Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 138274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
“No, I ain’t.” Wincing, he tried to get his thoughts to pull together. “Sorry, I’ll lower my weapon. We family, right.”
“I hate liars.”
“Me, too.”
More lightning flashed—no, wait. It was a car, coming down the lane, the headlights making noon out of midnight, the log cabin worse for wear in the glare. When Mickey looked back to his uncle’s favorite assassin, something swept by, close to his face. Jerking away, he went to slap off that which had already moved past him—
The gurgling was like someone draining an oil pan in an old-fashioned, gas-powered car, and he had no idea where the hell the sound was coming from. Until he tried to breathe.
Dropping his gun into the snow, he clapped his hands across his throat and felt a flow of warmth, smooth and thick as hot chocolate. “Wha…”
Nathaniel held a blade up and regarded the bright red blood on the stainless steel. Then he extended his tongue, stared across the cold glow into Mickey’s eyes… and licked up the blade.
No, no, nonononono—
“Tastes like a liar. What’s in your pocket, Mickey.”
Mickey stumbled backwards—but he didn’t fall back into the snowpack like Evan, dumb, dipshit Evan, who had been so much smarter than him. Instead, he was caught by a grip on his shoulder, and then he and his killer were face to face—
The pain in his gut came quick and he looked down, wondering numbly how the lightning had found his stomach. But it wasn’t the storm. A fist was pressed right against his abdomen, his parka puffing up around where he’d been stabbed so deep, the blade that had been stroked by his killer’s tongue inside of him to the hilt.
The gurgling got worse, as there was a sudden pressure on his shoulder, a pushing down, after which the sawing started: in and out, in and out, the knife working upward through his internal organs, heading for his sternum. Mickey tried to scream, but with his windpipe sliced open, he couldn’t call for whoever had just parked at the cabin and gotten out from behind the wheel.
Help… me… Mickey reached toward the person in the darkness, the blood on his glove dripping into the virgin snow. Help…
“Nate!” The man with the car strode up to the rickety front door and banged on it. “Where you at?”
Mickey’s vision dimmed, like a veil had been pulled over his face. Help me…
He mouthed the words because there was no talking for him. No air in his lungs, no vocal cords. No… anything.
“Nate, we’re late,” the guy at the door hollered. “Come on, it’s time to go.”
Mickey Trix’s last thought was that he wished he had turned around when he’d had the chance.
His stupid cousin, for once, had been too right.
CHAPTER TWO
The BDB Underground Housing Complex, a.k.a. The Wheel
Suburbs of Caldwell, New York
The Black Dagger Brother Zsadist, son of Ahgony, mated of the beloved Bella, sire of Nalla, fucking hated cell phones. He didn’t like all the notifications, the vibrating, the bing’ing, the ringing. Also, they were breakable, and every two weeks, you had to charge them. Worst, he was required to carry one.
He hated being forced to do anything, especially when the albatross came with a marching band of irritations.
But there was another reason he despised the Samsung. As it went off with a text, he finished holstering his black daggers on his chest, picked up the unit from the midst of his weapons, and cursed at the images that had been sent to members of the Brotherhood and the fighters who stalked the night along with them.
Annnnd there it was: Never good news.
Another murder scene with contractor buckets from Home Depot, puddles of black oil on a concrete floor, and no bodies—because everything that had been killed had been reanimated and walked the fuck back out onto the streets of Caldwell. To hunt vampires.
He checked his old Timex—
“I thought you were off tonight.”
He glanced across from the display of gunmetal on the kitchen countertop. Over in the living area, standing beside his baby grand Steinway, Bella was in her favorite robe. No fussy silk for his shellan. She was in the flannel one that she’d given him last year when they’d all celebrated the humans’ Christmas. He never wore it, but not because he didn’t like the gift.
All that Black Watch tartan had better things to cover than him.
Pulling his leather jacket over what was on his pecs, he regretted arming himself here. He didn’t like his female anywhere near his SIG Sauers, his explosive packs, the length of chain he wore around his shoulder when he was in the field.
“I love the way you look in that robe,” he said as he stepped around the center island and blocked her view with his body.
His mate pushed some of her gleaming brown hair back and fiddled with the tie at her waist. “It was supposed to be a gift for you.”