“We walk this way,” he said, striding off, his band of bastards falling into formation behind him.
Caldwell, New York, would no doubt offer few revelations. As he had learned from both olden times and this well-lit present, cities at night were all the same, regardless of geography: The people out were not the plodding law abiders, but the truants and misfits and malcontents. And sure enough, as they progressed block by block, he saw humans sitting on the pavement in their own excrement, or packs of scum striding with aggression, or seedy females seeking even seedier males.
None thought to take on his group of six strong backs, however—and he almost wished they would. A fight would burn off their energy—although with luck, they would come upon the enemy and face a worthy opponent for the first time in two decades.
As he and his males turned a corner, they came upon a human infestation: Several barlike establishments set on either side of the road were lit up brightly and had lines of half-dressed people waiting to get into their confines. He could not read the signs that o’erhung the openings, but the way the men and women stamped their feet and twitched and talked, it was obvious that temporary oblivion waited on the far side of their hapless patience.
He was of a mind to slaughter them all, and he became acutely aware of his scythe: The weapon was at rest upon his back, folded in two, nestled in its harness and hidden under his floor-length leather duster.
To keep it in its place, he mollified the blade with the promise of slayers.
“I’m hungry,” Zypher said. Characteristically, the male was not talking about food, and his timing was not a mistake: The cue for sex was in the lineup of human females they walked past. Indeed, the women presented themselves for using, painted eyes locking on the males they mistakenly believed were of their race.
Well, locking on the faces of the males who were other than Xcor. Him they took one look at and glanced away with alacrity.
“Later,” he said. “I shall see that you get what you need.”
Although he doubted he would partake, he was well aware that his soldiers required sustenance of the fucking variety, and he was more than willing to grant it—fighters fought better if they were serviced; he had learned that long ago. And who knew, mayhap he would take something himself if his eye was caught—assuming she could get past what he looked like. Then again, that was what they made money for. Many was the time he had paid for females to put up with his be
ing within their sex. ’Twas far better than forcing them to submit, which he hadn’t the stomach for—though he would admit such weakness to no one.
Such dalliances would not be until the end of the night, however. First, they needed to survey their new environment.
After they passed through the choked thicket of clubs, they came out into precisely what he had hoped to find . . . utter urban emptiness : whole blocks of buildings that were unoccupied for the evening, or perhaps even longer; roads that were bereft of traffic; alleys that were dark and cloistered with good space to fight in.
The enemy would be herein. He just knew it: The one affinity among both parties to the war was secrecy. And here, fights could happen with less fear of interruption.
With his body itching for a conflict and the sounds of the heels of his band of bastards behind him, Xcor smiled into the night. This was going to be—
Rounding yet another corner, he halted. A block up on the left, there was a gaggle of black-and-white cars parked in a loose circle around the opening of an alley . . . rather as if they were a necklace about the throat of a female. He couldn’t read the patterns on the doors, but the blue lights atop their roofs told him they were human police.
Inhaling, he caught the scent of death.
Fairly recent killing, he decided, but not as juicy as an immediate one.
“Humans,” he sneered. “If only they were more efficient and would kill each other off completely.”
“Aye,” someone agreed.
“Onward,” he demanded, proceeding forth.
As they stalked by the crime scene, Xcor looked into the alley. Human men with queasy expressions and fidgety hands stood around a large box of some kind, as if they expected something to jump out at any moment and seize them by the cocks with a taloned grip.
How typical. Vampires would be delving in and dominating—at least, any vampire worth his nature. Humans only seemed to find their mettle when the Omega interceded, however.
Standing over a cardboard box that was stained through in places and big enough to fit a refrigerator in, José de la Cruz flicked his flashlight on and ran the beam over another mutilated body. It was hard to get much of an impression of the corpse, given that gravity had done its job and sucked the victim down into a tangle of limbs, but the savagely shaved-off hair and the gouged patch on the upper arm suggested that this was number two for his team.
Straightening, he glanced around the empty alley. Same MO as the first, he was willing to bet: Do the work elsewhere, dump the remains in downtown Caldwell, go trolling for another victim.
They had to catch this motherfucker.
Clicking off his beam, he checked his digital watch. Forensics had been doing their nitpicking job, and the photographer had clicked her shit, so it was time to take a good look at the body.
“Coroner’s ready to see her,” Veck said from behind him, “and he’d like some help.”
José pivoted on his heel. “Have you got gloves . . .”
He paused and stared over his partner’s broad shoulder. On the street beyond, a group of men walked by in triangular formation, one in the lead, two behind him, three behind them. The arrangement was so precise and their footfalls in such synchronization that at first, all José noticed was the militarylike marching and the fact that they were all wearing black leather.