Of course, all that strong-arm stuff was a moot point now.
And the sad reality was that Spaz was likely to find another source for what he needed. Still, no one had been as bad as Mickie.
“Rest in Hell, you piece of shit,” she said. “I hope you roast—”
The soft squeak behind her brought her around—and her gun.
The Black Dagger Brotherhood mansion had been built at the turn of the twentieth century by Darius, a brother who had had a big heart, a strong dagger hand, and a treacherous hope that one day, the fighters for the race would live under a single roof with their families and loved ones.
As Vishous shoved his goatee’d mug into the vestibule’s security camera and waited for the copper lock to be released, he had a thought that that male would have approved of where they had all ended up.
Damn shame the brother hadn’t lived long enough to see it himself—
Clunk!
Vishous opened the seven-thousand-pound door, and the ancient doggen butler on the other side was a beaming smile upright and walking in a penguin suit. Fritz Perlmutter loved his job and the household he served to a degree that had been grating at first. Like, how could anyone be that excited silver-traying drinks, organizing the rest of the staff, and spot-cleaning blood off rugs?
“You’re home!” Fritz exclaimed, as if V and Rhage had returned from a dangerous mission to the Arctic Circle and managed to only get frostbitten on a pinkie toe and one earlobe. “And early as well!”
Rhage plowed in, as was his way. “Fritz, my guy, I’m starved. Can you—”
“I have three footlongs pre-prepared for you. Ham and cheese, salami and cheese, and turkey and cheese. Allow me to mayonnaise them, and I shall bring them to you immediately.” Fritz looked at V. “A Grey Goose and tonic for you, sire?”
All V could do was shake his head in wonder. The guy had a way of growing on you, you know? “Yeah, thanks. We’re up with Wrath.”
“Right away!”
In spite of the jowls and the wrinkles, Fritz headed off fresh as a sprinter out of the blocks, his polished shoes clipping over the foyer’s mosaic floor, his white-gloved hands pumping to the beat of his love of service.
“It’s like he’s a mind reader,” Rhage said as they started for the grand staircase, with its gold-leafed balustrade and its blood-red runner. “I mean, how did he know—”
“You are never not hungry, and when have I ever turned down a V ’n’ T?” V held up his forefinger. “I’m not saying he ain’t a genius, but guessing you’re ready for a footlong is not prognostication.”
“You got a point, my brother.”
As they came to the second floor, the doors to the study were open, and across the pale blue room with its fine French furniture, Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, was all heavy-is-the-head-that-wears-thecrown. Plugged into the old carved desk his father had used, sitting on the old carved throne his father had sat in, the great Blind King’s wraparounds were angled down as he ran his fingertips over lines of braille. No doubt it was another report from Saxton, the Brotherhood’s solicitor and expert in the Old Laws.
“Well, well, well,” Wrath murmured as he looked up like his eyes worked, “back so soon. What went wrong.”
With his hip-length black hair falling from that widow’s peak, and his aristocratic features that had a cruel edge, he looked like exactly the force of nature he was, and had to be, if the goal was keeping the species alive and together, under the noses of humans and in spite of the persecution of enemies.
It went without saying that the brother wasn’t a party to deal with sometimes. Then again, anybody in his situation, with his kind of stress, would get a little cranky from time to time—although, to be fair, even before he started really doing the king shit, he’d had the interpersonal skills of a shotgun.
“I got a door prize,” Rhage said as he barged right in and planted it on one of the silk sofas by the fireplace. “Well, lots of little prizes.”
As Hollywood held up the Target bag full of coke, even though Wrath couldn’t see it, V shut the double doors. “All he had to do was empty the lower intestines of a dealer into the guy’s own couch.”
“Your beast come out?” the King said.
“Nah, I sneezed.”
Black brows lifted over the wraparounds. “Really? I didn’t know your nose had that kind of firepower.”
“It doesn’t,” V answered as he took out a hand-rolled. “He had an oopsie.”
“Do you need gun practice—”
“You would have sneezed, too,” Rhage interrupted the King. “And no, I don’t need to go to the range. Well, unless Lassiter has a target on his ass—”
“I’ll volunteer the angel right here, right now.” V parked it on the far side of the desk. “And can I be the one with the stapler, pinning the tail on his donkey? ’Cuz I’ll tell you right now, I’ma hit that Stanley until the thing jams.”