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Undercover cop. Who was no doubt hoping that SOB Grady did exactly what he was doing: namely pay respects to the girl he'd murdered.
Yeah, well, two could play at the wait-and-see game.
Lash took out his phone and shielded the bright screen with his palm. The text he sent to Mr. D was a holdback that he hoped like f**k the guy got in time. With the police on-site Lash was going to handle Grady on his own.
And then he was going to throw down to whoever had left the human alone long enough so he could bust free.
Chapter FORTY-SIX
Standing at the foot of the grand staircase, Wrath finished prepping for the meeting with the glymera by drawing a Kevlar vest onto his shoulders. "It's light."
"Weight doesn't always do you better," V said as he fired up a hand-rolled and snapped his gold lighter shut.
"You sure about that."
"When it comes to bulletproof vests, I am." Vishous exhaled, the smoke momentarily shading his face before it floated upward to the ornate ceiling. "But if it'll make you feel better, we can strap a garage door on your chest. Or a car, for that matter."
Heavy footsteps from behind echoed up around the magnificent, jewel-colored foyer as Rhage and Zsadist came down together, a pair of straight-up killers with the daggers of the Brotherhood holstered handles-down on their chests. As they stepped in front of Wrath, there was a chiming noise from the vestibule, and Fritz shuffled over to let in Phury, who had dematerialized down from the Adirondacks, as well as Butch, who'd just walked across the courtyard.
Wrath felt a charge go through him as he looked at his brothers. Even though two of them were still not talking to him, he could feel the common warrior blood running through all their bodies, and he relished the collective need to fight the enemy, be it a lesser or one of their own race.
A soft sound from the stairs brought his head around.
Tohr was coming down from the second story with care, as if he weren't sure he trusted his thigh muscles to catch and hold his weight. From what Wrath could see, the brother was dressed in camos that were cinched onto hips the size of a boy's, and he had on a thick black turtleneck sweater that bagged under his armpits. There were no daggers on his chest, but he had a pair of guns hanging from that hope-and-a-prayer leather belt that was holding his pants up.
Lassiter was right beside him, but the angel for once wasn't pulling any smart-ass. Although he wasn't looking where he was going, either. For some reason, he was staring at the mural on the ceiling, at the warriors fighting in the clouds.
All the Brothers looked up at Tohr, and he didn't stop, didn't meet anyone's eye, just kept on coming until he reached the mosaic floor. Still no stopping. He passed the Brotherhood, went over to the door that led out into the night, and waited.
The only echo from what he'd once been was the set of his jaw. That hard shot of bone was parallel to the floor and then some. As far as he was concerned, he was going out and that was that.
Yeah, wrong.
Wrath walked over to him and said softly, "I'm sorry, Tohr-"
"There's no reason to be sorry. Let's go."
"No."
There was a whole lot of awkward shuffling, as if the other brothers were hating this as much as Wrath was.
"You're not strong enough." Wrath wanted to put his hand on Tohr's shoulder, but he knew that would lead to a violent shrug-off, given how Tohr's fragile body was tensing up. "Just wait until you're ready. This war...this f**king war is going to be around."
The grandfather clock in the study upstairs started to gong, the rhythmic sound drifting out of Wrath's office, over the gold-leafed balustrade, and falling to the ears of the assembled. It was eleven thirty. Time to head out if they wanted to scope the meeting locale before the glymera types arrived.
Wrath cursed under his breath and looked over his shoulder at the five black-clad fighters who were standing together in a unit. Their bodies hummed with power, their weapons not just what hung from holsters and harnesses, but also their hands and feet and arms and legs and minds. Their mental toughness was in the blood; the training and the brute strength in their flesh.
You needed both to fight. Will alone got you only so far.
"You're staying," Wrath said. "And that's final."
With a curse, he punched his way into the vestibule and out the other side. Leaving Tohr behind felt wrong, but there was no other choice. The Brother was compromised to the point of being a danger to himself, and he was a bad distraction. If he were on-site? Each one of the Brothers would have him on their minds, so the whole group would be head-fucked-not exactly what you wanted when you walked into a meeting where someone might try to assassinate the king. For, like, the second time this week.
As the outer doors of the mansion thundered shut, with Tohr on the other side, Wrath and the brothers stood in the bracing gusts that cut up the face of the compound's mountain, barreled across the courtyard, and weaved in and out of the assembled cars.
"Goddamn it," Rhage muttered as they focused on the horizon beyond.
After a while, Vishous turned his head to Wrath, his profile silhouetted against the gray sky. "We need to-"
The pop of a gunshot rang out, and the hand-rolled that was between V's lips was clipped from his mouth. Or maybe it was just vaporized.
"What the f**k!" V shouted as he recoiled.
They all wheeled around, going for their weapons even though there was no way in hell their enemies were anywhere near the great stone fortress.
Tohr was standing calmly in the mansion's doorway, his feet planted solidly, his two hands gripping the butt of the gun he'd set off.
V lunged forward, but Butch steel-barred him around the chest, keeping him from taking Tohr down to the ground.
Didn't stop V's mouth. "What the f**k are you thinking!"
Tohr lowered the muzzle. "I might not be able to fight hand-to-hand yet, but I'm the best shot out of all of you."
"You're f**king crazy," V spat. "That's what you are."
"Do you really think I'd put a bullet in your head?" Tohr's voice was even. "I've already lost the love of my life. Capping one of my brothers is not the kind of chaser I'm looking for. Like I said, I'm the best we've got with a gun, and that is not the kind of asset you want benched on a night like tonight." Tohr reholstered the SIG. "And before you why the hell out of me, I had to make a statement, and it was better than shooting your ugly-ass goatee off. Not that I wouldn't kill to give you the shave your chin is begging for."
There was a long pause.
Wrath busted out laughing. Which was, of course, insane. But the idea that he didn't have to deal with Tohr being left behind like some dog who wasn't allowed to come with the rest of the family was such a stunning relief, all he could do was bellow.
Rhage was the first to join in, throwing his head back, the lights from the mansion catching in his bright blond hair, his superwhite teeth flashing. As he laughed, his big hand came up and landed over his heart like he was hoping he didn't short the thing out.
Butch was next, the cop barking out loud and loosing his hold on his best friend's torso. Phury smiled for a second, and then his big shoulders started to quake-which set Z off until his scarred face was one big, wide grin.
Tohr didn't smile, but there was a glimmer of the way he used to be in the satisfaction with which he settled back on his heels. Tohr had always been a serious guy, the kind who was more interested in making sure everyone was chilled out and tight than cracking jokes and being a loudmouth. But that didn't mean he couldn't razz along with the best of 'em.
It was why he'd been so perfect as the Brotherhood's leader. Right skill set for a necessary job: tight in the head, warm in the heart.
In the midst of the laughing, Rhage looked over at Wrath. Without a word said, the two of them embraced, and when they pulled apart, Wrath gave his brother the male equivalent of an apology-which was a good knock of the shoulders. Then he turned to Z and Z nodded once. Which was Zsadist's shorthand of, Yeah, you were a dick, but you had your reasons and we're cool.
Hard to know who started it, but someone put his arms over the shoulders of someone else, and then another guy did it, and then they were in a football huddle. The circle they made in that cold wind was uneven, composed of different body heights and chest widths that varied and arm lengths that were not equal. But linked together they were a unit.
Standing hip-to-hip with his brothers, Wrath saw as very rare and special what he had once taken for granted: the Brotherhood together once again.
