The Beast (Black Dagger Brotherhood #14) - J. R. Ward Page 0,107

been travelers with temporary housing, and later still, when they had settled in their castle fortification in the Old Country.

And there had been that one private moment, after Xcor had stabbed Throe—and punished himself for it.

“What do we do now?” Balthazar asked.

After a moment of silence, Zypher realized they were all looking at him.

He wished they had a body. The course would be clearer, then. At the moment, even with all circumstantial evidence pointing them in a certain direction, taking control of the group felt like insubordination.

But there was naught else to do.

Zypher scrubbed his face with his gloved hand. “We must assume our base has been compromised, or soon will be. We must also destroy all cellular devices. Then we will wait a given period of time—before we shall return unto the Old Country. There is a life worth living o’er there.”

The castle still stood and remained in their names.

But money. They needed money.

Shit.

“What if he attempts to reach us?” Balthazar asked. “If we do away with our phones, how will he find us?”

“If he has survived, he will locate us.”

Leaning to the side, Zypher glanced between two buildings. That glow of dawn was e’er increasing, and if they waited too much longer, they were going to follow a similar fate as this vehicle. As mayhap Xcor himself.

“Let us proceed back to—” He frowned. “No. We shall not go back there.”

He wouldn’t put it past the Brotherhood to wage an ambush inside the farmhouse even in broad daylight—and not because those males were reckless, but rather because they were that deadly. And if slayers were who had gotten Xcor? Then such an attack was even more a possibility.

Glancing around, he focused on a nearby door. The building it opened into was abandoned, going by the boarded-up windows and the CONDEMNED sign plastered on its brick.

Zypher walked over and slammed his shoulder into the portal. As the metal panel broke free, the lock splintered into pieces, littering the floor of the darkened interior beyond.

The air that greeted him was cold, wet, and smelled like various strains of mold and decay. But the oppressive blackness that surrounded him was good news.

They had no food. Only the weapons and ammunition on their backs. And this was an iffy shelter at best.

It was just like the good old days.

Save for one rather large and noticeable absence.

As his fellow bastards filed in and found places on over-turned crates and stretches of countertops littered with plastic containers, rats scuttled out of the way, squeaking their curses.

“Upon nightfall, we shall return unto the farmhouse, pack up, and determine our course.”

Zypher chose a section of floor by the door, wedging himself into a crevice between shelvings such that he was propped up with his autoloader in hand and ready to discharge.

In his long history as a soldier, there had been many days such as this, his body required to catch its sleep on the fly as he rested with one ear and one eye open. And before all that, as a student of the Bloodletter, he had feared for his life when the sun had risen and the trainees had been forced to retire unto the caved war camp until nightfall.

This was a vacation compared to what he and the others had endured.

Closing his lids, he found himself wondering how Xcor had died. And where that troubled soul of his had ended up.

Some questions were destined to remain unanswered … and it was strange for him to discover that he most certainly missed their leader—though he found that difficult to admit. Xcor had been as fearsome as the Bloodletter at times; yet his absence was like that of a limb or a crucial organ.

Habits died harder than mortals, however.

And this ennui, tied as it was to centuries of cruelty, was hardly a recommendation for the male’s soul.

THIRTY-SIX

“Yes, of course. I will get a message to the buyers before the closing next week. Yes, the walk-through is scheduled for Thursday at eight a.m. Is that still convenient? Very good. My pleasure. Good-bye.”

Jo hung up the phone, made a note in the client’s file, and then checked her personal cell.

She couldn’t possibly have read the text right. The damn thing was from Bill:

You played me well, but not for long. You should have tried this with someone who has no research skills.

What the…? They had parted the night before on good terms, heading back to his car when her sense that they were being watched had become too overwhelming