The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood 16)
Of course, that could create a problem considering he’d murdered the owner and his too-young shellan. Sooner or later, he was going to have to account for their whereabouts—but he had a plan in place for that.
Tropical vacations, you know. Especially given that the couple had a geriatric half whose bones ached in the cold. Not a foolproof explanation, but it would buy Throe enough time to create sufficient chaos in the race that the last thing anyone would be worried about was the whereabouts of the mismatched pair.
Assuming the Brotherhood didn’t continue to contain that chaos.
Anger rose in the back of his throat, tightening his airway such that he wanted to scream it free. But then he calmed himself and refocused on the positives. The Brothers would not be able to make this all go away—if they killed enough members of the aristocracy, sooner or later they would be discovered and that would work well in Throe’s plans. Further, he had made an important refinement in this attack, one that had been an inspired tweak if he did say so himself.
It was better to target one of a pair. That way, there was a witness uncompromised by injury, with a clear recollection of events and a voice that was going to require expression.
Unless the Brotherhood eliminated them.
Then again…maybe they would not. Wrath seemed to have standards for behavior now.
Well, Throe would find out, either way. And perhaps it would be to his advantage. After the previous night’s exercise, he had waited for testimony of the attack to appear—but the only thing that had come was a statement of the death from a half-brother he had been unaware of Whinnig possessing. All he had known about the son of Stanalas was that he had managed to walk off with Groshe’s money—which should have been Throe’s for all he had done to service Naasha’s endless demands.
Yet there had been no details about the shadows shared. Just a listing on one of the race’s Facebook pages that the family was requesting privacy during this time of grief.
Stupid fucking discretion.
Well, he’d fixed that—or tried to. No glymera, this time. Just two regular civilians that he’d had to wait to go by, sure as a deer hunter in a stand had to be patient. And then they had arrived—and he had sent his shadow down to do what it did.
At least his entities were functioning well. They had no sense of self or purpose other than the commands he gave to them—so there was no disgruntlement or disagreement as Throe sent his shadow to kill the male on the right, but not the left. And when he’d been comfortable with how much injury had been meted out, he called the thing back with every confidence the order would be followed at the instant the mental thought was sent in its direction.
And it had been.
If only the rest were going so obligingly.
As he felt his impatience ramping up, he knew he had to gather himself. This was no good, this agitation. Besides, these one-on-one attacks, although important, were not the bigger step he was going to take. No, that would come soon.
Closing his eyes, he pictured his Book and was instantly calmed, sure as a young to its comfort blanket. All would be well, he told himself—and it wasn’t going to take that long. He was setting in motion a civil war, and in this era of viral social media and polarized, extreme emotion, he had the wind at his back.
Wrath and the Brotherhood did not stand a chance against him, and they were soon going to find that out. He just needed a couple more of these “random” attacks, and then he was going to stage his finale.
It was so perfect, he impressed even himself, he thought as he disappeared into the night.
FIFTY-FOUR
As Assail sat in the training center’s break room, he contemplated all of the evil things he had ever done or thought. He started from the very beginning when he’d stolen from his cousins the sweets made for them by his parents’ staff…and continued all the way up until he had murdered that female Naasha, who had kept Markcus chained in her basement—as a blood slave.
Oh, wait, he had burned down that house, too. With Zsadist’s help.
That Brother, as a former blood slave, had had an abiding reason to participate in the destruction, although Assail had been the one to kill the female as she had sat in her beauty chair, prepared to be pampered.
After which the flames had been ignited, and Assail had resolved to stay in the midst of the blaze. At that time, with Marisol gone from his life, incineration had seemed a very reasonable end to the pain of missing her. The Brother had been determined upon another course, however—and had dragged him out of there.
And so he was here again, he thought as he stared across at the Coke machine. Missing Marisol as if she had died even though she was well enough and very much breathing.
Sitting forward in his chair, he put his head in his hands. Two hours had passed since he had told her, since she had run from him, since the truth he had not wished to share had shattered them as glass beneath the head of a hammer—
As the door opened, he sat up to attention and felt a bolt of something like hope light the cold meat locker behind his sternum.
“Oh, ’tis you, Vishous,” he muttered as he sank back in the chair.
“You’re about as cheerful as I am.” The Brother took out a hand-rolled, lit it, and grabbed an ashtray off a table. “Listen, Jane told me what’s going on with you and your girl.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Good, because that’s not why I’m here.”
As V settled into the chair next door and crossed his legs ankle to knee, Assail realized there had been a further reason why he’d come clean instead of just wiping away Marisol’s memories of him. There had been a treacherous optimism, deep down inside of him, rooted in the place where his love for her had grown from, that she would somehow understand and accept him. That she would rise above the surprise, fear, and disgust, and see him not for his species, but as one who loved her to his very soul.
He should have known better.
“So we’ve got a problem,” the Brother said as he put his ashtray on his knee and tapped his hand-rolled.
Don’t talk to me about problems, you sonofabitch, I’m bleeding out over here, Assail thought.
“Yes?” he intoned.
“The species is facing a new threat and I need hollow-tip bullets.”
“I believe they are sold at all gun outlets—”
“I need a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of them.”
Assail blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” V exhaled. “A bulk sale of that size? No way the human authorities won’t get their panties in a wad. So I want you to make it happen, just like you did for those guns you—”
“I’m out of that business, I’m afraid.” Assail waved a dismissive hand. “I am retired.”
“So un-retire.”
Assail sat forward again and rubbed the back of his neck as it began to ache. “Forgive me, but as much as I respect the Black Dagger Brotherhood, I am fairly certain I have not been conscripted into your ranks. Neither you nor Wrath may order me to do aught—”
“I just put three bullets into the skull of an innocent kid to keep him from turning into a monster after he died. So you can get off your sanctimonious high horse and help us out, true.”
Assail frowned. “Has the Omega endeavored to wield a new weapon?”
“As far as we can tell, that’s what’s up.”
“And hollow tips stop them?”
“If they’re dipped in the fountain of my mahmen’s private quarters and sealed up they do. Or at least they do a better job than conventional bullets. I want to offer them to the civilian population. Phury and the Chosen have agreed to help me—and even though I hate the idea of those females touching anything that’s part of this war, if it’ll help people stay alive, I’ma do that shit.”
Assail thought of the phone call he’d received on the burner he’d previously used to conduct business with, that female who had inquired as to whether he was satisfied with his shipment. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but clearly after Benloise’s demise, a new supplier had found a way to get into contact.
“All right,” Assail said. “But I’d prefer, if you don’t mind, to put you in touch with the distributor directly. That way you can get what you want and I can stay out of it.” urse, that could create a problem considering he’d murdered the owner and his too-young shellan. Sooner or later, he was going to have to account for their whereabouts—but he had a plan in place for that.
Tropical vacations, you know. Especially given that the couple had a geriatric half whose bones ached in the cold. Not a foolproof explanation, but it would buy Throe enough time to create sufficient chaos in the race that the last thing anyone would be worried about was the whereabouts of the mismatched pair.
Assuming the Brotherhood didn’t continue to contain that chaos.
Anger rose in the back of his throat, tightening his airway such that he wanted to scream it free. But then he calmed himself and refocused on the positives. The Brothers would not be able to make this all go away—if they killed enough members of the aristocracy, sooner or later they would be discovered and that would work well in Throe’s plans. Further, he had made an important refinement in this attack, one that had been an inspired tweak if he did say so himself.
It was better to target one of a pair. That way, there was a witness uncompromised by injury, with a clear recollection of events and a voice that was going to require expression.
Unless the Brotherhood eliminated them.
Then again…maybe they would not. Wrath seemed to have standards for behavior now.
Well, Throe would find out, either way. And perhaps it would be to his advantage. After the previous night’s exercise, he had waited for testimony of the attack to appear—but the only thing that had come was a statement of the death from a half-brother he had been unaware of Whinnig possessing. All he had known about the son of Stanalas was that he had managed to walk off with Groshe’s money—which should have been Throe’s for all he had done to service Naasha’s endless demands.
Yet there had been no details about the shadows shared. Just a listing on one of the race’s Facebook pages that the family was requesting privacy during this time of grief.
Stupid fucking discretion.
Well, he’d fixed that—or tried to. No glymera, this time. Just two regular civilians that he’d had to wait to go by, sure as a deer hunter in a stand had to be patient. And then they had arrived—and he had sent his shadow down to do what it did.
At least his entities were functioning well. They had no sense of self or purpose other than the commands he gave to them—so there was no disgruntlement or disagreement as Throe sent his shadow to kill the male on the right, but not the left. And when he’d been comfortable with how much injury had been meted out, he called the thing back with every confidence the order would be followed at the instant the mental thought was sent in its direction.
And it had been.
If only the rest were going so obligingly.
As he felt his impatience ramping up, he knew he had to gather himself. This was no good, this agitation. Besides, these one-on-one attacks, although important, were not the bigger step he was going to take. No, that would come soon.
Closing his eyes, he pictured his Book and was instantly calmed, sure as a young to its comfort blanket. All would be well, he told himself—and it wasn’t going to take that long. He was setting in motion a civil war, and in this era of viral social media and polarized, extreme emotion, he had the wind at his back.
Wrath and the Brotherhood did not stand a chance against him, and they were soon going to find that out. He just needed a couple more of these “random” attacks, and then he was going to stage his finale.
It was so perfect, he impressed even himself, he thought as he disappeared into the night.
FIFTY-FOUR
As Assail sat in the training center’s break room, he contemplated all of the evil things he had ever done or thought. He started from the very beginning when he’d stolen from his cousins the sweets made for them by his parents’ staff…and continued all the way up until he had murdered that female Naasha, who had kept Markcus chained in her basement—as a blood slave.
Oh, wait, he had burned down that house, too. With Zsadist’s help.
That Brother, as a former blood slave, had had an abiding reason to participate in the destruction, although Assail had been the one to kill the female as she had sat in her beauty chair, prepared to be pampered.
After which the flames had been ignited, and Assail had resolved to stay in the midst of the blaze. At that time, with Marisol gone from his life, incineration had seemed a very reasonable end to the pain of missing her. The Brother had been determined upon another course, however—and had dragged him out of there.
And so he was here again, he thought as he stared across at the Coke machine. Missing Marisol as if she had died even though she was well enough and very much breathing.
Sitting forward in his chair, he put his head in his hands. Two hours had passed since he had told her, since she had run from him, since the truth he had not wished to share had shattered them as glass beneath the head of a hammer—
As the door opened, he sat up to attention and felt a bolt of something like hope light the cold meat locker behind his sternum.
“Oh, ’tis you, Vishous,” he muttered as he sank back in the chair.
“You’re about as cheerful as I am.” The Brother took out a hand-rolled, lit it, and grabbed an ashtray off a table. “Listen, Jane told me what’s going on with you and your girl.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Good, because that’s not why I’m here.”
As V settled into the chair next door and crossed his legs ankle to knee, Assail realized there had been a further reason why he’d come clean instead of just wiping away Marisol’s memories of him. There had been a treacherous optimism, deep down inside of him, rooted in the place where his love for her had grown from, that she would somehow understand and accept him. That she would rise above the surprise, fear, and disgust, and see him not for his species, but as one who loved her to his very soul.
He should have known better.
“So we’ve got a problem,” the Brother said as he put his ashtray on his knee and tapped his hand-rolled.
Don’t talk to me about problems, you sonofabitch, I’m bleeding out over here, Assail thought.
“Yes?” he intoned.
“The species is facing a new threat and I need hollow-tip bullets.”
“I believe they are sold at all gun outlets—”
“I need a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of them.”
Assail blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” V exhaled. “A bulk sale of that size? No way the human authorities won’t get their panties in a wad. So I want you to make it happen, just like you did for those guns you—”
“I’m out of that business, I’m afraid.” Assail waved a dismissive hand. “I am retired.”
“So un-retire.”
Assail sat forward again and rubbed the back of his neck as it began to ache. “Forgive me, but as much as I respect the Black Dagger Brotherhood, I am fairly certain I have not been conscripted into your ranks. Neither you nor Wrath may order me to do aught—”
“I just put three bullets into the skull of an innocent kid to keep him from turning into a monster after he died. So you can get off your sanctimonious high horse and help us out, true.”
Assail frowned. “Has the Omega endeavored to wield a new weapon?”
“As far as we can tell, that’s what’s up.”
“And hollow tips stop them?”
“If they’re dipped in the fountain of my mahmen’s private quarters and sealed up they do. Or at least they do a better job than conventional bullets. I want to offer them to the civilian population. Phury and the Chosen have agreed to help me—and even though I hate the idea of those females touching anything that’s part of this war, if it’ll help people stay alive, I’ma do that shit.”
Assail thought of the phone call he’d received on the burner he’d previously used to conduct business with, that female who had inquired as to whether he was satisfied with his shipment. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but clearly after Benloise’s demise, a new supplier had found a way to get into contact.
“All right,” Assail said. “But I’d prefer, if you don’t mind, to put you in touch with the distributor directly. That way you can get what you want and I can stay out of it.”