Chapter Thirty
The following afternoon, John took a seat in the classroom, all impatient for things to get rolling. The schedule of classes ran on a three-days-on, one-day-off rotation, and he was ready to get back to work.
While he went through his notes on plastic explosives, the other trainees yakked it up as they came in and got settled, the horsing around business as usual. . . until everyone fell silent.
John glanced up. There was a man in the doorway, a man who looked a little unsteady, or maybe drunk. What the hell¡ª
John's mouth went slack as he stared at the face and the red hair. Blaylock. It was. . . Blaylock, only better.
The guy looked down and awkwardly walked to the back. Actually, he shuffled more than walked, as if he couldn't really control his arms and legs all that well. After he sat down, he moved his knees around under the table until they fit, then he hunched over as if trying to make himself look smaller.
Yeah, good luck on that. Jesus, he was. . . huge.
Holy crap. He had gone through the transition.
Zsadist walked into the classroom, shut the door, and glanced at Blaylock. Following a quick nod, Z went right into the teaching.
"Today we're going to do an intro to chemical warfare. We're talking tear gas, mustard gas¡ª" The Brother paused. Then cursed as he obviously realized no one was paying any attention because they were all staring at Blay. "Well, shit. Blaylock, you want to tell them what it was like? We're not going to get anything done here until you do. "
Blaylock turned beet red and shook his head, tucking his arms around his chest.
"Okay, trainees, shoot your eyes up here. " They all looked at Z. "You want to know what it's like, I'll tell you. "
John got good and fixated. Z kept everything general, revealing nothing of himself, but it was all good information. And the more the Brother talked, the more John's body vibrated.
That's right, he told his blood and bones. Take notes and let's do this soon.
He was so ready to be a man.
Van got out of the Town & Country, shut the passenger-side door quietly, and stayed in the shadows. What he was looking at some hundred yards away reminded him of where he'd grown up: run-down house with a tar-paper roof and a rotting car in the side yard. The only difference was that this was in the middle of nowhere, and his neighborhood had been closer to town. But it was the same two steps up from poverty.
As he scanned the area, the first thing he noticed was an odd sound cutting through the night. It was a rhythmic hitting. . . like someone was chopping logs? No. . . it was closer to pounding. Someone was pounding on what was probably the back door of the house in front of him.
"This is your target for tonight," Mr. X said as two other lessers stepped out of the minivan. "The daylight details have been watching this place for the past week. No activity until after dark. Iron bars over the windows. Drapes are always drawn. Goal is capture, but kill if you think they're going to get away from you¡ª"
Mr. X stopped and frowned. Then looked around.
Van did the same and saw nothing out of whack.
Until a black Cadillac Escalade came down the drive. With its tinted windows and its spinning chrome, the thing looked like it was worth more than the house. What the hell was it doing out here in all the sticks?
"Get armed," Mr. X hissed. "Now. "
Van drew his fancy new Smith & Wesson forty, feeling the weight fill his palm. As his body primed for the fight ahead, he was so ready to engage an opponent.
Except Mr. X pegged him with hard eyes. "You stay back. I do not want you to engage. Just watch. "
You fucker, Van thought, dragging a hand through his dark hair. You miserable fucker.
"We clear?" Mr. X's face was deadly cold. "You do not go in. "
The best Van could manage was a dip of the chin and he had to look away to keep from cursing out loud. Training his eyes on the SUV, he watched as the thing got to the end of the ratty little cul-de-sac and stopped.
Clearly, it was some kind of patrol. Not cops, though. At least, not human ones.
The Escalade's engine was cut and two men got out. One was relatively normal-sized, assuming you were talking about linebackers. The other guy was enormous.
Jesus Christ. . . a Brother. Had to be. And Xavier was right. That vampire was bigger than anything Van had ever seen¡ªand he'd gone into the ring with some monster-sized mofo's in his day.
Just like that, the Brother was gone. Poof! into thin air. Before Van could ask what the holy hell that was about, the vampire's partner turned his head and stared right at Mr. X. Even though they were all in the shadows.
"Oh, my God. . . " Xavier breathed. "He's alive. And the master. . . is with. . . "
The Fore-lesser lurched forward and kept walking. Right into the moonlight. Right into the middle of the road.
What the fuck was he thinking?
Butch's body trembled as he looked at the pale-haired lesser who emerged from the darkness. No question, this was the one who'd worked him over: Even though Butch had no conscious memories of the torture, his body seemed to know who had done the damage, its recollection embedded in the very flesh that had been torn and bruised by the bastard.
Butch was so ready to have at the Fore-lesser.
Except the shit hit the fan before he ever had the chance.
From somewhere behind the house, a chain saw started up with a roar, then settled into a high, whining scream. And at that exact moment, a second pale-haired lesser stepped out from the woods with his gun aimed at Butch.
As the semiautomatic went off and bullets whizzed by his head, Butch palmed his own Glock and jammed for cover behind the Escalade. Once he had some shield, he returned the hi-how-are-yas, squeezing out rounds, his Glock kicking in his palm as he kept his vital organs out of the line of fire. When there was a breather in the exchange, he peered through bulletproof glass. The shooter was behind a rusted-out car carcass, no doubt reloading. Like Butch was.
And yet the first slayer, Butch's torturer, still hadn't armed himself. The guy was just standing in the middle of the road, staring at Butch.
Almost like eating lead would make his day.
So ready to fucking oblige, Butch leaned out around the SUV, pulled his trigger, and popped the guy right in the chest. With a grunt, the Fore-lesser staggered back, but he didn't go down. He seemed merely annoyed, throwing off the bullet's impact like it was nothing more than a bee sting.
Butch had no idea what to make of that, but now wasn't the time for wondering why his fancy bullets didn't slow that particular slayer down. Sticking his arm into the breeze, he started firing at the guy again, the shots kicking out of his muzzle in quick succession. Finally, the lesser yard-saled, falling backward in a sprawling heap¡ª
Just as a slapping noise came from behind Butch, so loud he thought another gun was going off.
He swung around, two-fisting the Glock to keep it up in front and steady. Oh, shit!
A female with a child in her arms shot out of the house in a blind panic. And she had good reason to haul ass. Right on her heels was a hulking male with punishment on his face and a chain saw up over his shoulder. The lunatic was about to fall on the pair of them with that spinning blade, ready, willing, and able to kill.
Butch kicked up his gun muzzle two inches, aimed at the man's head, and pulled the trigger¡ª
Right as Vishous appeared behind the guy, reaching for the saw.
"Fuck!" Butch tried to stop his forefinger from squeezing, but the gun bucked and the bullet flew¡ª
And someone grabbed Butch around the throat: The second lesser with the gun had moved in fast.
Butch got flipped off his feet and slammed onto the hood of the Escalade like he was a baseball bat. On impact, he lost his Glock, the weapon bouncing away, metal on metal.
Fuck that, though. He shoved his hand into the pocket of his coat and felt for the switchblade
he carried. Bless the damn thing's heart, it found his palm like it had come to a heel and he dragged his arm free. As the blade shot out, he jogged his torso to the left and stabbed the side of the slayer who held him down.
Howl of pain. Grip loosened. And Butch shoved hard against the chest above his, popping the lesser up off him. As the bastard hung in midair for a split second, Butch swung the knife in an arc. The switchblade streaked across the lesser's throat, opening up a fountainhead of black blood.
Butch kicked the slayer to the ground and turned to the house.
Vishous was holding his own against the guy with the chain saw, avoiding the roaring blade while throwing body shots. Meanwhile, the female with the child was running like hell across the side yard while another, pale-haired lesser closed in from the right.
"Called for Rhage," V had the presence of mind to holler.
"Going for vie," Butch yelled as he took off. He ran flat out, his feet gouging into the ground, knees kicking up to his chest. He prayed he would get there in time, prayed he'd be fast enough. . . Please, just this once. . .
He intercepted the lesser with a spectacular flying tackle.
And as they went down, he screamed for the female to keep going.
Gunshots went, off somewhere, but he was too busy with a blurring struggle to care. He and the lesser rolled around in the patchy snow, punching and choking each other. He knew he was going to lose if they kept going like this, so out of desperation and some kind of driving instinct, he stopped fighting, let the slayer dominate him. . . and then locked stares with the lesser.
That link, that horrible communion, that ironclad tie between them took root in an instant, rendering them both motionless. And with the bonding came an urge for Butch to consume.
He opened his mouth and began to inhale.