Lover Reborn (Black Dagger Brotherhood #10) - J. R. Ward Page 0,5

then Tohr abruptly disappeared into thin air. One moment he was all fly-be-free; the next, he was gone.

Thank God, John thought.

“Thank you, baby Jesus,” Qhuinn breathed.

A moment later, on the far side of a pylon, a dark arrow sliced into the river.

Without a glance or a word between them, he and Qhuinn tore off in that direction, getting to the rocky shore just as Tohr surfaced, grabbed the slayer, and started to swim in. As John got into position to help drag the lesser onto dry land, his eyes locked on Tohr’s grim, pale face.

The male looked dead, even though he was technically alive.

I got him, John signed as he leaned in, nabbed the closest arm, and heaved the soaking-wet slayer out of the river. The thing landed in a heap and did an excellent impression of a fish, eyes bulging, mouth gaping, little clicking sounds coming from its wide-open gullet.

But whatever, Tohr was the issue, and John looked the Brother over as he emerged from the water: Leather pants were sticking like glue to thighs that were thin, muscle shirt was second-skinned to a flat chest, cropped black hair with that white stripe was standing straight up even though it was wet.

Dark blue eyes were locked on the lesser.

Or studiously ignoring John’s stare.

Probably both.

Tohr reached down and grabbed the lesser by the throat. Baring fangs that were viciously long, he growled, “Told you.”

Then he outted his black dagger and started stabbing.

John and Qhuinn had to step back. It was either that or get a paint job.

“He could just hit the damn chest,” Qhuinn muttered, “and get this over with.”

Except killing the slayer wasn’t the point. Desecration was.

That sharp black blade penetrated every square inch of flesh—except for the sternum, which was the lights-out switch. With each slashing blow, Tohr exhaled hard; with every jerk free, the Brother inhaled deep, the rhythm of respiration driving the gruesome scene.

“Now I know how they make shredded lettuce.”

John rubbed his face, and hoped that was the end of the commentary.

Tohr didn’t slow down. He just stopped. And in the aftermath, he listed to the side, propping himself up by throwing a hand out to the oil-soaked dirt. The slayer was … well, shredded, yeah, but he wasn’t finished.

There’d be no helping out, though. In spite of Tohr’s obvious exhaustion, John and Qhuinn knew better than to mess with the end game. They’d seen this before. The final strike had to be Tohr’s.

After a couple of moments of recovery, the Brother lurched back into position, double-handing the dagger and lifting the blade over his head.

A hoarse cry tore out of his throat as he buried the point in the chest of what was left of his prey. As bright light flashed, the tragic expression on Tohr’s face was illuminated, a comic book rendering of his twisted, horrific features, caught for a moment … and an eternity.

He always stared down into the illumination, even though the impermanent sun was too bright to look into.

After it was done, the Brother slumped sure as if his spinal column had turned to putty, his energy disappearing. Clearly, he needed to feed, but that subject, like so many others, was a no-go.

“What time is it,” he got out between breaths.

Qhuinn snagged a peek at his Suunto. “Two a.m.”

Tohr looked up from the stained ground he’d been staring at, focusing his red-rimmed eyes on the part of downtown they’d just come from.

“How about we go back to the compound.” Qhuinn took out his cell phone. “Butch isn’t far away—”

“No.” Tohr shoved himself back and sat on his ass. “Don’t call anyone. I’m fine—just need to catch my breath.”

Bull. Shit. The guy was not any closer to fine than John was at the moment. Although, granted, only one of them was dripping wet in a fifty-degree gust.

John shoved his hands into the Brother’s field of vision. We’re going home now—

Wafting over on the breeze, like an alarm breaking through a silent house, the scent of baby powder tickled into each of their noses.

The stench did what all that breathing on the ground couldn’t: It got Tohr onto his feet. Gone was the logy disorientation—hell, if you’d pointed out to him that he was still wet as a fish, he probably would have been surprised.

“There’re more,” he snarled.

As he took off, John cursed at the maniac.

“Come on,” Qhuinn said. “Let’s get our run on. This is going to be a long night.”

TWO

“T

ake some time off … relax … enjoy yourself.…”

As Xhex muttered