By the time Beth's cab dropped her off outside of Screamer's, the crime scene was alive. Lights flashed blue and white from the squad cars that blocked off access to the alley. The bomb squad's boxy, armored vehicle had shown up. Cops milled around, both uniformed and plainclothed. And the requisite crowd of drunken kibitzers had set up shop at the action's periphery, smoking and talking.
In her time as a reporter, she'd found that murder was a community event in Caldwell. Well, certainly for everyone except the man or woman who'd actually done the dying. For the victim, she had to imagine death was an alone kind of thing, even if he or she were staring into the face of the killer. Some bridges you crossed on your own, no matter who drove you to the edge.
Beth brought her sleeve up to her mouth. The smell of burned metal, a tangy chemical sting, filled her nose.
"Hey, Beth!" One of the cops motioned her over. "If you want a closer look, go through Screamer's to the back. There's a corridor¡ª"
"Actually, I'm here to see Jos¨¦. Is he around?"
The cop craned his neck, searching the crowd. "He was here a minute ago. Maybe he headed back to the station. Ricky! You see Jos¨¦"?"
Butch O'Neal stepped in front of her, silencing the other cop with a dark look. "Isn't this a surprise."
Beth stepped back. Hard-ass was a lot of man. Big body, deep voice, attitude to spare. She supposed a lot of women must be attracted to him, because God knew he was a looker in that rough, tough kind of way. But Beth had never felt a spark.
Not that she ever did when it came to men.
"So, Randall, what's doing?" He popped a piece of gum in his mouth, wadding up the foil into a tight little ball. His jaw went to work like he was frustrated, not so much chewing as grinding.
"I'm here for Jos¨¦. Not for the scene."
"Sure you are." His gaze narrowed on her face. With his dark brows and deep-set eyes, he always looked a little angry, but abruptly his expression got worse. "Would you come with me for a sec?"
"I really want Jos¨¦¡ª"
Her arm was taken in a tight grip.
"Just come over here." Butch backed her into a secluded corner of the alley, away from the commotion. "What the hell happened to your face?"
She put her hand up and covered her split lip. She must still be in shock, because she'd forgotten all about it.
"Let me repeat the question," he said. "What the hell happened to you?"
"I, ah..." Her throat closed up. "I was..."
She was not going to cry. Not in front of Hard-ass.
"I want Jos¨¦"."
"He's not here, so you can't have him. Now talk." Butch braced his arms on either side of her body, as if he sensed she might run. He was only a couple of inches taller than she was, but he had at least seventy pounds of muscle on her.
Fear kicked in like an ice pick punching through her chest, but she'd had quite enough of being physically bullied tonight.
"Back off, O'Neal." She put her palms squarely on his chest and pushed. He moved. A little.
"Beth, tell¡ª"
"If you don't let me go"¡ªher eyes held his¡ª"I'm going to do an expos¨¦ on your interrogation techniques. You know, the ones that require X rays and casts after you're through?"
His eyes narrowed again. And then he pulled his arms away from her body, holding his hands up as if he were surrendering.
"Fine." He left her and went back into the fray.
She collapsed against the building, feeling as if her legs were never going to work right again. She looked down, trying to gather her strength, and squinted at something metal. She bent her knees, getting down on her haunches. It was a martial-arts throwing star.
"Hey, Ricky!" she called out. The cop came loping over, and she pointed to the ground. "Evidence."
She left him to do his job and hurried out to Trade Street to catch a cab. She just couldn't keep it together any longer.
Tomorrow she would file an official report with Jos¨¦. First thing in the morning.
When Wrath reappeared in the drawing room, he was back in control. His weapons were strapped on, and his jacket was heavy in his hand, filled with the throwing stars and knives he liked to use.
Tohrment was the first of the brotherhood to arrive. His eyes were all fired up, pain and vengeance making the dark blue glow so vividly even Wrath caught the flash of color.
As Tohr settled back against one of Darius's yellow walls, Vishous came into the room. The goatee he'd recently grown made him seem even more sinister than usual, although the tattoo around his left eye was what really put him into ominous territory. Tonight his Red Sox hat was pulled down tight so the complex markings on his temple barely showed. As always, his black driving glove, used to keep his left hand from inadvertently making contact with anyone, was in place.
Which was a good thing. A goddamned public service.
Rhage followed, his cocky attitude dialed down in deference to what had brought the brothers together. Rhage was a towering male, big, powerful, stronger than all the other warriors. He was also a sex legend in the vampire world, Hollywood beautiful with the drive to rival a barnful of stallions. Females, vampire and human alike, would trample their own young to get at him.
At least until they got a peek at his dark side. When Rhage's beast came out, everyone, the brothers included, looked for shelter and took up praying.
Phury was the last, walking through the front door with his limp barely noticeable. His prosthetic lower leg had recently been updated, and he was sporting a state-of-the-art titanium-and-carbon composite number now. The combination of rods, joints, and bolts was screwed into the base of his right shit-kicker.
With his fantastic mane of multicolored hair, Phury should have been in Hollywood's league with the ladies, but he'd stuck solid to his vow of celibacy. There was room for one and only one love in his life, and it had been slowly killing him for years.
"Where's your twin, man?" Wrath asked.
"Z's on his way."
That Zsadist was late was no big surprise. Z was one giant, violent fuck-you to the world. A walking, sometimes talking, usually cursing SOB who took hatred, especially toward females, to new levels. Fortunately, between his scarred face and his skull-trimmed hair, he looked as scary as he was, so folks tended to get out of his way.
Stolen from his family as an infant, he'd ended up a blood slave, and his abuse at the hands of his mistress had been brutal on every level. It had taken Phury almost a century to find his twin, and Z had been tortured to within an inch of death before the rescue.
A fall into the salty ocean had sealed Zsadist's wounds into his skin, and in addition to the maze of scars, he still bore the tattoos of a slave. As well as various piercings he'd added himself.
Just because he liked the feel of pain.
Hands down, Z was the most dangerous of the brothers. After what he'd been put through, he didn't give a shit about anything or anyone. Including his twin.
Even Wrath watched his back around that warrior.
Yeah, the Black Dagger Brotherhood was a hell of a group. All that stood between the civilian vampire population and the lessers.
Crossing his arms, Wrath looked around the room, taking each one of them in, seeing their strengths but mostly their curses.
With Darius's death, he was reminded that though his warriors were hitting the society's legions of slayers hard, there were so few of the brothers going against an inexhaustible, self-generating pool of lessers.
Because God knew there were plenty of humans with an interest and aptitude for murder.
The numbers were simply not in the race's favor. He couldn't escape the fact that vampires didn't live forever and that brothers could be killed and that the balance could be thrown off in an instant. In favor of the race's enemies.
Hell, the shift had happened already. Ever since the Omega had created the Lessening Society aeons ago, vampire numbers had shrunk until now there were only a few enclaves of population left. Their kind was flirting with extinction. Even though the brothers were deadly fine at what they did.
If Wrath had been a different kind of king, one like his father, who wanted to be the adored, revered paterfamilias to the species, maybe the future would have seemed more promising. But the son wasn't as the father had been. Wrath was a fighter, not a leader, better on his feet with a dagger in his hand than sitting around being adored.
He refocused on the brothers. As the warriors stared back at him, they were looking to him for direction. And their deference made him edgy.
"I'm taking Darius's death as a personal attack," he said.
There was a low grunt of approval from the brothers.
Wrath took out the wallet and cell phone he'd liberated from the Lessening Society member he'd killed. "I took these off a lesser earlier tonight behind Screamer's. Some of you mind doing the honors?"
He tossed them into the air. Phury caught both and passed the phone to Vishous.
Wrath started pacing. "We need to go raiding again."
"Damn straight," Rhage growled. There was a metallic shifting and then the sound of a knife being driven into a table. "We need to get them where they train. Where they live."
Which meant the brothers were going to have to do some recon. Members of the Lessening Society weren't stupid. They changed their centers of operation regularly, constantly moving their recruiting and training facilities from place to place. Because of this, the vampire warriors typically found it more efficient to make themselves targets and fight what came after them.
Occasionally the brotherhood had gone on raids before, killing dozens of lessers in one evening as a pack. That kind of offensive tactic was rare, however. Full-scale attacks were efficient, but they were also a tricky proposition. Big battles tended to attract the attention of human police, and keeping a low profile was in everyone's interest.
"There's a driver's license," Phury muttered. "I'll scope the address. It's local."
"What's the name?" Wrath demanded.
"Robert Strauss."
Vishous cursed as he examined the phone. "There's not much here. Some shit in the call log, some speed dials. I'll hit the computer and find out who's been calling and what's been dialed."
Wrath gritted his teeth. Impatience and rage were a hell of a cocktail to swallow. "I don't need to tell you to work fast. There's no way to know whether the lesser I picked off tonight was the one who did it, so I'm thinking we need to do a clean sweep of this whole area. Kill them all no matter how messy it gets."
The front door swung open, and Zsadist strode into the house.
Wrath glared. "Nice of you to show up, Z. Busy tonight with the females?"
"How about you get off my dick?" Zsadist went over to the corner, staying away from the rest.
"Where you going to be, my lord?" Tohrment asked smoothly.
Good old Tohr. Always trying to keep the peace, whether by distraction, intervention, or flat-out bullying.
"Here. I'm going to stay here. If the lesser who nailed Darius is alive and interested in playing some more, I want to be available and easy to find."
After the warriors left, Wrath pulled on his jacket. In the process Darius's envelope poked him in the side, and he took it from his waistband. There was a strip of ink on the front, which he assumed was his name. He cracked open the flap. As he drew out a creamy piece of paper, a photograph fluttered to the ground. He picked it up and had the vague impression of long dark hair. A female.
Wrath stared at the paper. The writing ran together, a meaningless, blurry scrawl he had no hope of deciphering no matter how hard he squinted.
"Fritz!" he called out.
The butler came rushing in.
"Read this."
Fritz took the sheet and bent his head, falling into silence.
"Aloud," Wrath bit out.
"Oh. My apologies, master." Fritz cleared his throat. " 'If I haven't spoken to you already, ask Tohrment for details. Eleven eighty-eight Redd Avenue, apartment one-B. Her name is Elizabeth Randall. P.S. The house and Fritz are yours if she doesn't survive to adulthood. Sorry it had to end so soon. D.'"
"Son of a bitch," Wrath muttered.
