by some stroke of luck … or magic … he always knew what Murhder was going to do—and vice versa. The former Brother peeled off with his lesser and danced behind John’s ground game, like they had choreographed the shit.
But why the hell had he thought it was a good idea to come out without any weapons?
And fuck it, he’d had enough of this.
Pinning the slayer facedown, he got up on the lesser’s back, slammed a hold on the gun arm’s elbow and yanked up on the wrist, breaking all the bones, the snap like that of hardwood thrown on an open fire. When the lesser started to scream, John pushed its piehole into the snowpack, the sound muffled.
Talk about your suppressors.
Then he snatched the Glock out of the now lax hand and put the muzzle to its head.
One! Two! Three!
The bullets went through the skull and brains, all knife-and-butter, the arms and legs flopping with each impact.
John jumped off, and double-handed the weapon, pointing it at—
Murhder was back on the ground, holding his slayer down with his superior weight, his arms bowed out, his head down in the bite-zone.
When he came up, he brought a hunk of flesh with him, the whatever-it-was anatomy dangling from his descended fangs, black blood covering his chin, his throat, the front of the parka he had on.
He spit it out to the side.
Beneath him, the slayer was moving in a slow, uncoordinated churn—oh, check it. Most of its facial skin was gone, the cheekbones and curlicued roots of the teeth flashing bright white in the midst of all the glistening black tendons and ligaments.
With his red-and-black hair tangled on his shoulders, his huge body poised to do more damage to what was underneath him, his gleaming fangs and wide, brilliantly glowing eyes, Murhder looked like a demon.
And then he started to laugh.
Not in an evil way, though.
More like someone whose hometown team has just beaten their rivals at the buzzer: The sound was all about the high-five, the cheer, the go-us.
“This was fucking awesome!” he said. “And nice timing, I was almost dead!”
John blinked. It was the last thing he’d expected to come out of the guy’s mouth—especially given what had just been in it.
“Let’s finish these off—and go get some more!”
As if the field of conflict were a Baskin-Robbins and they had fifty-two more flavors to look forward to.
This is crazy, John thought. He himself was injured—totally redshirted until further notice or when he took to his deathbed. They had one gun between them—thanks to the slayer with the now-broken arm—and a questionable amount of bullets left. And there were things other than slayers stalking the night, shadows that John had learned about the hard way.
Oh, and this male with the black blood all over his face and chest was known to be insane.
But John started to smile.
The next thing he knew, he’d dismounted his lesser and was picking a discarded tire iron up out of the snow. Back at the undead, he two-fisted the thing over the chest of the slayer and drove the dull end you were supposed to work lug nuts with into the hollow cavity where the heart had previously been.
The pop and flash momentarily blinded him. And then he was back to work, doing the same to the slayer Murhder had given a facial to.
After that flash of light and sound faded, John reached down and offered a palm to the former Brother.
Murhder was leaking, the scent of his fresh blood suggesting he’d been plugged by at least one lead slug somewhere. But as the male’s eyes shined with an uncontaminated happiness, John knew the guy wasn’t going to let that bother or stop him any more than a certain shoulder wound was going to sideline John.
They clapped palms and John dragged the other male off the snow with his good arm. Then they walked off into the night, side by side.
It was almost, John reflected, as if they’d done this before—
Murhder started to whistle a cheery little tune, and John had to do a double take.
After a silent laugh, John joined in, finding a perfect harmony: “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” When Murhder started doing a hop’itaskip’ita every third step, John Fred Astaire’d, too.
Just two vampires, looking for the undead, ready to enjoy some good old-fashioned bloodshed.
Besties.
Tohr had heard that parents had a sixth sense about their young. That even if your kid grew up, went through the change, and came out the other side, ready to