ended up next to the slaughtered civilian. When V was bitten in the ear, his shit really got
cranked out. Tearing himself free of the lesser's teeth, he fisted the bastard's frontal lobe, laying a
bone-on-bone crack that stunned the fucker long enough for him to get free.
Kind of.
The knife went into his side just as he was pulling his legs out from under the slayer. The sharp,
shooting pain was a bee sting on 'roids, and he knew the blade had broken skin and penetrated
muscle just below his rib cage, on the left.
Man, an intestine had been nicked, things were going to go bad, fast. So it was time to put the
fight to bed.
Energized by the injury, V grabbed the lesser by the chin and the back of the head and twisted
the sonofabitch like he was a beer bottle. The snap of the skull popping free of the spinal cord
was like a branch cracking in half and the body went instantaneously loose, its arms flopping to
the ground, its legs going still.
V grabbed his side as his crest of power faded. Shit, he was covered in cold sweat and his hands
were shaking, but he had to finish the job. He quickly patted down the lesser, looking for ID
before he poofed the bastard.
The slayer's eyes met his, its mouth working slowly. «My name… was once Michael. Eighty…
three… years ago. Michael Klosnick.»
Flipping open the wallet, V found a current driver's license. «Well, Michael, have a nice trip to
hell.»
«Glad… its over.»
«It's not. Haven't you heard?» Shit, his side was killing him. «Your new town house is the
Omega's body, buddy. You're going to live there rent-free for fucking ever.»
Pale eyes cracked wide. «You lie.»
«Please. Like I'd bother?» V shook his head. «Doesn't your boss mention that? Guess not.»
V unsheathed one of his daggers, heaved his arm up over his shoulder, and drove the blade
square into that wide chest. There was a burst of light bright enough to show off the whole alley,
then a pop and… shit, the burst caught the civilian, lighting him up as well thanks to a heavy
gust of wind. As the two bodies were consumed, all that was left on the cold breeze was the thick
smell of baby powder.
Fuck. How could they notify the civilian's family now?
Vishous searched the area, and when he didn't find another wallet, he propped himself against a
Dumpster and just sat there, breathing in shallow sucks. Each inhale made him feel like he was
being stabbed again, but going without oxygen was not an option, so he kept at it.
Before he got out his phone to call for help, he looked at his dagger. The black blade was
covered with the inky blood of the lesser. He ran through the fight with the slayer and imagined
another vampire in his place, one not as strong as he was. One who didn't have the breeding he
had.
He brought up his gloved hand. If his curse had defined him, the Brotherhood and its noble
purpose had shaped his life. And if he had been killed tonight? If that blade had gone into his
heart? They'd be down to four fighters.
Fuck.
On the chessboard of his godforsaken life, the pieces were lined up, the play preordained. Man,
so many times in life you didn't get to pick your path because the way you went was decided for
you.
Free will was such bullshit.
Forget his mother and her drama-he needed to become the Primale for the Brotherhood. He
owed the legacy he served.
After wiping the blade on his leathers, he resheathed the weapon handle down, struggled to his
feet, and patted down his jacket. Shit… his phone. Where was his phone? Back at the penhouse.
It must have slipped out when he'd tossed his coat down on the bed back at the penthouse-
A shot rang out.
A bullet hit him right between his pecs.
The impact popped him off his heels and sent him on a slow-mo fall through thin air. As he went
back flat on the ground, he just lay there as a crushing pressure made his heart jump and his
brain fog out. All he could do was gasp, little quick breaths skipping up and down the corridor of
his throat.
With his last bit of strength, he lifted his head and looked down his body. A gunshot. Blood on
his shirt. The screaming pain in his chest. The nightmare realized.
Before he could panic, blackness came and swallowed him whole… a meal to be digested in an
acid bath of agony.
«What the hell do you think you're doing, Whitcomb?»
Dr. Jane Whitcomb looked up from the patient chart she was signing and winced.