“Thank God Rahvyn called for help,” he said, by way of easing into a discussion that would involve leaving them and finding her. Or them breaking up this family moment by including her. “I mean, quick thinking, right? Did Dr. Manello operate on me out in the field? Because it happened outside of the club?”
As he glanced back and forth again, he saw their expressions change, subtle tension replacing the open love and powerful relief.
“What,” he said. “Did someone else patch me up?”
When they still didn’t respond, he cleared his throat. “Listen, I’m worried about Rahvyn, okay? She must be so freaked out. Can you just… can you bring her here?” He looked around. “Wherever ‘here’ is? I really need to make sure she’s not in shock or something.”
“You don’t have to worry about her,” Murhder murmured. “Ever.”
Nate frowned, some instinct flaring, not that he could exactly decipher what it was trying to tell him.
“I need to see her,” he demanded. “Right now.”
* * *
Back at the Brotherhood’s garage downtown, all Balz was thinking was that he needed to see Erika again. Right now. He had to go after her, and jump in front of that silver Honda, and beg her to…
Beg her to do what, he thought. Forgive him for being exactly what he was? For living as he did, with people like him, in the middle of a metaphysical battlefield?
While a demon had thrown a pup tent up on his personal back lawn and moved in with her Coleman stove and her cast-iron frying pan?
The farther away Erika was from him, the safer she was going to be, and that was why he’d given her the implant of total terror if she tried to come back to this garage or look for him. And if for some reason she could override that, which she couldn’t, it didn’t matter if she attempted to find him. Even though he’d let her go home with her memory box full, and in spite of the fact that she had video footage on him from that trailer, he didn’t legally exist in her world. He was a ghost who lived and breathed among humans like her, and there was no way she could drag him over onto her side of things.
At least he didn’t feel like he had stolen something from her anymore.
He’d always been a thief with principles.
As he turned on his bare feet and looked across the expanse of the garage, the echoing, empty black space seemed like a good goddamn metaphor for his lonely life. Although of course, he still had one waaaay too loyal parasite he had to get rid of.
Across the bay, the two mismatched Archie Bunker armchairs he and Erika had been sitting in provided him with all kinds of misplaced heartache, proof that the mind-emotion conspiracy could elevate even a pair of uglies like that to a scene of tragic beauty.
The last place he would ever sit with her was like a Mount Rushmore memento mori to their never-could-be love.
Maybe he could steal the chairs.
Replace the chairs with something better, he amended.
Yeah, and where the fuck was he going to put them.
And yes, he’d used the term “love”—
Bang, bang, bang.
Not gunshots. Someone knocking on the side door with the heel of their fist.
Looking over his shoulder, he narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t barricaded the thing, just set the copper lock back into place.
The demon Devina never knocked. The Brothers and others had the access code. No other vampires knew where this place was.
So this was a human who was way fucking lost.
Bang, bang, bang—
“Wrong address,” he muttered.
Given that V had kitted out the place with all kinds of security, no doubt there were exterior cameras with feeds, but with no cell phone and no idea how to access them, he couldn’t check and see exactly what had gotten misdirected and ended up on the garage’s transom. And like he cared? No offense, but if some guy was willing to just stand out there in the cold—
Bang, bang.
“Motherfucker.”
Marching his half-naked ass over to the gun show, he took a forty millimeter off its mounting, and he was not surprised as he checked the clip to find things fully loaded. Naturally, it would be better to let the Homo sapiens on the doorstep do his or her own math on the no-answer door under those knuckles, but Balz had to get a game plan started on the shitty state of his life, and he sure as hell was not going to go through those depressing mental gymnastics to the tune of a bad amateur of “Boom Clap.”
Yes, he’d watched The Fault in Our Stars. So sue him.
“Fucking rats without tails—”
As he did a simulcast of ripping open the garage’s door and pointing the muzzle at the average face-height of a human male, he—