“Regard me,” she said.
He forced his head up, looked over his shoulder . . . and realized that she wasn’t talking about sex: She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her legs hanging off the side and inching toward the floor, her glow illuminating her from within. At first, all he could really see were her breasts, and the way they hung so full and rounded, the nipples tight from the cool air in the room. But then he realized she was rotating her ankles, one after the other.
Right, see . . . this was not about the sex, but her mobility.
Got that, asshole? he told himself. This was about her walking: sex as medicine—and he’d better not forget it. This was not about him or his cock.
Manny lurched over, hoping that she wouldn’t notice the remnants of the release he’d had. But he didn’t have to worry. Her eyes were locked on her feet, her concentration fierce.
“Here . . .” He had to clear his throat. “Let me help you stand.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Vishous’s fangs elongated as a ring of slayers formed around the opening of the alley. These were old-school numbers, he thought. Half a dozen at least—and they’d clearly been given coordinates by their fellow slayers. Otherwise the mhis would have hidden the carnage from them.
Given his mood, all the hi-how’re-ya should have been a great thing.
Problem: The alley’s construction meant there was only one way out—apart from rushing the enemy’s ranks—and that was pulling a disappearing act. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t have been an issue, as experienced fighters could, even in the heat of battle, calm themselves enough to focus and dematerialize—but you had to be relatively uninjured, and you couldn’t take any fallen-comrade types with you when you went.
So Butch was screwed if shit got out of hand. As a half-breed, that guy was grounded, literally incapable of scattering his molecules to safety.
V muttered under his breath, “Don’t be a hero, cop. Let us handle this.”
“You’re kidding me, right.” The glare was immediate and steady. “You worry about yourself.”
Not possible. He wasn’t losing the only two compass points he had on the same night.
“Hey, boys,” Hollywood called out to the enemy. “You just going to stand there or are we gonna do this?”
Annnnnnnnnnnd that was the ringside bell. The lessers streamed forward and met the Brotherhood face-to-face, fist-to-fist. To ensure they had the privacy they needed, V doubled up on his visual barrier, the buffering creating a mirage of nothing-doing in the event humans trolled on by.
As he started working out one of the enemy, he kept his eye on Butch. The fucker naturally got right in there, taking on a tall, lanky inductee with his bare hands. He loved to brawl, and heads were his favorite punching bags—but Vishous really wished the bastard would take up fencing or, even better, get into rocket launchers. From the rooftop. So he wasn’t anywhere near the fighting. He just hated that the cop got so close, because who the fuck knew what would come out of a pocket or how much damage could be done to the guy with a gun or a length of—
The kick came out of nowhere, sailing through the air like an anvil, catching V right in the side of the torso. As he flew back and slammed into the alley’s brick flank, he was reminded of what they’d taught their trainees when they’d had them: Rule number one of fighting? Pay the fuck attention to your damn opponent.
After all, you could have the best knife in the world, but if you were clueless? You ended up making like a Ping-Pong ball. Or worse.
V reinflated his lungs with a huge inhale and he used the oxygen rush to leap forward and catch the Rockette’s second kick at the ankle with his hands. The lesser had spectacular skills, however, and spun a Matrix move, using V’s hold as an anchor to twist around in midair. The combat boot nailed V right in the ear, his head snapping to the side as all kinds of tendons and muscles were yanked to hell and gone.
Good thing pain always focused him.
Gravity being what it was, the Rockette’s hit marked the top of its arc and after that, it went down, throwing its arms out to the asphalt to keep from face-planting it. And clearly the bastard was expecting its opponent to let go of the foot, thanks to the ringing snow globe that was now V’s skull.
Nope. Sorry, sweetheart.
Even with the nasty crack-and-sizzle aftermath, V tightened his grip on that ankle and wrenched it in the opposite direction of the pirouette.
Snap!
Something broke or was dislocated, and given that V was holding the foot and lower bones steady, he knew it was probably the knee, the fibula or the tibia.
Mr. High Stepper let out a scream, but V wasn’t finished as the bastard flopped on the ground. Popping free one of his black daggers, he sliced through the muscle in the back of the leg and then thought of Butch. Moving higher on the writhing body, he grabbed a hunk of hair, yanked up, and gave the SOB a nice little necklace with his blade.
Partial incapacitation just wasn’t enough tonight.
Spinning around, dripping knife in hand, he assessed the fights that were ongoing. Z and Phury were working out a pair of lessers. . . . Tohr was holding his own. . . . Rhage was toying with one of the enemy.... Where was Butch—
Over in the corner, the cop had asphalted a slayer and was leaning down over its face. The pair had locked eyes and the lesser’s open, bloodied mouth was working like a guppy’s, opening and closing slowly, as if it knew whatever was coming next couldn’t possibly be good news for it.