Panic shot through him. He was leaving his female undefended; his death was not going to get her out of danger. Gigante would send someone else to kill her—
All at once, the light retracted, Syn’s vision cleared, and his ears came back online. Looking up, he wasn’t sure what he expected to see . . . but the Brother Vishous kneeling down with a torch was not it—
Wait. That wasn’t a torch. It was the male’s hand, the one that always had that black leather glove on it.
Maybe the illumination hadn’t been the Fade.
Maybe those rumors about V being the born son of the Scribe Virgin weren’t bullshit.
Maybe he should be nicer to the motherfucker, assuming he didn’t want to be turned into a s’more.
Syn pushed himself off the pavement, and as he cautiously got up on his feet, he expected the world to go around in circles again. It did not. And that was when he realized the Brother must have done to him what he did to Butch.
“You tackled the Omega?” V said. “What the fuck were you thinking, you crazy sonofabitch.”
Vishous punched Syn’s shoulders—and then Syn was being yanked forward against that huge chest, the embrace as unexpected as the Brother breaking into song with “Achy Breaky Heart.”
’Cuz V didn’t like anybody.
Guess if you saved his best friend’s life, it got you on his Good Guy list.
Syn felt himself get set back, and then both of his cousins were talking to him. Everyone was talking to him, the Brothers who were on site and all the other fighters. It was a blur, and he had some thought that they were making a hero out of him for no good reason. He just wanted to kill something, anything, and he wanted a good fight. The Omega was tailor-made for that shit.
“Where’s Syn?” he heard somebody demand. “Is Syn okay?”
Butch broke through the rugby huddle that had formed, and the former cop, former human, seemed to fall back into his role as civil servant. He was all about the Good Samaritan as he approached.
“Jesus, that was brave and stupid. But thank you. I’m serious.”
Syn met the hazel eyes of the Brother and shook his head.
Butch nodded, as if he knew what Syn was thinking, but Syn could guarantee he did not.
And to cut any further gratitud-inal shit, Syn tried to walk in a circle to get a sense of how steady he was. Yay. He didn’t weave. He didn’t throw up again. His body and strength were, like, five on a scale of ten.
Whereas before V had showed up with that searchlight of a palm? Try not even on the damn scale.
“Where are you going?” Butch asked.
Am I leaving? Syn wondered.
“I’m on rotation,” he heard himself say. “I’m going out to fight.”
Dr. Manello jumped in like he had a chip in the back of his neck that alerted him to dumb decisions. “Nope. You’re taking the rest of the night off.”
“I’m not injured,” Syn said as he motioned down his body. “And I’m not sick anymore. You have no reason to deny me.”
As V lit up a hand-rolled, the Brother looked over the cup of his hand. “Let him go. He’s more than earned the right to fight if that’s what he wants to do. Besides, I took care of him. There isn’t anything of the Omega left in him.”
Syn pegged the doctor in the eye. “I’m just going to go out anyway. No matter what you tell me.”
More conversations, especially as another round of Brothers arrived, Tohr, Z, and Phury needing to catch up on what had happened with the Omega.
Hoping to dematerialize out before his part in the story got more airtime, Syn took a step back from the crowd. And another. When Balthazar glanced over like he was going to put the brakes on the retreat, Syn glared at his cousin and dared him to get involved. When the guy just lit up one of V’s homemade cigarettes and cursed, it was clear the message was received.
His kin was not going to get in the way of him getting gone.
As the alley turned into a brother-convention, Butch went back over to the carcass of the lesser. He hadn’t gotten far into the inhale before Syn decided to play bowling ball with the Omega and there was a job to be finished.
And fuck no, he wasn’t going to honor that promise to the evil of stabbing the damn thing back to its master.