Lash had been dead when his veins got drained; he'd awoken only when a shock that had been generated from God only knew where had tunneled through his body. So it was interesting to see how it all worked: How the blood was emptied from the body. How the chest was split open and the Omega slit its own wrist to drip black oil into the cavity. How the evil called up a ball of energy out of thin air and sent into the corpse. How the reanimation carried what had been given to every vein and artery. The final step was removal of the heart, the organ shriveling up in the Omega's palm before being put into a ceramic container.
As Lash remembered his own coming-back-from-the-dead routine, he recalled his father dragging Mr. D over to serve as a feeding source for him. He'd needed the blood, but then again, he'd been dead for a while at that point--and was at least half vampire. This human, on the other hand, came awake with nothing more than a gaping, fish mouth and a whole lot of confusion.
Lash put his hand up to his own chest and felt the beat of his heart--
Something was leaking. In his sleeve.
While the Omega started to do depraved things to the initiate, Lash jogged upstairs to the bathroom. Taking off his suit jacket, he folded the thing in half . . . and realized there was nowhere to lay it down. Everything was covered with two decades' worth of grime.
Christ, why hadn't he sent someone over to clean the place?
He ended up hanging the jacket from a hook and--
Oh, shit.
As he lifted his arm, there was a black stain right over where he'd put the bandage, and at the bottom of his elbow, there was a wet patch.
"Goddamn it."
Ripping free his cuff links, he unbuttoned his shirt and froze as he looked down at his chest.
Lifting his eyes to the cloudy mirror, as if that were going to change what he was seeing, he leaned in toward the glass. There was another sore on his left pectoral, of the same flat, dime-size shape as the first. And a third by his belly button.
Wings of panic fanned up a light-headed dizziness and he caught himself on the sink. His first thought was to run to the Omega and ask for help, but he held off--going by the screams and grunts downstairs, there was some serious action happening in the dining room, and only an idiot interrupted that.
The Omega was fickle by nature, but had OCD concentration about some things.
Bracing his hands on the basin, Lash dropped his head as his empty stomach pulled a churn and burn on him. He had to wonder how many more of those spots he had--and didn't want to know the answer.
His induction, rebirth, whatever, was supposed to be permanent. That's what his father had told him. He was born from the evil, spawned from a dark well that was eternal.
Rotting in his own skin had not been part of the deal.
"Y'all okay there?"
Lash shut his eyes, the sound of the Texan's voice like claws raking down his back. Except he just didn't have the energy to fuck-off the guy.
"How are things going downstairs?" he asked instead.
Mr. D cleared his throat. And still the disapproval made him choke on his words. "I do believe it'll be 'while yet, suh."
Great.
Lash forced his sagging spine to straighten and turned to face his deputy--
In a sharp rush, his fangs punched into his mouth, and for a moment, he couldn't figure out why. Then he realized his eyes had locked on the guy's jugular.
Deep in Lash's belly, his hunger grew horns and went haywire, thrashing and gouging his gut.
It happened too fast to stop or question or think. One second he was rooted where he stood in front of the sink. The next he was all over Mr. D, shoving the lesser back against the door, and going hard into the guy's throat.
The black blood that hit his tongue was the tonic he needed and he drew with desperation, even as the Texan struggled and then fell still. But the fucker didn't have to worry. There was nothing sexual in the sucking. It was nutrition, plain and simple.
And the more he swallowed, the more he needed.
Jacking the slayer tight against his chest, he fed like a motherfucker.
THIRTEEN
As the sound of the slayer's boot against that gas can faded, Qhuinn moved down and sat on the SOB's legs. The bastard might have gotten one kick in, but he was not getting a second chance.
Outside, the human cops gathered around the shed.
"It's locked," one of them said as the chain rattled.
"I have shell casings over here."
"Wait, there's something inside . . . phew, man, what a stench."
"Whatever it is, it's been dead at least a week. That smell--I'd take even my mother-in-law's tuna casserole over that."
There was a ripple of agreement.
In the darkness, John and Qhuinn locked eyes and waited. The only solution if the door got popped was to dematerialize and leave the lesser behind; there was no way of moving the weight of the slayer through thin air. But none of these policemen could possibly have the key--so that left shooting their way in as their only option.