Lover Mine(141)

As she marshaled a pathetic groan for him to help, he stepped over her and went to check on the food sitch. To conserve cash, he'd sucked back Mc-Crap for dinner on his way here. Shit had been one step up from dog food, and that had been warm and fresh from the fryer.

Age did not improve the half he hadn't been able to stomach at the end of the night, but he ate what was left over anyway. Cold. Standing up over the crumpled bag on the countertop.

"Want some?" he said to the woman. "Yes? No?"

All she could do was plead with her bloodshot eyes and her gaping, oozing mouth. Or . . . maybe it wasn't pleading. She looked kind of horrified--which suggested that whatever condition she was in, his appearance was startling and ugly enough to draw her out of her agony for a moment.

"Whatever, bitch. The sight of you ain't doing wonders for my appetite, either."

Turning away, he stared out the window to the sunny day and felt a whole lot of fuck-this-shit-for-real.

Man, he hadn't wanted to leave that farmhouse, but he'd been a narcolepsy candidate, he'd been so exhausted--and no way he was risking a nap with that many of his enemy around. It was a case of retreat to fight again as opposed to pull a dreamland and bite the muzzle of a gun. Or worse.

But at least the sun was still on its rise in the cloudless sky, which was good news for him--it gave him the time he needed. The Brotherhood wasn't showing up in one form or another until it was dark enough, and what kind of host would he be if he wasn't there waiting.

The Omega's fucking kiss-ass bitch may have started the party, but Lash was going to damn well finish it.

He needed more ammo, though, and not for his heat.

Grabbing his raincoat and putting on his hat, he tugged on his gloves and stepped back over the prostitute. As he was unlocking the dead bolt on the door, her shrunken hand skittered over to his shoe, her bloody fingers scratching at the leather.

He looked down at her. She no longer had speech, but her red- rimmed, bulging eyes said it all: Help me. I'm dying. I can't kill myself . . . do it for me.

Apparently she'd gotten over her revulsion of him. Or maybe the fact that he'd covered up helped.

Ordinarily, he would have just left her as she was, but he couldn't shake the memory of peeling his own face off. He was operating under the assumption that he wasn't going to end up a perpetually rotting nightmare, but what if that was his destiny? What if he continued to melt away until he could no longer support his skeleton and he ended up in the condition she was . . . nothing but suffering for eternity?

Lash withdrew a knife from the small of his back, and when he came at her with it, she didn't shrink back. Instead, she rolled herself over, offering the fresh meat of her chest.

One stab was all it took and her immediate misery was over: On a bright flash of light, she puffed into thin air, leaving nothing but a scorched circle on the matted rug.

Lash turned to leave--

He didn't make it through the door. His body ricocheted back and he slammed into the far wall, lights flashing in front of his eyes as a rush of power blasted through him.

It took a moment to figure out what the fuck was doing . . . and then it became clear: What he had given the prostitute had come home to him.

So that was how it worked, he thought as he breathed deep and felt less like death on roller skates.

Whatever was stabbed with steel returned to sender, so to speak.

Well, it went back provided that the Brotherhood's secret weapon didn't get there first. Butch O'Neal was the Omega's Achilles' heel, capable of circumventing that reunion   by absorbing the evil essence that animated a slayer into himself.

Having just gotten the rush, Lash now knew what a threat O'Neal was. If you didn't get your LEGOs back, eventually you couldn't build much of anything--or worse, your toy box was empty . . . and then what. You disappeared?

Yeah, avoiding that Butch bastard was important. Good tip.

Heading into the garage, Lash left the ranch in the Mercedes and went not out to the sticks, but downtown to the 'scrapers.

As it was just a little past eleven thirty in the morning, there were suits and ties out everywhere, the fleet of wingtips stopping at intersections, waiting for the go-ahead, and then striding across the streets right in front of the grilles of cars. They were all so fucking self-righteous, these humans with their chins up and eyes straight ahead like nothing existed except whatever meeting, lunch, or waste-of-time errand they were speeding to.

He wanted to stomp on the accelerator and turn them into sloppy bowling pins, but he had enough to worry about and better things to do with his time. His destination? Trade Street and the hub of the bars and nightclubs. Which, unlike the business district, would be dead at this time of day.

As he cut down toward the river, it was clear that the two different parts of town functioned as a yin and yang when it came to crowds as well as appearances. In the sunlight, the tall financial buildings with their glass windows and steel frames sparkled and flashed. In the land of dark alleys and neon signs, however, shit looked like an old whore well used: dirty, seedy, and sad.