Lover Mine(52)

The butler's pantry was right off the kitchen and Blay stepped through the wet remains of the slayer to give the shelved room a quick once-over: enough canned foods to keep a household going for a year.

He was on his way out when his eyes caught something on the floor: There was a subtle series of scratches across the otherwise mirror-perfect surface of the hardwood . . . and they were arranged in a half-moon shape.

Blay's knees cracked as he got down on his haunches and shoved aside a canister vacuum cleaner. The beadboard wall looked flush and uninterrupted by any seams that shouldn't have been there, but a quick rapping trip around with his knuckles and he found a hollow space. Taking out his knife, he used the hilt as a sonar device to determine the precise dimensions of the hidden tuck hole; then he flipped the weapon around and penetrated the tongue-and-groove pattern with the tip of the blade.

Forcing open the cover, he took a penlight and flashed it inside.

Trash bag. The Hefty kind that was the color of lesser blood.

Dragging it out, he pulled open the drawstring. "Holy . . . shit."

Rhage appeared behind him. "What you got?"

He shoved his hand in and pulled out a palmful of wrinkled bills. "Cash. Lotta cash."

"Grab it. V found a laptop and a broken window upstairs that was not there before. I closed the front door just so no humans get nosy." He checked his watch. "We need to blow before the sun gets rolling."

"Roger that."

Blay grabbed the sack and left the space all open and violated, figuring the more evidence of a break-in, the merrier. Although it wasn't like the bits and pieces of lesser could be ignored.

If only he could see Lash's face when the motherfucker came home.

The bunch of them headed out the back into the garden, and he and Rhage dematerialized while Vishous hot-wired the Lexus in the garage so they could confiscate it.

It went without saying that they'd rather stay and wait to see what showed up. But there was no negotiating with the dawn.

Back at the Brotherhood mansion, Blay walked into the foyer with Hollywood and there was a receiving line of people waiting for them. All of the booty got handed over to Butch for processing at the Pit, and as soon as Blay could break away, he went upstairs to John's bedroom.

His knock was answered by a grunt, and as he opened up and walked in, he saw Qhuinn seated in a wing chair by the bed. The lamp on the table next to him cast a yellow pool within the darkness, illuminating both him and the recumbent mountain underneath the duvet.

John was out cold.

Qhuinn, on the other hand, was laying into the Herradura, the bottle of Seleccion Suprema at his elbow, his crystal glass full of the outstanding tequila that had recently become his drink of choice.

Christ, with him sucking back that and John into Jack, Blay was thinking he needed to upgrade his own tipple. Beer abruptly seemed sophomoric.

"How's he doing?" Blay asked softly.

Qhuinn took a sip and swallowed. "Pretty rough. I called Layla. He needs to feed."

Blay approached the bed. John's eyes were not so much closed as on lockdown, his brows drawn so tightly it looked like he was trying to solve a law of physics in his sleep. His face was preternaturally pale, his hair appearing darker in contrast, and his breathing was too shallow. His clothes had been removed and most of the lesser blood had been washed off him.

"Tequila?" Qhuinn asked.

Blay held his hand out to the guy without looking, still focused on their buddy. What hit his palm was the glass instead of the bottle, but he didn't care and he drank hard.

Well, at least he knew why Qhuinn liked the stuff.

As he gave the glass back, he crossed his arms over his chest and listened to the quiet, glugging refill. For some reason, the loose, charming sound of that expensive booze hitting cut crystal eased him.

"I can't believe he cried," Blay murmured. "I mean . . . I can, but it was a surprise."

"She'd obviously been held in that room." The Herradura was put back on the side table with a subtle thump. "And we'd just missed her."

"Did he talk at all?"

"Nope. Not even when I shoved him in the shower and got in with him."

Okay, that was a visual Blay could do without. Good thing John didn't flip that way--

There was a soft knock at the door and then a waft of cinnamon and spice. Blay walked over and let Layla in, bowing to her in deference.

"How may I be of . . ." The Chosen frowned and glanced toward the bed. "Oh, no . . . he is injured?"

As she went over to John Matthew, Blay thought, Yeah, but mostly on the inside.

"Thanks for coming," Qhuinn said as he got up out of his chair. Leaning down over John, he gently pushed on the guy's shoulder. "Hey, my man, can you wake up for a sec."