Tohr reached down and grabbed the lesser by the throat. Baring fangs that were viciously long, he growled, "Told you. "
Then he outted his black dagger and started stabbing.
John and Qhuinn had to step back. It was either that or get a paint job.
"He could just hit the damn chest," Qhuinn muttered, "and get this over with. "
Except killing the slayer wasn't the point. Desecration was.
That sharp black blade penetrated every square inch of flesh - except for the sternum, which was the lights-out switch. With each slashing blow, Tohr exhaled hard; with every jerk free, the Brother inhaled deep, the rhythm of respiration driving the gruesome scene.
"Now I know how they make shredded lettuce. "
John rubbed his face, and hoped that was the end of the commentary.
Tohr didn't slow down. He just stopped. And in the aftermath, he listed to the side, propping himself up by throwing a hand out to the oil-soaked dirt. The slayer was. . . well, shredded, yeah, but he wasn't finished.
There'd be no helping out, though. In spite of Tohr's obvious exhaustion, John and Qhuinn knew better than to mess with the end game. They'd seen this before. The final strike had to be Tohr's.
After a couple of moments of recovery, the Brother lurched back into position, double-handing the dagger and lifting the blade over his head.
A hoarse cry tore out of his throat as he buried the point in the chest of what was left of his prey. As bright light flashed, the tragi
c expression on Tohr's face was illuminated, a comic book rendering of his twisted, horrific features, caught for a moment. . . and an eternity.
He always stared down into the illumination, even though the impermanent sun was too bright to look into.
After it was done, the Brother slumped sure as if his spinal column had turned to putty, his energy disappearing. Clearly, he needed to feed, but that subject, like so many others, was a no-go.
"What time is it," he got out between breaths.
Qhuinn snagged a peek at his Suunto. "Two a. m. "
Tohr looked up from the stained ground he'd been staring at, focusing his red-rimmed eyes on the part of downtown they'd just come from.
"How about we go back to the compound. " Qhuinn took out his cell phone. "Butch isn't far away - "
"No. " Tohr shoved himself back and sat on his ass. "Don't call anyone. I'm fine - just need to catch my breath. "
Bull. Shit. The guy was not any closer to fine than John was at the moment. Although, granted, only one of them was dripping wet in a fifty-degree gust.
John shoved his hands into the Brother's field of vision. We're going home now -
Wafting over on the breeze, like an alarm breaking through a silent house, the scent of baby powder tickled into each of their noses.
The stench did what all that breathing on the ground couldn't: It got Tohr onto his feet. Gone was the logy disorientation - hell, if you'd pointed out to him that he was still wet as a fish, he probably would have been surprised.
"There're more," he snarled.
As he took off, John cursed at the maniac.
"Come on," Qhuinn said. "Let's get our run on. This is going to be a long night. "
Chapter Two
"Take some time off. . . relax. . . enjoy yourself. . . . "
As Xhex muttered to a peanut gallery of antique furniture, she walked out of the bedroom and into the bath suite. And back again. And. . . back once more into marble-landia.