And every time Butch and José de la Cruz orbited each other it was the same, the two of them meeting face-to-face and staring into each other’s eyes as if they hadn’t just done that six fucking months ago.
Once was more than enough for the display, and—after how many years of this?—V was sick and fucking tired of the “Kate Winslet/ Leonardo/bow of the Titanic” show.
Of course, on the human’s side, it was a case of Lewis and Clark, each OMG-it’s-you a fresh news flash because his memories were always scrubbed. But did Butch have to look like he missed the guy so fucking much? Jesus Christ. Make out with him, why didn’t he.
Not that V cared on any deep level.
It was just annoying.
Hell, V was fine with it . . . just waiting here on the sidelines, for the hundred and fiftieth time, watching his best friend go all Bambi-finds-his-fucking-mother with a fucking human—
Whatever.
From out of nowhere, an image barged into his mind, and the damn thing was both specifically vivid and a composite of a lot of separate, but identical, events: He saw himself running into a dark alley and finding his roommate down on the ground dying, the stench of lesser thick in the air, an evil halo not so much surrounding Butch, but emanating from his very pores.
Back when the war with the Lessening Society had been ongoing, vampires had been hunted by the Omega’s army of undead slayers, and the Brotherhood had been the only defense against those predators. Stabbing them with a steel blade in the chest could get them off the planet, but they didn’t go to Hell.
Well, not in the Judeo-Christian sense.
They went back to their maker, in an endless cycle of regeneration, the Omega turning more humans into slayers, and keeping the population of vampire stalkers relatively constant for centuries. But then Butch, former homicide detective, had entered the picture. Captured by the evil itself, he had been tampered with before he’d been rescued. Finally, he’d been turned because he was a half-breed—and he had somehow survived the jump-started transition.
The guy was the best kind of cockroach. Unkillable.
His journey had been the Dhestroyer prophecy made manifest, V’s roommate capable of stopping the slayers from returning to their maker by inhaling their god-awful essence into himself.
V looked down at his gloved hand. The lead-lined-leather Michael Jackson action protected everyone and everything around him from the fierce, destructive energy that glowed within his palm, a little gifty from his PITA mommy, the Scribe Virgin. The damn thing had been a handy—natch—weapon in some circumstances, but it was trouble, too.
When it came to Butch, it had been a lifesaver.
The former cop from Southie had been the prophesized one, but V had been a necessary component, the second, critical cleanup step. Whenever his roommate had been down on the ground, stewing in the Omega’s vile swill, all V had to do was take the male into his arms, hold him tight, and let the light fly.
Like an existential HEPA filter.
Together, they’d brought the enemy of the species down.
As partners.
Now, though? With the Omega all bye-bye? That special closeness was gone—
“Whatever,” he muttered as he got out his phone.
“What’s wrong?” Rhage asked.
“Nothing.”
Rhage glanced back at the apartment building. “You want to go in and leave those two at it?”
“No.” V scrolled through God only knew what and saw nothing. “I’m not leaving him out here alone.”
“He’s not alone. He’s with his old human buddy.”
Why wasn’t social media more interesting, V wondered as he thumbed past what turned out to be Instagram. Oh, right. It was boring because he didn’t give a shit about people in general, humans in particular, and anything that had to do with pets, food, children, hashtags, influencers, inspirational quotes—
“Are you jealous?”
Vishous glared over at the brother. “Of what?”
The way Rhage’s eyebrows went tent pole and he took a step away was probably a clue that V needed to chill.
“I’m not fucking jealous of that.” Vishous nodded toward the happy couple in the street, but didn’t look over there again. “That’s not his life anymore. He’s with me—us, I mean.”
“Do you want some chocolate? I got M&M’s—”
“What? Why would I want chocolate?”
“It cheers people up.” Hollywood took out a plastic baggie full of bright and cheerful little UFOs. “Here—”
V batted the calories away. “Yeah, you can fuck off with that.”
“Why? It has that chemical that simulates the feeling of falling in love.” Rhage opened the bag’s top. “Fritz puts them in a Ziploc for me because sometimes the regular packaging breaks open when I’m in the field. I hate chocolate in pockets, all melty. It’s like putting your hand in poop—”
“Oh, my fucking God, please stop talking—”
“—except you can eat it, of course.”
“What.”
Rhage popped a handful into his piehole and chewed. “I’m just trying to distract you from Butch’s family reunion.”
“They are not related.”
“Just like we’re not related, right?”
“Shut up.”
“It’s okay to be jealous—”
“I’m not jealous!” As V’s voice rose, Butch and that homicide detective looked over—so he lowered his volume. “Shit ain’t like that.”
“There’s a reason they call it bro-mance. I’m just saying.” More with the palmfuls and the chewing. “And what are you embarrassed about? I get jealous, too, sometimes.”
“Of what. Anybody eating something anywhere on the fucking planet.”
“No, of people.”
“Stop projecting onto me.”
“I’m just saying it’s totally normal to feel left out when you see two people who have a special bond. Butch and that guy worked together for how long—”
“I do not need a history lesson.”
“—and went through a lot of shit together—”
“Oh, like he and I battling the Omega was a trip through Chuck E. Cheese?”
“—and given how close you and Butch are, it could feel weird to see him with somebody he’s equally close to.”
“He lives with me,” V snapped.
“And you’re right, Chuck E. Cheese is awesome.”