Lover Unleashed

TWENTY-FOUR

Welcome to the New World.

As Xcor stepped out into the night, everything was different: The smell was not of the woods around his castle, but a city’s musk of smog and sewer, and the sounds were not of distant deer soft-footing about the underbrush, but of cars and sirens and shouted talk.

“Verily, Throe, you have found us stellar accommodations,” he drawled.

“The estate should be ready tomorrow.”

“And am I to think it shall be an improvement?” He glanced back at the row house they’d spent the day holed up in. “Or will you surprise us with even lesser grandeur.”

“You will find it more than suitable. I assure you.”

In truth, considering all the variables of getting them over here, the vampire had done a superb job. They had had to take two overnight flights to ensure that no daylight problems occurred, and once they finally arrived in this Caldwell, Throe had somehow arranged everything: That decrepit house nevertheless had a solid basement, and there had been a doggen to serve them meals. The permanent solution to their residence had yet to make its appearance, but it was likely going to be what they needed.

“It had better be out of this urban filth.”

“Worry not. I know your preferences.”

Xcor did not like being in cities. Humans were stupid cows, but a stampede with no brains was more dangerous than one with intelligence—you could never predict the clueless. Although there was one benefit: He wanted to case the city before announcing his arrival to the Brotherhood and his “king,” and there was no greater proximity than the one they had.

The house was in the thick of the downtown.

“We walk this way,” he said, striding off, his band of bastards falling into formation behind him.

Caldwell, New York, would no doubt offer few revelations. As he had learned from both olden times and this well-lit present, cities at night were all the same, regardless of geography: The people out were not the plodding law abiders, but the truants and misfits and malcontents. And sure enough, as they progressed block by block, he saw humans sitting on the pavement in their own excrement, or packs of scum striding with aggression, or seedy females seeking even seedier males.

None thought to take on his group of six strong backs, however—and he almost wished they would. A fight would burn off their energy—although with luck, they would come upon the enemy and face a worthy opponent for the first time in two decades.

As he and his males turned a corner, they came upon a human infestation: Several barlike establishments set on either side of the road were lit up brightly and had lines of half-dressed people waiting to get into their confines. He could not read the signs that o’erhung the openings, but the way the men and women stamped their feet and twitched and talked, it was obvious that temporary oblivion waited on the far side of their hapless patience.

He was of a mind to slaughter them all, and he became acutely aware of his scythe: The weapon was at rest upon his back, folded in two, nestled in its harness and hidden under his floor-length leather duster.

To keep it in its place, he mollified the blade with the promise of slayers.

“I’m hungry,” Zypher said. Characteristically, the male was not talking about food, and his timing was not a mistake: The cue for sex was in the lineup of human females they walked past. Indeed, the women presented themselves for using, painted eyes locking on the males they mistakenly believed were of their race.

Well, locking on the faces of the males who were other than Xcor. Him they took one look at and glanced away with alacrity.

“Later,” he said. “I shall see that you get what you need.”

Although he doubted he would partake, he was well aware that his soldiers required sustenance of the fucking variety, and he was more than willing to grant it—fighters fought better if they were serviced; he had learned that long ago. And who knew, mayhap he would take something himself if his eye was caught—assuming she could get past what he looked like. Then again, that was what they made money for. Many was the time he had paid for females to put up with his being within their sex. ’Twas far better than forcing them to submit, which he hadn’t the stomach for—though he would admit such weakness to no one.

Such dalliances would not be until the end of the night, however. First, they needed to survey their new environment.

After they passed through the choked thicket of clubs, they came out into precisely what he had hoped to find . . . utter urban emptiness : whole blocks of buildings that were unoccupied for the evening, or perhaps even longer; roads that were bereft of traffic; alleys that were dark and cloistered with good space to fight in.

The enemy would be herein. He just knew it: The one affinity among both parties to the war was secrecy. And here, fights could happen with less fear of interruption.

With his body itching for a conflict and the sounds of the heels of his band of bastards behind him, Xcor smiled into the night. This was going to be—

Rounding yet another corner, he halted. A block up on the left, there was a gaggle of black-and-white cars parked in a loose circle around the opening of an alley . . . rather as if they were a necklace about the throat of a female. He couldn’t read the patterns on the doors, but the blue lights atop their roofs told him they were human police.

Inhaling, he caught the scent of death.

Fairly recent killing, he decided, but not as juicy as an immediate one.

“Humans,” he sneered. “If only they were more efficient and would kill each other off completely.”

“Aye,” someone agreed.

“Onward,” he demanded, proceeding forth.

As they stalked by the crime scene, Xcor looked into the alley. Human men with queasy expressions and fidgety hands stood around a large box of some kind, as if they expected something to jump out at any moment and seize them by the cocks with a taloned grip.

How typical. Vampires would be delving in and dominating—at least, any vampire worth his nature. Humans only seemed to find their mettle when the Omega interceded, however.

Standing over a cardboard box that was stained through in places and big enough to fit a refrigerator in, José de la Cruz flicked his flashlight on and ran the beam over another mutilated body. It was hard to get much of an impression of the corpse, given that gravity had done its job and sucked the victim down into a tangle of limbs, but the savagely shaved-off hair and the gouged patch on the upper arm suggested that this was number two for his team.

Straightening, he glanced around the empty alley. Same MO as the first, he was willing to bet: Do the work elsewhere, dump the remains in downtown Caldwell, go trolling for another victim.

They had to catch this motherfucker.

Clicking off his beam, he checked his digital watch. Forensics had been doing their nitpicking job, and the photographer had clicked her shit, so it was time to take a good look at the body.

“Coroner’s ready to see her,” Veck said from behind him, “and he’d like some help.”

José pivoted on his heel. “Have you got gloves . . .”

He paused and stared over his partner’s broad shoulder. On the street beyond, a group of men walked by in triangular formation, one in the lead, two behind him, three behind them. The arrangement was so precise and their footfalls in such synchronization that at first, all José noticed was the militarylike marching and the fact that they were all wearing black leather.

Then he got a sense of their size. They were absolutely huge, and he had to wonder what kind of weapons they were packing under their identical long coats: The law, however, forbade police officers from strip-searching civilians just because they looked deadly.

The one in the lead cranked his head around and José took a mental snapshot of a face only a mother could love: angular and lean, with hollowed cheeks, the upper lip malformed by a cleft palate that hadn’t been fixed.

The man resumed looking straight ahead and the unit continued onward.

“Detective?”

José shook himself. “Sorry. Distracted. You got gloves?”

“I’m holding them out to you.”

“Right. Thanks.” José took the set of latex and snapped them on. “You’ve got the—”

“Bag? Yup.”

Veck was grim and focused, which, José had learned, was the man’s cruising speed: He was on the young side, only in his late twenties, but he handled shit like a veteran.

Verdict thus far: He did not suck as a partner.

But it had been only a week and a half since they’d really started working together.

At any crime scene, who moved the bodies depended on a host of variables. Sometimes Search and Rescue handled it. With others, like this sitch, it was a combination of whoever was around who had a strong stomach.

“Let’s cut open the front of the box,” Veck said. “Everything’s been dusted and photographed, and it’ll be better than trying to tip it forward and have the bottom rip free.”

José glanced over at the CSI guy. “You sure you got everything?”

“Roger that, Detective. And that’s what I was thinking, too.”

The three of them worked together, Veck and José holding the front side while the other man used a box cutter—natch. And then José and his partner carefully lowered the panel.

She was another young woman.

“Damn,” the coroner muttered. “Not again.”

More like damned, José thought. The poor girl had been done just as the others had, which meant she’d been tortured first.

“Fucking hell,” Veck muttered under his breath.

The three of them were careful with her, as if even in her deceased state, her battered body registered the rearrangement of her limbs. Carrying her a mere two feet, they placed her in the opened black bag so the coroner and photographer could do their things.

Veck stayed crouched down with her. His face was utterly composed, but he nonetheless gave off the vibe of a man who was angered by what he saw—

The brilliant flare of a camera flash broke out through the dim alley, sure as a scream through a church. Before the shit even faded, José’s head ripped around to see who the hell was taking pictures, and he wasn’t the only one. The other officers who were standing about all snapped to attention.

But Veck was the one who exploded up and took off at a hard run.

The camera guy didn’t stand a chance. In a totally brazen move, the bastard had ducked under the police tape and taken advantage of the fact that everyone had been focusing on the victim. And in his escape, he got snared in what he’d violated, tripping and falling before he recovered and gunned for the open door of his car.

Veck, on the other hand, had the legs of a sprinter and way more lift than your average white boy: No scurrying under the yellow for him; he vaulted over the bitch and launched himself onto the hood of the sedan, pulling his weight up by the lip of the hood. And then everything went slow-mo. While the other officers rushed forward to help, the photographer floored it, and the tires squealed as he panicked and tried to peel off—

Right in the direction of the crime scene.

“Fuck!” José yelled, wondering how in the hell they were going to protect the body.

Veck’s legs fishtailed around as the car snapped through the yellow tape and came arrowing right for the cardboard box. But that son of a bitch DelVecchio not only stayed put like glue; he managed to reach in through the open window, grab the wheel, and crash the sedan into a Dumpster four feet in front of the goddamned victim.

As the air bags exploded and the engine let out a vicious hiss, Veck was thrown up and over the trash bin—and José knew he was going to remember the sight of that man airborne for the rest of his life, the guy’s suit jacket blown open, his gun on one side and his badge on the other flashing as he flew without wings.

He landed flat on his back. Hard.

“Officer down!” José hollered as he ran for his partner.

But there was no telling that SOB to stay still or even a chance to help him up. Veck jumped onto his feet like the fucking Energizer bunny and lurched over to the knot of officers who had surrounded the driver with guns drawn. Shoving the others out of the way, he ripped open the driver’s-side door and pulled out a partially conscious photo poacher who was one last pastrami and rye away from a heart attack: The bastard was as fat as Santa Claus and had the ruddy coloring of an alkie.

He was also having trouble breathing—although it wasn’t clear whether that was from inhaling the powder of the air bag or the fact that he’d made eye contact with Veck and clearly knew he was about to get a beat-down.

Except Veck just dropped him and dived into the car, pawing his way through the deflated bags. Before he could get hold of the camera and bust it to dust, José jumped in.

“We need that for evidence,” he barked, as Veck outted himself and lifted his arm over his head like he was going to slam the Nikon down on the pavement.

“Hey!” José two-handed the guy’s wrist and threw all his weight into his partner’s chest. Christ, the fucker was a big bastard—not just tall, but jacked—and for a split second, he had to wonder whether he was going to get anywhere with this manhandling bullshit.

Momentum turned the tide, however, and Veck’s back slammed into the side of the car.

José kept his voice calm in spite of the fact that he had to use all his strength to keep the guy in place. “Think about it. You kill the camera, we can’t use the picture he took against him. You hear me? Think, damn you . . . think.”

Veck’s eyes shifted over and locked on the perp, and frankly, the lack of crazy in them was a little disturbing. Even in the midst of manic, physical exertion, DelVecchio was strangely relaxed, utterly focused . . . and undeniably deadly: José got the sense that if he let the other detective go, the camera wasn’t the only thing that was going to be irreparably damaged.

Veck looked entirely capable of killing in a very calm, competent way.

“Veck, buddy, snap out of it.”

There was a moment or two of nothing-doing, and José knew damn well that everyone in the alley was as unsure as he was about how this was going to go. Including the photog.

“Hey. Look at me, my man.”

Veck’s baby blues slowly shifted over and he blinked. Gradually, the tension in that arm loosened and José escorted the thing down until he could take the Nikon—no way of knowing whether the storm was truly over.

“You okay?” José asked.

Veck nodded and pulled his jacket back into place. When he nodded a second time, José stepped back.

Big mistake.

His partner moved so fast there was no stopping him. And he cocked that photog so hard, he probably broke the fucker’s jaw.

As the perp sagged in the hold of the other policemen, no one said a thing. They’d all wanted to do it, but given Veck’s little car ride, he’d earned the right.

Unfortunately, the payback move was probably going to get the detective suspended—and maybe the CPD sued.

Shaking out his punching hand, Veck muttered, “Someone give me a cigarette.”

Shit, José thought. There was no reason to keep trying to find Butch O’Neal. It was like his old partner was right in front of him.

So maybe he should give up trying to trace that 911 call from last week. Even with all the resources available down at headquarters, he’d gotten nowhere and the cold trail was probably a good thing.

One wild card with a self-destructive streak was more than he could handle on the job, thank you very much.