Back last night, when he’d toyed with those human boys who’d snuck through the chain-link fence, he’d known that the kids were so far beneath his wolf that he hadn’t been worried about his other side going after them. They hadn’t been a threat at all, and he hadn’t been hungry. And like all predators, there were only two occasions when his wolf was going to go on offense. One was out of hunger; the other was to defend territory. Otherwise, the calories expended didn’t compute.
These big-ass vampires? He was going to have a problem, especially if the wind changed directions and they scented him. For one, they were a match for his aggression, far more deadly than any human walking around Caldwell. But worse? They were talking about that female of his—not that she was his—and that was a recipe for two servings of fresh meat, even if he had fooded up before he’d left the prison camp.
And if he killed them? He wasn’t going to find out what else they knew about his female, was he.
Not that she was his.
Vishous knew that something was wrong in the alley. He could feel it in his marrow: Something was . . . not right.
Narrowing his eyes, he looked back over at the rear door of the club. Three humans had just gone in there for free, while up around the front of the building, there was a bottleneck of a waitline, all kinds of people trying to get in to get drunk, get it on, and at least attempt to get home in one piece.
He glanced over his shoulder. Given the way the wind was blowing, he could scent whatever was behind them—so it was up in front where the problem had to be.
“Look,” Rhage was saying, “I think we go back and pay the guy I sneezed on a visit.”
V exhaled, the smoke moving away from his face. “He’s dead, remember.”
“I didn’t kill his apartment. That was your attempted murder when you fell through the roof.”
As nearly irresistible as it was to correct the brother that he hadn’t planned to do that break-and-enter descent, V let it go and focused on a car that was parked about forty yards down. It had a little red blinking light on the rise of the dash, the on-and-off beam projecting up the inside of the windshield.
So the Hyundai was locked and there was no one in the front seats. But the back? Who knew. The trunk? Maybe there was a body in there.
He had a rat-smart sixth sense for death. And like who his mahmen had been, and living with Lassiter, he would have given up the premonition bullcrap if he could have.
At least then, if he didn’t have this kind of radar, he would have been sure the twitch he had going on was his actual instincts instead of some kind of witchy stuff.
“Someone’s going to come looking for all that iron-cross-marked product we took. “ Rhage stomped his shitkickers like he was itchy to get a move on. “Maybe we can use them to get us to the big buyer—who will ultimately get us to the supplier.”
“Assuming the body’s been found, the cops have been there all day—so nobody’s going anywhere near that trap house—”
“Is something wrong?” Rhage blurted. “You look weird.”
V shook his head back and forth slowly. Then answered in the affirmative: “I think we need to go up to the roof. Right now.”
One of the things that Hollywood had going for him—in addition to his movie-star looks and the kind of hollow-leg eating habits that would have made him a Nathan’s Famous champerino—was that he could go from casual to combat-ready in a split second.
And you never had to tell him anything twice.
The brother unholstered a gun, nodded—and the pair of them dematerialized up to the roof of the building across from the club. As they re-formed, V marveled that he hadn’t even had to tell the brother which side of the alley to go on. Rhage just knew.
Remaining in sync, they scoped out the flattop with its hip-height HVAC equipment and its battened-down hatch roof access. As the wind whistled in V’s ears, he outed his own gun. On his nod, they walked in the direction of where the Hyundai was parked as, off in the distance, a car horn beat out a series of staccato yelps, its alarm triggered by God only knew what.
When they were in range, V put up his gloved hand and lifted his forefinger on a one count. Then his fore-and middle fingers for two. And finally his fore-, middle, and ring—
All at once, he and Rhage stiff-armed their guns and trained them over the edge, onto the car.
But there was no one taking cover between the sedan and the building’s flank.
“You want to fill it full of holes?” Rhage asked grimly. “I got a suppressor and I can turn it into a fucking sieve.”
“No.” V kept his muzzle on the Hyundai and looked across to the roof of the club. “Not yet.”
“I’m going down there. If something’s under that—”
V slapped a hold on the brother’s sleeve. “Call Butch. I want backup before we get any closer.”
“You got it.”
Rhage outed his phone and hit send. As the soft ringing burbled by the fighter’s ear, V shook his head at himself. Then lowered his weapon and cursed.
Maybe he was just losing it.
“Hey, cop,” Hollywood said beside him. “It’s time to get the troika back together, my brother. Your roomie and I want you to come play with us. We’re four blocks away from you, by the club at—”
“No,” V cut in. “Tell him to meet us at that apartment. Give him the addy. He can be there in eight minutes by car.”
Rhage frowned and lowered the bottom part of the phone from his mouth. “You sure?”
V took one more look over the roof, at the car. “Yeah, I just got a hair across my ass tonight, true? Tell my cop where to meet us.”
Rhage reholstered his gun. “Roger that. Hey, Butch, scratch that. You need to meet us over at Thirty-Second and Market Street—”
“Hold up,” V said. “What the fuck is that?”
Underneath the car he’d originally snuck behind, Lucan stayed spread-eagled and back-flat’d on the pavement, his head turned away from the undercarriage and toward the building. The vampires were up on the roof. He’d guessed correctly that that was where they were going the instant they’d ghosted from the shadows, and he’d never hit the asphalt so fast in his life. Tangling with that pair was the last thing on his to-do list.