Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood 8)

Heavy footsteps approached and there was the clicking sound of a sleeve of ammo being changed. John glanced at the shed door. The Master Lock on a chain was a godsend, and he reached up with his palm, mentally unlocking the thing and slipping it free of its links so that it hung loose.

Go around the next corner, John told his boys. And make like you're wounded.

Oh, hell, no--

John swung his gun muzzle into Qhuinn's face.

As the guy recoiled, John just stared right into his buddy's blue and green eyes. This was going down John's way: He was going to be the one to do business with the slayer. End of discussion.

Fuck. You, Qhuinn mouthed before he and Blay dematerialized.

With a loud groan, John let himself fall hard to the side, his body hitting the ground like a massive bag of concrete. Sprawling out on his stomach, he kept his SIG under his chest with the safety still off.

The footsteps grew closer. And so did a low laugh, like the lesser was having the time of his life.

When Lash returned from his father's, he took form in the bedroom next to the one he kept Xhex in. As much as he wanted to see her, he stayed away. Every time he came back from Dhunhd, he was a waste of space for a good half hour and he wasn't about to be stupid and give her a chance to kill him.

Because she would. And wasn't that sweet?

Lying down on the bed and closing his eyes, his body was slow and cold, and as he breathed deep, he felt as though he was thawing out like a slab of beef. Not that it was freezing on the other side. In fact, his father's digs were toasty and well-appointed--assuming you were into the Liberace shit.

Daddy-o had almost no furniture, but enough candelabra to sink a ship. The oh-chillies seemed to have something to do with the leap back into this reality and every time he returned to this side, it was more of a struggle to rebound. The good news was that he didn't think he was going to have to go over there as much. Now that his bag of tricks had been fully explored and mastered, there was really no need, and truth was, the Omega wasn't exactly stimulating company.

It was a case of enough-about-me-what-do-you-think-about-me. And even if said demand for ego masturbation was being thrown out by an admittedly powerful, evil fucker who happened to be your pops, it got old fast.

Besides, his father's love life was disturbing as shit.

Lash didn't even know what those fucking things in that bed were. Black beasts, yeah, but the sex of them was as indiscernible as their species, and the way they oiled around was creepy. Plus they were always looking for a fuck even if there was company present.

And his father never said no.

As a beep sounded out, Lash reached into his suit jacket for his phone.

It was a text from Mr. D: On the way. Gots the guy.

Lash looked at the clock and shot upright, thinking that the time couldn't be right. He'd come back two hours ago--how had he lost track so badly?

Going vertical threw his stomach in a roll and putting his hands up to rub his face took more effort than it should have. The deadweight of his body, coupled with the aches, made him remember back to a time when he'd gotten colds or flus. Same feeling. Was it possible he was getting sick?

Made him wonder if anyone had come up with a product like Dead- quil or some shit.

Probably not.

Letting his arms fall into his lap, he glanced over to the bathroom. The shower seemed miles away and not really worth the effort.

It took him another ten minutes before he could throw off the lethargy, and when he got to his feet, he stretched hard to get his black blood flowing. The bathroom turned out to be not miles away but a matter of yards, and with each step he felt stronger. Heading over to start the hot water, he admired himself in the mirror and checked out his collection of bruises. Most of them from the night before were gone, but he knew he was going to get more--

Lash frowned and lifted up his arm. The sore on the inside of his forearm was larger, not smaller.

When he prodded it with his finger, it didn't hurt, but the thing looked nasty as shit, a flat, open wound that was gray in the middle and bordered by a black line.

His first thought was that he needed to go see Havers. . . except that was ridiculous and nothing but a remnant from his old life. Like he was going to show up at the clinic and be all, Hey, could you fit my ass in?

Besides, he didn't know where they'd moved the damn thing to. Which was the problem with a successful raid. Your target took your threat seriously and went deep underground.

Getting under the warm spray, he was careful to scrub the spot with some soap, figuring if it was some kind of infection that had to help; and then he thought about other things.

He had a big-ass night. The induction at eight. Meeting with Benloise at ten.