His shadows were lightning fast with their forms, snapping out tendrils that caused pain without shredding clothes or seeming to break skin. Verily, that aristocrat proved no match for the ferocity of the attack, falling back from his feet, landing upon the ground—and as he fumbled to get out a gun, Throe nearly interceded.

But instead of the bullets stopping the shadow, they passed through the form and ricocheted off the buildings behind the entity.

Throe had waited for some kind of pain to register as it had done before. Except there had been nothing; the attack didn’t even slow—and there had been the temptation to let the final course of the meal be served. Throe needed, however, for there to be a reporting of the incident. Thus, he had called off his dog, so to speak, the shadow returning to a heel, a balloon once again tethered unto him.

Down below, on the street, in the snow, there had been much gasping and rolling about, and then the male had done as was predicted. With a sloppy hand, he had gotten out a cell phone and texted something.

And like the saviors they preferred to think of themselves as, the Brothers had come unto the fallen, confirming what Throe had suspected: Yes, there was an emergency system in place, a method by which endangered citizens could ask for and receive aid from within the species. This was important information to have, and it was going to be managed with strategy.

As the heroic arrivals had clustered around the injured male, Throe had been sorely tempted to stay and continue to play witness.

But the risk was too great, especially as yet another Brother arrived.

With an unspoken order, Throe had called his shadows into travel, and return to home they had gone, arriving the now in the snowy yard behind the grand house.

Throe paused and considered his options in the cold. There was the prospect of doing another attack this evening, but no. He wanted to see how the natural course of this first one played out. How long it took for the story to percolate and be expressed on social media. How others in the race, especially other aristocrats, responded. What Wrath, the great Blind King, did.

When one was sowing the seeds of social dissension, one had to proceed with care, lest the bonfire thus started got out of bounds and spread in directions that did not support the larger goal.

Originally, he had assumed he needed an army of shadows to attack the Brotherhood and kill the King. But upon further reflection, he decided he did not need such a largesse. Instead, he could use what he had to create social unrest—and that was a far better avenue for him to realize his ambitions. If enough attacks like this occurred, in a short enough period of time, it would not take long before Wrath and the Brotherhood would be perceived as weak: Unable to protect their citizens, they would suffer a rightful fall from grace—and the race would be looking for a hero.

And vacuums needed to be filled, didn’t they.

It was one of the laws of physics.

“Come,” he ordered his balloons. “Let us get out of the cold. The dominoes have just started to fall, and it will be a while as of yet.”

Naturally, his shadows did exactly what he told them to.

FORTY-ONE

Not long after Sola helped bring the groceries in, and Assail and his cousins started to cook, Dr. Manello came to check on the patient—which was fine, great, whatever, Sola thought.

It was just…well, that that other nurse in the long robes was with him. And hey, the woman was perfectly professional and solicitous, but Sola had to cop to feeling a spike of that’s-my-man. Which was frickin’ ridiculous.

In lieu of giving herself a time-out, she went downstairs and wasted ten minutes tidying her already neat guest room. And then she flipped through some TV. And then…

Unable to settle for some reason, she decided a shower was in order, and she was naked, and under the hot spray, when Assail came and found her: One moment she was alone and doing a quick wash of things…the next, a dark shape was just outside the shower stall.

Jerking the door open, she leaned out into the cold. “What did Dr. Manello say? Everything still okay?”

Assail didn’t respond verbally. Instead, he took off his clothes, letting them fall to the damp tile floor.

His sex was totally erect, sticking out straight out from his hips.

“I need you,” he said with a growl.

As she stepped back to make room for him, she was aware of a heady scent, some kind of delicious cologne that he had been wearing lately. Damn, the stuff went into her nose and through her body—

His hands were rough as he pulled her against him, and his mouth was the same, grinding, taking, demanding. And as she kissed him back, she was aware of a strange taste, as if he had been drinking wine? It was not unpleasant at all, it was just…a type of Cabernet she had never had before.

When he put one of her hands on his arousal, she started stroking him—and he climaxed immediately, coming on her belly, the ejaculations hot and powerful. In the back of her mind, she had a split second of disappointment that he had finished so soon, the session ending before it got started for her. ale struggled to focus. “Shot at it—”

“I know.” V took one of those flailing hands in his own and squeezed, like maybe that would help the kid to focus. “Tell me what it was.”

“A sh-sh-shadow…I could see through…it. Came out of nowhere…the bullets did nothing…the bullets…”

Motherfucker. “Was there anyone else around? Did you see anybody else?”

“No. No…no…noooooooo—”

“He’s arresting!” Jane said.

V spun around and grabbed for the portable defibrillator, unlatching the little table it was on and yanking the machine forward.

As the surgical unit lumbered on, bumping over the icy road, Jane leaned in and started chest compressions. She went hands-off long enough for Vishous to slap the electrodes on, and then they both stepped back.

“Clear,” she said.

Vishous hit the button and sent the electricity in, the civilian’s chest jerking up off the table, his arms flopping.

Jane went in and tested at the jugular. “Nothing. Again.”

He is not coming back, V thought.

They did two more rounds after that. And when there was still no pulse, Jane continued chest compressions and ordered V to get the standard protocol of drugs. But even after they pumped that kid full of adrenaline and other things…there was still nothing.

Some ten minutes and God only knew how many miles of road later, Jane stood back and shook her head.

“We lost him.” She cursed. “He’s gone.”

V looked toward the front of the van. “Yo, Q, take us to Havers’s. We’ve got a body, not a patient, back here.”

* * *

—

Throe watched it all happen from the rooftop of the club. He had taken care with himself this time, for he did not know what to expect and his previous arrogance—which had been grounded in what he’d assumed was the invincibility of his creation—had been replaced with a far more appropriate caution.

No more street clothes. He was dressed in all black, with a knit mask pulled down over his face so that nothing of him showed or could reflect light. He was also heavily armed, with sets of guns and rounds of ammunition strapped to his body. Finally, he had been sure to keep himself downwind of where the attack would take place—and he was not alone. This evening, he had brought with him two shadows, one to send down to street level, and a second to wait with him and be a protective backup if necessary.

Throe had a feeling that the Brothers were going to come quickly unto the scene, and assuming they did, it was critical that they not identify him in any fashion. He was not prepared to come forward. Yet.

And then there was too much waiting for his taste. The attack took far longer to transpire than he had anticipated, as the intended target was late, which was irritating.

But then all went according to plan. The male who had been summoned to meet finally arrived, and Throe sent down one of the shadows and observed keenly what transpired. This was a test on so many levels, including of his entities’ ability to fight without conventional weapons. When he had ordered them to kill Naasha’s ancient hellren, he had provided them with a knife. And he had done the same when he had sent them after those Brothers the other evening. But having witnessed that fight and seen what his creations were capable of with their bodies, he realized that weaponizing them may be a waste.

And he was right. His shadows were lightning fast with their forms, snapping out tendrils that caused pain without shredding clothes or seeming to break skin. Verily, that aristocrat proved no match for the ferocity of the attack, falling back from his feet, landing upon the ground—and as he fumbled to get out a gun, Throe nearly interceded.

But instead of the bullets stopping the shadow, they passed through the form and ricocheted off the buildings behind the entity.

Throe had waited for some kind of pain to register as it had done before. Except there had been nothing; the attack didn’t even slow—and there had been the temptation to let the final course of the meal be served. Throe needed, however, for there to be a reporting of the incident. Thus, he had called off his dog, so to speak, the shadow returning to a heel, a balloon once again tethered unto him.

Down below, on the street, in the snow, there had been much gasping and rolling about, and then the male had done as was predicted. With a sloppy hand, he had gotten out a cell phone and texted something.

And like the saviors they preferred to think of themselves as, the Brothers had come unto the fallen, confirming what Throe had suspected: Yes, there was an emergency system in place, a method by which endangered citizens could ask for and receive aid from within the species. This was important information to have, and it was going to be managed with strategy.

As the heroic arrivals had clustered around the injured male, Throe had been sorely tempted to stay and continue to play witness.

But the risk was too great, especially as yet another Brother arrived.

With an unspoken order, Throe had called his shadows into travel, and return to home they had gone, arriving the now in the snowy yard behind the grand house.

Throe paused and considered his options in the cold. There was the prospect of doing another attack this evening, but no. He wanted to see how the natural course of this first one played out. How long it took for the story to percolate and be expressed on social media. How others in the race, especially other aristocrats, responded. What Wrath, the great Blind King, did.

When one was sowing the seeds of social dissension, one had to proceed with care, lest the bonfire thus started got out of bounds and spread in directions that did not support the larger goal.

Originally, he had assumed he needed an army of shadows to attack the Brotherhood and kill the King. But upon further reflection, he decided he did not need such a largesse. Instead, he could use what he had to create social unrest—and that was a far better avenue for him to realize his ambitions. If enough attacks like this occurred, in a short enough period of time, it would not take long before Wrath and the Brotherhood would be perceived as weak: Unable to protect their citizens, they would suffer a rightful fall from grace—and the race would be looking for a hero.

And vacuums needed to be filled, didn’t they.

It was one of the laws of physics.

“Come,” he ordered his balloons. “Let us get out of the cold. The dominoes have just started to fall, and it will be a while as of yet.”

Naturally, his shadows did exactly what he told them to.

FORTY-ONE

Not long after Sola helped bring the groceries in, and Assail and his cousins started to cook, Dr. Manello came to check on the patient—which was fine, great, whatever, Sola thought.

It was just…well, that that other nurse in the long robes was with him. And hey, the woman was perfectly professional and solicitous, but Sola had to cop to feeling a spike of that’s-my-man. Which was frickin’ ridiculous.

In lieu of giving herself a time-out, she went downstairs and wasted ten minutes tidying her already neat guest room. And then she flipped through some TV. And then…

Unable to settle for some reason, she decided a shower was in order, and she was naked, and under the hot spray, when Assail came and found her: One moment she was alone and doing a quick wash of things…the next, a dark shape was just outside the shower stall.

Jerking the door open, she leaned out into the cold. “What did Dr. Manello say? Everything still okay?”

Assail didn’t respond verbally. Instead, he took off his clothes, letting them fall to the damp tile floor.

His sex was totally erect, sticking out straight out from his hips.

“I need you,” he said with a growl.

As she stepped back to make room for him, she was aware of a heady scent, some kind of delicious cologne that he had been wearing lately. Damn, the stuff went into her nose and through her body—

His hands were rough as he pulled her against him, and his mouth was the same, grinding, taking, demanding. And as she kissed him back, she was aware of a strange taste, as if he had been drinking wine? It was not unpleasant at all, it was just…a type of Cabernet she had never had before.

When he put one of her hands on his arousal, she started stroking him—and he climaxed immediately, coming on her belly, the ejaculations hot and powerful. In the back of her mind, she had a split second of disappointment that he had finished so soon, the session ending before it got started for her.