Down in the kitchen, he took a stab at some eats and came up with nothing. The coffee machine had been timed to start up two hours ago, so a quick lift of the pot showed something close to crankcase oil. And cracking the fridge, he didn't see anything that appealed even though he felt starved.
Lash ended up dematerializing from the kitchen empty-handed and with a bottomless gut. Not a great combo for his mood, but he wasn't going to miss the show--if for no other reason than he wanted to see what had been done to him during his induction.
The farmhouse was out north and east of the brownstone, and the instant he took form on the lawn, he knew his father was inside: An odd shiver in his blood bubbled up every time he was around the Omega, like an echo in an enclosed space . . . although he wasn't sure whether he was the sound and his father the cave, or if it was the other way around.
The front door was open, and as he mounted the porch steps and went into the shitty little hall, he thought about his induction.
"When you became truly mine."
Lash wheeled around. The Omega was in the living room, his white robes covering his face and hands, his black energy seeping out onto the floor, a dark shadow formed by no illumination.
"Are you excited, my son?"
"Yeah." Lash glanced over his shoulder at the dining room table. The bucket and the knives that had been used on him were right there. Ready and waiting.
The sound of gravel crunching under tires had him turning to the door. "They're here."
"My son, I should like you to bring me more. I find myself hungry for fresh ones."
Lash went to the doorway. "No problem."
In this at least, they were fully aligned. More inductees meant more money, more fighting.
The Omega came up behind Lash and there was a soft brushing movement as a black hand ran down his spine. "You are a good son."
For a split second, Lash's dark heart ached. The phrase was exactly the one the vampire who'd raised him had said from time to time. "Thanks."
Mr. D and the two others got out of the Lexus . . . and brought the human forward. It hadn't dawned on the little bastard yet that he was a pair of jeans and a T-shirt away from being a sacrificial lamb. But the instant he got a look-see at the Omega, shit was going to become clear as a bell.
TWELVE
As John lay facedown and the footsteps of his enemy got closer, he breathed through his nose and got a sinus-load of fresh dirt. Pulling a possum was not a bright idea generally speaking, but this motherfucker with the epileptic trigger finger didn't fit the profile of someone who was going to be too careful about whether he'd hit his mark or not.
Letting loose the lead in the middle of a public park?
Had the idiot never heard of the Caldwell Police Department? The Caldwell Courier Journal ?
The boots stopped and that sweet, choking smell lessers carried on their skin nearly made him gag. But funny how life and death got the attention of your esophagus.
He felt something blunt push at his left arm, like the slayer was checking with his boot to see if they were in toe tag territory. And then on cue, Qhuinn let out a low, pathetic moan from around the far side of the shed.
Like his liver was leaking into his colon.
The boots moved down John's body as the bastard wandered forward to investigate and John cracked an eye. The slayer was pulling a Hollywood, his gun held straight out in a double-palm grip, the muzzle swinging from side to side with more affect than effect. Still, though he looked all Crockettand-Tubbs ridiculous with that theatrical bust-a-move, bullets were bullets and it would take only a quick shift in direction and John was at point-blank range.
Good thing he didn't give a shit. As the fucker wedding- marched it toward Qhuinn's moans, an image of Xhex's face sprang John up off the ground in a single lithe move. He landed on top of the lesser's thick back, latching on with his free arm and both of his legs as he put his gun to that pale temple.
The slayer froze for a split second, and John whistled between his teeth, the signal for Qhuinn and Blay to come up from behind.
"Time to drop the gun, asshole," Qhuinn said as he reappeared. Then, without giving the bastard time to comply, he reached out, locked his hands on the slayer's forearm, and made like he was snapping a stick.
The crack of bones was louder than John's whistle had been and the result was a limp wrist and a Glock no longer under the enemy's control.
As the lesser bucked in pain, sirens from far off sounded out . . . and closed in.
John dragged the bastard back to the double doors of the shed, and after Blay opened the way in, he pulled his prey out of sight.
With overexaggerated words, he mouthed to Qhuinn, Go get your Hummer.
"If those cops are coming for us, we've got to blow."