up, instincts on fire, they moved in perfect coordination, and Murhder had to smile, even though it made him a freak.
Except John looked over his shoulder. And winked.
Murhder lost his step.
He hadn’t seen that expression in years. Not since he and Darius had hunted slayers together—and wasn’t it great to see that male of worth live on through his blooded son? All you had to do was look at John and know that D was still alive and well … and with the brothers.
Abruptly, the whistling ended, and they both stopped. Without a word of communication, they split and back-flatted on either side of a closed door.
Inexplicably, the panels had a black rim around the jamb, as if there had been a fire inside and smoke had escaped. But there was no heat. In fact, it was noticeably colder here, a draft coming out from under the gap at the bottom. Which explained the sound they’d tracked.
Murhder pointed to himself and John nodded. Then he held up one finger … two …
On three, John swung around, kicked open the door, and Murhder went in first with his gun up—
“What the fuck,” he muttered as he hauled up short.
The window across the bedroom suite was wide open, the winter night barreling in on a stiff wind, the drapes billowing. And everywhere else, the antique furniture was in disarray, the bureau, the bed, the side tables … all crammed in a circle around an old writing desk with a burn mark on it.
John went across and punched open the door to a walk-in closet. When he shook his head indicating it was clear, Murhder proceeded further into the room, zeroing in on that desk as John checked out the bathroom.
Murhder lowered his weapon. The burn mark on the leather blotter was perfectly square, about two foot by one foot.
The size of a book—
A high-pitched whistle sounded out down the hall, and John sent three short bursts in reply. Moments later, Tohr came in with his guns up.
“What happened in here?” the brother said.
“No clue.” Murhder looked around again, searching for … fuck knew what. “Did you find Throe—”
Three gunshots went off directly below them on the first floor.
“Shit!” Murhder lunged for the way out. “The shadows are back—”
Tohr caught him and prevented him from leaving. “No. That’s … the male who died and did not stay that way.”
“What are you talking about?”
Tohr didn’t reply to that—verbally. Instead, the bald look in the brother’s eye stated plainly that nightmares could come true—and suddenly, Murhder knew without a doubt where John’s injury had come from.
“Shit,” he breathed.
After John had cleared a second closet, he came over to Tohr and Murhder and signed, How many injured downstairs?
“Xcor got shot, but at least it was just through the thigh,” Tohr answered. “I had to hold him back from going after Throe. We’ve also got a female who probably has a dislocated ankle. And then there’s you.”
John looked down at himself in a panic, his brain going a thousand miles an hour into the brick wall of another wound like the one he’d had.
Except then Murhder said, “Huh. What do you know. I got hit.”
The Brother poked at his shoulder, and that was when John started to smell the blood in the air. Sure enough, there was a round bullet hole in Murhder’s leather jacket—and John breathed deeply in relief. Conventional wound. Totally treatable—
Headlights flared across the walls of the room, the beams flashing through the open window.
“Surgical unit is on-site,” Tohr said to Murhder. “Let’s get you down there. You coming John?”
John pointed at the open window and then went over to close it. As the other two left, he gripped the sash and …
Leaning out, he looked down to the snow in the side yard. In the otherwise perfectly undisturbed blanket of white, there was a set of tracks that went from just below the window across the property. At the tree line that separated the estate from its splendiferous neighbor, the prints seemed to disappear, but it was hard to know if that was because whoever had made them had dematerialized or just walked into the evergreens.
All of that was odd, for sure. First of all, if Throe had wanted to leave the scene, he could have just ghosted out. Why open the window? There was no steel mesh. And if the male were injured and therefore couldn’t dematerialize? There would be blood—or the prints would have been messy, indicating a shuffle.